I was recently rummaging around in some old stuff, my wife and I were feeling nostalgic and wanted to watch some old videos of the kids (and to torture ourselves over how young we used to be), and happened upon a bunch of poetry I had written at various points of my life — including as far back as 1986.
I am still going through them and want to savour each piece, however good, bad or ugly they are, because they were my words from other times, when I may have been carefree, or struggling with something momentous. Or even just whimsys written on the spur of the moment or, more likely, some endeavour forced upon me by a teacher.
This one, written in Buenos Aires over 20 years ago struck me hard.
Remnents of a world long gone,
Shards of a time since over
Splinters of a mind once burning
Is all that’s left of me.