History repeating itself, itself, itself...

I passed by a strange vexation the other day,

a place with more than a dozen crossroads

and couldn't decide which way to go,

then I spotted a sign that said,

'Lost Victories this way.'

It was weather beaten, 

part hidden by lichen;

even so, it intrigued, 

so I followed.

Eventually I came to an ancient potting shed,

where seeds languished in dried up 

containers. 'Old Memory plants,'  

pronounced one faded label,

'forget-me-nots, another.

I couldn't really tell the

difference, but there 

was no attendant 

I could ask.

I paused for a while, made myself a pot of tea,

wondering why there was no attendant,

that perhaps the water had drained 

due to high midsummer heat 

over the copper coated hills,

but in my own device

it was guesswork,

like a blind man

with no stick.

So I decided to water the seeds, 

a pyrrhic victory of sorts. 

Then went home 

and waited;

I am still 

waiting.

Reviews

[Katrina Mckeown]

Intriguing poem .. I often contemplate over these emotions you have descriptively written, look over the past can be tempting to chase old dreams and exciting to chase after new ones and to find parts of our old selfs maybe buried or forgotten . Love this .

[Katrina Mckeown]

Intriguing poem .. I often contemplate over these emotions you have descriptively written, look over the past can be tempting to chase old dreams and exciting to chase after new ones and dad to find parts of our old selfs maybe buried or forgotten .

[Eilis]

Just looking at your title and then considering that in conjunction with the poem, I feel like, in some ways, this is a musing on the idea of how we have no ultimate guardian of history or the past which leads us to keep repeating the same foolish mistakes. All of these things are as ambiguous as free will. There is all of this space where we are left to judge for ourselves and so often our judgments can lead to selfish choices.

I like the idea of the past as a kind of collection of barren pots. Without any idea how long the seeds have been languishing in that dry soil, it is very difficult to know if action will be helpful at all, but we do tend to want to make the effort or lay a claim--depending on who we are. If there is a chance that something can be reaped from an action, often the human animal can be convinced to take the trouble of trying.

This is an intriguing poem. It offers possibilities. Much like the scenarios we face each day in our lives. Some will be fruitful and others will be ignored. Some will lead to a destructive outcome and others will lead to something less easy to define. But, we have no way of knowing what the future will bring. Only of observing the past and trying comparisons. Or simply pausing to consider. I really enjoyed this, Beccy. It made me think of a combination of Robert Frost and Derek Mahon. Which is a fine mix, in my opinion.

[barleygirl]

This is a brilliant & original allegory that conjures up many possibilities for different readers. I love that your storytelling style "sounds" like the typical allegorical phrasing, but you use details that really POP! and this makes your style unique & fresh. I love the flower names & the way things are left hanging at the end. I'm a fan of stories that are not overly resolved. Sometimes you just have to lead a reader to some lookout point (((HUGS))) Fondly, Margie

[h d e rushin]

Zeus tortured Prometheus for stealing fire from heaven and giving it to mankind. But the only thing a god can give to man is patience...And there is an almost photographic patience with humankind that you polish throughout this poem. Seeds represent patience, in fact, it's the proof that what will grow from there planting, can be so thoroughly examined. See Robert Frost..
You write so beautifully.....dana

[Ken Simm.]

This is enchanting in every meaning of the word.

[Coyote Poetry]

Title stole my thoughts and I liked the thoughts and journey shared in the poetry. I liked you water the seeds. Thank you Beccy for sharing the amazing poetry.
Coyote

[Patricia Wedel]

Ancient potting sheds do hold a lot of memories of
love that was left unattended... love that was alive and vibrant
in the spring and summer. We learn and stumble...
we bloom again. I love your poetry. truly, Pat

[kentuck14]

Beccy,
Interesting narrative poem. It would seem much of life is "guess work." Especially when my stick gets tangled up with another's stick.
I like the way you visually structured your stanzas. I would really like to hear what generated this poem. Thanks
T.

[Beccy]

Such a seemingly trivial thing it was. I was listening to a friend of mine telling another friend about an ongoing row she and her husband were having over the siting of a garden boundary fence. She was saying that numerous (expensive,) solicitors letters have now flown back and forth and that her husband and the chap next door have almost come to blows over the matter. The whole argument only involves a feet feet of land on one boundary side, which in relation to both gardens which are quite large, is a postage stamp.

It triggered the thought in me of the bigger picture. In particular, the tribal and 'have to be dominant' mindset of our species; which in my view has led to so many lessons lying unmourned and ignored in the little potting shed of our as yet brief history on this planet.

[kentuck14]

Ah, now the lost victories do not necessarily mean the gaining of a few feet of land, but the mutual peace among neighbors which could be enjoyed but lost because of pride, greed, or some other negative emotion(?)
The potting shed could be the human heart, perhaps? This is a great metaphor. Thanks for the response to my question.
Tom

[Beccy]

Not just neighbours, but every race, colour and creed on the planet; and not so much the human heart, (which so often rules the head, to the detriment of good sense,) more the brain. Where within the long abandoned memory plants and forget-me-nots, everything that mankind has ever caused to happen is locked away.

It is thought that the human brain is capable of storing more information in its memory, than is contained on the entire internet; better than 1 petabyte (a quadrillion bytes.) Not only that, it does this running on no more energy than is required to run a 20 watt lightbulb. Whereas a computer with the same memory and processing power would require 1 gigawatt of power,which interestingly enough, is the amount of power the average American nuclear power plant generates.

I rest my case that somewhere in the vast recesses of the mind, every 'lost victory,' is there for the taking back. :))

[kentuck14]

I think some days my brain runs on the wattage of a night lite!

[Beccy]

Modern thinking has it that the internet is stultifying our imagination and our search for knowledge; that of course is to ignore the fact that before we Google it, we first input it.

That nite light of yours contains more knowledge that you think. :))

[The Rock And Roll Cowbo..]

I am very intrigued by your poem...

We are creatures of habit even when it is one that is not productive.