Another Poem - a long one

Candlelight Memories

The script is closed for now, the story over,

The pages turn through my mind.

I remember them, I remember them all,

Every word etched in the page of my memory.

An empty vase on the kitchen table,

Dried flowers in the waste can.

Stale perfume that lingers in the air, I breathe it in,

An old memory that recalls to life a time

When that scent meant something much more

Than it means to me now.

Once, long ago it seems,

It meant roses and wine,

Nights by firelight reading old poetry,

And listening to nocturnes and concertos,

Soft speeches whispered to a tune,

Long walks along beaches in the moonlight

Alongside a high tide.

Memories of you and me playing chess by candlelight,

Under the cover of a star-filled night,

Memories soft and saddening.

But what once was sweet, now has turned stale,

And I now recall memories, too,

Of well-wrought arias,

Practiced allegrettos, played appasionata,

Rehearsed melodies, carefully timed tempo,

Songs that faded quickly, sharp notes falling flat.

And all the late night worries,

Called-in cancellations and artful alibis.

Well-rehearsed lines recited to a naive audience,

Dinners for one and the smell of new perfume on shirt collars,

Love drifted elsewhere.

Duet became solo.

The scene has played itself out, the cast has departed,

Yet the play goes on; it is in its final act.

I can hear the fading strains of Chopin in the night,

A sound beautiful, but bittersweet.

The piano seems to speak to me,

Telling me of a story that happened long ago.

It is my story.

Oh that sound means so much to me!

The melody fading, dimuendo, dying like my flowers,

Each note a faded petal falling slowly down to the floor,

Then disappearing without a trace,

Leaving only its fast-fading memory.

Oh, if that were only the case!

For love is not so fast-fading, it lingers on,

Like the fog along the street,

Or the smell of smoke in a small, dark room.

Or like the last note of a long melody.

A memory that lives long, that hurts long,

The makes long suffering.

The moon is still, her light wanes a little I see.

Has she lost her love? Is she as lonely as me?

So I sit here alone amid the soft light of a burning candle,

Pools of cooling wax at my feet,

Drops of it on the chessboard on my table.

The candle burns without a purpose but to burn itself out.

So does passion, that kills itself by what it feeds on,

Consuming so much til there's nothing left, and it dies.

The flame extinguished by the flame.

Love killed by love.

And so the play goes on, I the solitary player,

Alone, save for the dried flowers and melted wax,

Lingering melodies and symphonies,

Performed improvisational, scriptless and pointless,

And the memories of it all,

Yes they will be there always I suppose,

Like stale perfume on sofa covers,

Or old smoke in window shades,

Like the pools of candle wax on the table,

Or the smell of dried flowers in dark rooms,

Echoes of Chopin down dim side streets,

Or the strains of old poetry in coffee bars.

The flame from the candle barely burning,

Almost to its end.

Soon it will die and fade away,

Taking away my memories.

The play draws to a close.

The curtains are drawn and the darkness creeps in.

I will light a new candle.

Let the next play begin!

~ 10/2004