Roxanne on Nostr: Nostalgia a poem by Kylie Flavell It is an affliction, an addiction my solace and my ...
Nostalgia a poem by Kylie Flavell
It is an affliction, an addiction
my solace and my gift.
A love affair with detail
A time traveller adrift.
A sentimental sorrow for the temporal and the fleeting.
Beckoned by the bygone.
Though it sometimes feels like cheating on the present, in his splendour, he is now and he is here.
But the past she spins me round and round and whispers in my ear.
And the dance is so enchanting
And I’ve lived the song she plays
So I feel like I may trust her
With her tender, earnest gaze.
And what, say you, of ‘future’?
Does he even get a chance?
Why, yes! For sentimental is a trinity of trance…
Enraptured by the moment,
Sweet aching when it’s past,
Then dreaming of domani,
Plans to make that feeling last.
Let us not describe the sensitive
As lacking sense or might,
We do not rage, dear Dylan, we go gentle in the night.
They think our spell is maudlin
That we are bygones’ servant
But we’re also keenly present,
ever porous and observant
How else could we recall with such dimension and detail
If we were not acutely conscious
Inhalation and exhale.
And when I left that lover, laughter stolen, scenes of theft,
My heart accepts the haunting,
not just his remains bereft
And I loathe the cruel archiving
of a half life lived and weathered
I’m the one who cuts the cord,
but my nature leaves me tethered.
And they ask me why so picky,
Take some casual lovers too
But when you’re clay that carries imprints
Only gentlemen will do.
And the truth is though relentless
Soaring high, then writhing low
We’re the ones who live with goosebumps
Where the heart beats fast, we go.
We are artists, we are activists
Some are nurses healing pain
For our empathy resplendent
is a kite string not a chain.
I would not trade nostalgia,
Sensitivity profound
For a simple life robotic,
Senses dulled to light and sound.
For though we’re sometimes weary,
Though our cheeks are often wet
We’re the ones who live intensely,
We’re the hearts who won’t forget.
It is an affliction, an addiction
my solace and my gift.
A love affair with detail
A time traveller adrift.
A sentimental sorrow for the temporal and the fleeting.
Beckoned by the bygone.
Though it sometimes feels like cheating on the present, in his splendour, he is now and he is here.
But the past she spins me round and round and whispers in my ear.
And the dance is so enchanting
And I’ve lived the song she plays
So I feel like I may trust her
With her tender, earnest gaze.
And what, say you, of ‘future’?
Does he even get a chance?
Why, yes! For sentimental is a trinity of trance…
Enraptured by the moment,
Sweet aching when it’s past,
Then dreaming of domani,
Plans to make that feeling last.
Let us not describe the sensitive
As lacking sense or might,
We do not rage, dear Dylan, we go gentle in the night.
They think our spell is maudlin
That we are bygones’ servant
But we’re also keenly present,
ever porous and observant
How else could we recall with such dimension and detail
If we were not acutely conscious
Inhalation and exhale.
And when I left that lover, laughter stolen, scenes of theft,
My heart accepts the haunting,
not just his remains bereft
And I loathe the cruel archiving
of a half life lived and weathered
I’m the one who cuts the cord,
but my nature leaves me tethered.
And they ask me why so picky,
Take some casual lovers too
But when you’re clay that carries imprints
Only gentlemen will do.
And the truth is though relentless
Soaring high, then writhing low
We’re the ones who live with goosebumps
Where the heart beats fast, we go.
We are artists, we are activists
Some are nurses healing pain
For our empathy resplendent
is a kite string not a chain.
I would not trade nostalgia,
Sensitivity profound
For a simple life robotic,
Senses dulled to light and sound.
For though we’re sometimes weary,
Though our cheeks are often wet
We’re the ones who live intensely,
We’re the hearts who won’t forget.