A poem...about scars.
The Time Around Scars
by Michael Ondaatje
A girl whom I've not spoken to
or shared coffee with for several years
writes of an old scar.
On her wrist it sleeps, smooth and white,
the size of a leech.
I gave it to her
brandishing a new Italian penknife.
Look, I said turning,
and blood spat onto her shirt.
My wife has scars like spread raindrops
on knees and ankles,
she talks of broken greenhouse panes
and yet, apart from imagining red feet,
(a nymph out of Chagall)
I bring little to that scene.
We remember the time around scars,
they freeze irrelevant emotions
and divide us from present friends.
I remember this girl's face,
the widening rise of surprise.
And would she
moving with lover or husband
conceal or flaunt it,
or keep it at her wrist
a mysterious watch.
And this scar I then remember
is medallion of no emotion.
I would meet you now
and I would wish this scar
to have been given with
all the love
that never occured between us.
It's lovely. Isn't it? Scars are interesting things. Sasha loves her scars. Gray has a sheepish tom-boy like pride about them. I detest them (a little less now than before, but still). But they're quick ways to tell us about ourselves, to remind us of the way our past exists with us in the present, grows and streches across out new, bigger selves, remains in proportion. Forever.
Lest you try to forget.
by Michael Ondaatje
A girl whom I've not spoken to
or shared coffee with for several years
writes of an old scar.
On her wrist it sleeps, smooth and white,
the size of a leech.
I gave it to her
brandishing a new Italian penknife.
Look, I said turning,
and blood spat onto her shirt.
My wife has scars like spread raindrops
on knees and ankles,
she talks of broken greenhouse panes
and yet, apart from imagining red feet,
(a nymph out of Chagall)
I bring little to that scene.
We remember the time around scars,
they freeze irrelevant emotions
and divide us from present friends.
I remember this girl's face,
the widening rise of surprise.
And would she
moving with lover or husband
conceal or flaunt it,
or keep it at her wrist
a mysterious watch.
And this scar I then remember
is medallion of no emotion.
I would meet you now
and I would wish this scar
to have been given with
all the love
that never occured between us.
It's lovely. Isn't it? Scars are interesting things. Sasha loves her scars. Gray has a sheepish tom-boy like pride about them. I detest them (a little less now than before, but still). But they're quick ways to tell us about ourselves, to remind us of the way our past exists with us in the present, grows and streches across out new, bigger selves, remains in proportion. Forever.
Lest you try to forget.