Apothecaries and the arbiters of memories

Your commute these days
is from the bedchamber
or the boudoir if you will,
to the study.

Immersed in such elegant
habitation, is it
as far fetched as the perfume
you wore to just get downstairs,
to your next online meeting?

And you sauntered over
offered me your cheek and brow,
so I could plant a kiss on each
and smell you … was that the plan?

It made my thoughts
sparkle in smiles,
Light reminding me
of my father,
my uncles, my brother,
while I was a little girl,
and the smells of sweaty men
in tropical churches,
masked then with the musk
of apothecaries.

A montage of childhood homes,
a deluge of conversations
of all people beloved,
those long gone,
and I wanted to cry,
at the craftiness of scent makers,
who wish to be
the arbiters of memories and
for the time travel they spin
with their liquid concoctions.







The smell of perfumes in my home when there is no place to go, ah the irony !

A Rilkean Memory ~ Tears for Sylvia

Sitting by a brook;
little eddies and dykes…
so fluidly music
this fresh swirl
crafting intonations to
should I daresay… soul?
Some thought crystallizes
and the heart skips a beat
like it remembered something
and then a disintegration of sighs
cascading down the cheek
to no particular recall,
just feelings,
budding off the tips of moss
awash a relenting rock.
My beloved held me in his heart
and I felt safe once more
as he whispered,
“why do you waste your precious tears?”
I felt a quiet shame
for holding onto grief
so shallow
like the babbling brook I lay beside
and the heart remembered,
a dear departed soul
who left tragedy in her wake.
A snuffing of a light so precious
to those that loved her,
I think I healed my memories
of me as I slowly said,
I will cry for Sylvia instead.




For those inclined to be sensitive and emotional ightning rods, it would be interesting to know about anterograde amnesia, where memories are evoked through feeling and action long after the content of those memories disappear.

I explored the idea of these Rilkean memories further in my blog post. Link below.

I also think, we tend to dwell in thoughts that make us sad, which unfortunately manifests as a debilitating self focus that does not necessarily involve a drive to change.

Self compassion according to me involves transcending sadness by focussing on the pain or plight of others, not as a self serving Schadenfreude, but as a way of establishing a sensitive, compassionate humanity grounded in connectedness.

Rilkean memories ~ remembering makes us who we are

The purpose of life.

There is none ……

but self preservation.

Or the need to transmit our selfish gene,

smug in the fallacy,

that we shall inherit the earth.


Who are we ?

A bunch of smart simians,

on a rock hurtling through space.

Parasitic, competitive,

intent on draining our host, till we find the next place to breed.


This is perchance not evil intent

but the very cornerstone of our existence.

And some over everyone else have a ruse

to keep us calm, satiated, dominated,

entertained , as we try to outlive each other.


Annointed with  hyssop then, vaccinations now.

The times haven’t changed much

Although I would love to live a thousand years.

For I am much entertained by

the prospect of everything new.


They say, the truth lies in being alive.

And my grasp gets tenuous each passing day.

All these unguent salves of hope

don’t quell, doubts of my mortal dilemma,

the sad argument of my reality.


Each day  thinking I am closer to the eternal truth,

having resigned myself to the fact that there is none;

This hope gnaws at living entrails and tries to defeat death

And although I seek the restful slumber of the millennia

I am enamored of  the possibility that my memories may be recycled again.