For the dverse prompt. https://dversepoets.com/2023/05/22/haibun-monday-5-22-23-memory/
The latest glitch with WP is that I can’t insert links. I also have to reset the font and the font size each post or it’s microscopic Times New Roman. Maybe it’s time to find a new hobby.
Haibun
I remember so much that never was, childish reconstructions of stories of how it was, re-imaginings so vivid they may as well be true, of emigrating across a dark grey sea, the old house on the hill, an army of my mother’s fellow art students making it habitable, the cast iron bath with eagle’s feet and steps to climb into it, playing with fox cubs on a moonlit lawn. Perhaps some memories subsist from infant times, embroidered by repetition of stories told. But how could you possibly remember that? In the end, does it really matter?
Yesterday was spring
and tomorrow will be too
blue, bird-loud and new.
Jane Dougherty Writes 
I think we all do that, Jane, especially with the early years. We listen to family members and their stories stick in our minds to resurface as memories, I like the thought of a ‘cast iron bath with eagle’s feet and steps to climb into it’ and ‘playing with fox cubs on a moonlit lawn’. I don’t think it matters, all part of family and culture. I love the haiku!
Thanks Kim 🙂 I think you’re right.
I think there are those early memories that are constructed from stories and images… but there are some real memories back there that only I know…
Jane, sorry you’re having WP glitches. Seems like they are always messing with it. Hoping you can get it restored to workable condition by happiness engineers.
About memories I know mine can be faulty when talking about things with friends and my kids and they remember it completely differently or have details that totally have been erased in my mind. As a friend said once when asked if something was real, “It’s real enough.” Lovely haibun.
I’m probably going to let this blog go. Too many problems with it.
Yes, memory is often what we make it.
Don’t get another hobby – we’d miss you too much! Go pester a happiness engineer instead.
This is a great haibun. So good, I’m struggling now write mine now. 🙂
Thank you 🙂 I’m very late trying to catch up. Not a peep out of a happiness engineer yet.
It can take a day or two for one to reply in my experience 😊
I think they must be looking for a team…
Oh dear!
They don’t seem to have found it yet.
The part of it not mattering is so true. Beautiful.
Thank you 🙂
The essence of memory’s allure resides in its complex interplay between fragments of reality and the vivid workings of imagination, culminating in a rich tapestry of experiences that mold our understanding of the past. Regardless of their absolute veracity, what holds paramount significance is the emotional resonance they elicit and the profound connections they foster within the depths of our being. Your haiku encapsulates the beauty of nature’s cycle and reminds us to embrace each passing moment with awe and anticipation. Well done. 👍👏👌😊
Thank you! I think you’re right. The past leaves a mark on us and we interpret it through the lens of the present. Unfortunately, it’s possible to recall a warped version to justify that vision of the present.
This is genius.
Much love,
David
I’m pleased you like it, David xxx
Beautifully written JD. Thanks!
Thanks Ron xxx
Yes there are yesterdays then comes the newness of tomorrow. But some of yesterday still lingers.
Nice one
Much 💖love
Thanks Gillena xxx
I can’t distinguish any more between what happened, what I heard, what I dreamed, or maybe what I just made up. What you have written is very real, and true besides. (K)
I don’t think it matters at all if I was a baby and couldn’t possibly remember a crowd of art students painting the walls of the house. I know they did, as I know what the old bathroom looked like even though it was modernised before I could walk.
What whimsical memories, Jane. The impossible and possible “embroidered by repetition”.” Oh, I love how you echo that in your haiku as well.
Thank you 🙂 It’s all a question of what the eyes registered at the time, versus the image the imagination created from what was told to me later. Either reality will do 🙂
Indeed. 💜
Eloquent and evocative, as usual, Jane. I wonder where the line between what we remember and what we don’t is.
Thanks Frank. yes, that’s a good question. Why do we remember, or think we remember, certain things and not others, that were far more momentous?
This is wonderful Jane I love walking through memories with you… Don’t give up on wordpress I would miss you.💜
Thanks Willow xxx
I might just start another blog. This one is driving me crackers.
Di save your work though 💜💜
I’ll just leave it here. Shame about the gallery though.
Yes indeed you don’t want to lose them do you.
Can they be saved and moved?
I think so. If you can move all content from one blog to another you ought to be able to move some of it.
Yes fingers crossed 💜
Wonderful memories, Jane, really well written. 👍🏼🙂✌🏼
Thank you, Rob 🙂
I enjoyed all of this, most especially that wonderful final line of your haiku – reminiscent of Dylan Thomas!
Thank you! I admire Thomas’ compound wording, what I like most in his poetry.
A great haibun, Jane. Memories blur with the retelling. Every thing seem real at our age!
Thanks Dwight 🙂 I’ve stopped worrying about the details, who witnessed what. I know my own children, in their twenties have very selective memories!
They will ask all the questions after you are gone!
Very likely. Not my problem 🙂
I find that as I get older (and older) not only is there a slight uncertainty regarding the reliability of memories from waking life. Memories also appear from age old dreams to blend with the rest. Fortunately I’m relatively comfortable with confusion. And no… in the end I don’t think it does really matter.
The odd thing about the dream/memories is that they go back to when I was pre-school and I know them off by heart. The pictures are very clear. I don’t know if you’re the same, but I find that my dreams now are strange and disjointed, when they’re not anxiety dreams that follow similar patterns. Childhood dreams told a story. They made sense.