by Richard Vince
What is this urge that drives
An urban human to recreate
The vision of a rural idyll?
Perhaps we do all have within us
An expanse of countryside that
Recognises its kin outside,
Whether natural or artificial,
And glows in its own sunshine.
What I will paint will clearly be
Romanticised, but haven’t I always
Done that? Places, people, memories:
All receive the same treatment
From me so that nostalgia will
Hurt less and hurt more.
It will be all the stranger, though,
For being a rendering of a time
Before my own, of recollections
That are not mine but merely
Bequeathed to posterity in
Words and photographs.
The fruit of my labours will represent
Somewhere I wish I could visit
Rather than somewhere I wish I could
Live, and perhaps that is the key.
To me, it was not a better time,
Merely a different one, and so I can
See the line between fact and fiction
And know that I am writing
A story rather than a memoir.
Author's Note: One day. One day.
Posted on 09/09/2023
Copyright © 2024 Richard Vince
|Member Comments on this Poem
|Posted by Nadia Gilbert Kent on 09/15/23 at 07:17 PM
This is very well-put. It makes me want to see what you're seeing, and curious about what aspects of your idyllized scene might seem untrue or distorted from my perspective. Raw data needs shaping for it to convey any sort of message to an expected audience, always within the constraints of the time period one finds oneself in. It deserves a follow-up exploration of the visual itself.
|Posted by Johanna May on 11/13/23 at 03:24 AM
Every heart is a garden. Whatever form of garden it is, in later years something primordial in us recognizes this and strives to bring it to reality.