A Love Poem That You Used To Know By Heart

Debussy; Nuages

The name of the author
is the first to go
followed obediently
by the title, the plot,
the heartbreaking conclusion,
the entire novel
which suddenly becomes
one you have never read,
never even heard of,

as if, one by one,
the memories
you used to harbor
decided to retire
to the southern hemisphere
of the brain,
to a little fishing village
where there are no phones.

Long ago
you kissed the names
of the nine Muses goodbye
and watched

the quadratic equation
pack its bag,
and even now
as you memorize
the order of the planets,
something else
is slipping away,
a state flower perhaps,
the address of an uncle,
the capital of Paraguay.

Whatever it is
you are struggling
to remember,
it is not poised
on the tip of your tongue,
not even lurking
in some obscure corner
of your spleen.

It has floated away
down a dark
mythological river

whose name begins with an L
as far as you can recall,
well on your own way
to oblivion
where you will join those
who have even forgotten
how to swim
and how to ride a bicycle.

No wonder you rise
in the middle of the night
to look up the date
of a famous battle
in a book on war.
No wonder the moon
in the window
seems to have drifted
out of a love poem
that you used
to know by heart.

--Billy Collins

Jimi Hendrix: Nuages