The Wicker Basket

Memories that come back to haunt you might find their way back to your heart in an extraordinary manner.

~ The Wicker Basket ~

  

A thick congealed something,

That scoured through the air,

That found a blessing,

In a wicker basket,

Which none, among us,

Could ever have fathomed,

Until we reached the eye of substance,

Where none could rest,

There, in the wicker basket,

Where my bleeding heart found a stake,

In which the troublesome times of my father,

And the pains that my mother bore,

Were at the last discovered,

Because I,

In my own right had never before seen,

The accursed results of the wicker basket,

Where my heart bled.

 

Why did this thick, and rich substance,

Find a nest,

In a wicker basket,

Where all of my memories,

I visit?

It was not me,

Who wanted to find them,

For my own terrible thoughts,

Are not undone,

They are not  ripped apart as a cloth put under,

The toying fingers of one who once held it,

But rather,

They are thickly congealed, and rich, and burdensome,

I could never find the eye of my inner thoughts here,

Can never revisit them,

Because my past is too hard, too cold,

As Jesus said, ‘a yoke that is not easy,’

For my burden is not light,

But is uncommonly heavy at best,

And I,

In my tactless and rash state,

Might in fact find myself,

Reaching for that enigma,

Whatever it is,

That lies in those folds,

Within the wicker basket,

And I might just,

Pull the thing apart,

And I might indeed,

Feel my heart bleeding,

Even though I did not seek them,

But the memories came to me,

Buried in their little nest,

Because they came back to me,

For they always come back-

They might fly,

Away from me,

And yet,

They revisit me here-

I don’t want to touch these souls from my past,

My burdened heart-

 

The little wicker basket.

 

Reviews

[Androglossia]

I'm always attracted to complexity. Strange as it is, I want my mind to bleed with understanding:) Wicker basket. I am intrigued. Memories are made to be remembered. What are memories without a heart to feel their power? They are but a speech of unfamiliar tongue. You recognize it but you'll never understand. The heart is the nest. But isn't home where the heart is? The wicker basket. Home. Where all memories came from. Foxie, you put my mind at work here:)

[Foxemerald]

Well, you know I wrote this solely for your benefit, Maryanne ;) Actually, I am undeniably attracted to enigma as well, and in fact, I think that the mere term makes me excites me, in some sense. 'Making the heart bleed' as you state, is enlivening. There are a few different figures of speech in this one that refer to 'memories,' 'home,' and ‘the nest,’ appropriately, but the poem is deliberately vague, never telling exactly what the matter was that prompted these thoughts. Yes, home is where the heart is, and there is a nest, and there are the memories attached to that nest . . . but what exactly are the implications of them? Perhaps they are simply there to make us wonder? As you say, what are memories without a heart, and so they must have meaning? Perhaps that is the meaning . . . that memories have a heart. Thanks so much for your lovely reflection of this.