A fleeting presence

Hello, My Friend!

I hope your day/night is going well thus far! I spotted this poem among the older works in the Green Room, and hoped to give it the attention it deserves with a quick review. Hope you don't mind!

To start, wow! This is lovely! As I read, I'm getting this strong feeling of nostalgia, and the vibe is a little bit somber. There are these glimpses of fond memories, but at the same time, it's all past-tense, and there's this prominent understanding of one's own mortality and how all of this is not only temporary, but a fleeting moment in the grand scheme of time...

*ahem* As far as a technical review goes, I don't really have much to recommend! I really enjoyed this as-is. Nice metric, great word choice, and not a typo I could find. I will admit, the rhyme scheme was just a bit lost on me, with some verses having a consistent pattern and others not. But that's just one tiny thing!

As far as favorite lines and parts go, I would have to say...

I hear a crackling turn of a stove,

An angry parrot’s shuffling feathers,

A female voice coloured in love,

And yet even with these attempts

These hands still grasp nothing.

I love this listing of such specific things to remember, as it feels like brief glimpses into someone's daily life. Perhaps a daily routine with the stove, with a beloved pet and a feminine significant other or family member waking up with them? Either way, the personal touch here made this reflection of a life lived and past so much deeper!

A registry of a brand new crime,

That despite all heartfelt devotion

These hands can't grasp anything.

I love this part because it feels like it's saying, despite all the devotion to this life we gleaned, it's still only temporary, and there's no way to reclaim it once it's gone. It's sorrowful, sobering, yet there's something beautiful about it at the same time.

All that's left for me is to start moving

This fleshly temple granted to me by life,

Built on eons of accumulated stardust,

Shaped by ever present ceaseless strife,

So that one day before I turn into dust

I can overcome anything to see my wife

And let these hands grasp everything.

There was great material throughout this entire poem, but this final verse was GOLDEN. The visuals of stardust are so incredible, the rhyme pattern is lovely, and the mention of the narrator's wife again added this personal touch that made the whole experience feel so much deeper. And the transition, from repeating "still these hands grasp nothing" to mentioning her and that now "these hands grasp everything" was so beautiful, it felt like an ode to someone very special.

Overall, this was amazing! I'm glad you were able to share this poetry with us, and nicely done!

Hello there, TWR!

Good day to you. You can call me Meherazul or MAS. I'm dropping by today to share my thoughts on your poem. It's mostly going to be my interpretation of phrases, motifs, imageries. I tend to ramble on sometimes, reaching too far or going on tangents. So, please excuse such digressions.

The poem deals with some heavy topics. The uncaring passage of time. The inevitability of mortality. I like that the first and the last stanzas mention "dust," bringing full circle the message of the poem: "we come from dust and to dust we shall return, but there are things to be done in between, hardships to be overcome, loved ones to be cared for, memories to cherish and avenues to explore."

As I stand here today reminiscing

With foreign dust on my aged shoulders,

The narrator kickstarts the dust motif with the second line's "foreign dust." Everything is made out of atoms. Thus, in Carl Sagan's point of view, everything is made out of stardust, us and the world around us. (As my mind drifted while reading, I was reminded of the principle from Fullmetal Alchemist: "all is one, one is all.")

So, I interpret that "foreign dust" could be the narrator's allusion to the weight of the world, the incremental increase in duties and responsibilities that the passage of time causes. "Dust" may also be an allusion to the passage of time itself, foreign materials collecting on the narrator's shoulders, the way grime collects on furniture. The dust could also be a result of the narrator's hard work; it may be said that you cannot accomplish or build great without getting dirt on your hands.

I see glimpses of lands far beyond,

A hard earnt place there I feel matters,

A silhouette of long forged bond,

And yet if try to dispell my fears

First mention of glimpses. I'm not entirely certain if they are meant to be flashes of memories or premonitions. Regardless, the narrator longs to connect to these images. A fear of something keeps the narrator being to able to reach the envisioned lands or the silhouette.

With foreign dust on my aged shoulders,
(...) These hands of mine grasp nothing

These two lines read together evoke a sense of powerlessness over life, time and the bitter realities of aging.

So I close my eyes now wondering

If I can see beneath these images,

I hear a crackling turn of a stove,

An angry parrot’s shuffling feathers,

A female voice coloured in love,

And yet even with these attempts

These hands still grasp nothing.

Closing their eyes helps the narrator circumvent their fears and get a clearer view of the glimpses. I like the use of "beneath" in the second sentence of the second stanza. It weaves a dreamlike imagery in my mind. It feels as if narrator dived, literally, into the photograph, trying to see beneath the surface of the water.

Now there's really little stopping

The onset of this dreadful emotion,

Of a feeling being lost in time,

Of a memory swept in confusion,

A registry of a brand new crime,

That despite all heartfelt devotion

These hands can't grasp anything.

It seems that the closing of eyes acted as a double-aged sword. It helped the narrator wade past his fears and somewhat connect to the memories/visions. But it also gave the glimpses more power over him, bringing about pain and further helplessness.

All that's left for me is to start moving

This fleshly temple granted to me by life,

Built on eons of accumulated stardust,

Shaped by ever present ceaseless strife,

So that one day before I turn into dust

I can overcome anything to see my wife

And let

these hands grasp everything.

We are made of stardust but we are shaped by our choices, by the lemons life throws at us and our response to them. By the end of the poem, the narrator takes big steps toward acceptance. He regards his aging vessel as a temple. He accepts that this temple shall one day become dust. Even so, he is motivated to move forward by some very personal goals/desires. To see a loved one once again.

I think "A fleeting presence" ends with a good message. Everybody has some memories that are indescribably precious to them, that they'd sell the world for. But living in the past can also be paralyzing. Only by moving forward can we shape the stardust that makes up our reality.

Overall, it was a bitter-sweet poem. I enjoyed thinking about it, analyzing it. The repeating line -- "these hands of mine grasp nothing" -- spoke to me, for personal reasons.

Thank you for sharing your work. Hope you keep on writing!

~MAS