Forgetting: The Poetry Jam

The Jam is upon us, and NanU has asked us to muse on forgetting. So I mused, and of course, there is that central paradox in the question. I think I remember everything, for I cannot remember what I have forgotten.
So I went elsewhere.

And the Jam has the links, and the gang's all here: http://poetryjaam.blogspot.com/2011/05/for-30th.html



The Bitter Dead

So seeming solemn still, because I lie
a garden of remembrance, formally
you have forgotten me, and should I be
these cold, carved capitals just one inch high?
It was not your fault. Here your comfort lies,
they are not my words. Grave, I have no voice,
as grave, that shaded day, I had no choice.
I died. I would it had been otherwise.
A silence is forgetting, what I want
is my roar in a red-haired great grandchild;
the captain, his patrician nose punched again
at public school, real tears, and petulance.
A small life. From such we have been exiled,
dying young. You do not carry my name.