Once they are with me I know they belong,
these spells when I do what I know I’ve done.
They start with a memory, where ought to be none,
an onset of symptoms something is wrong.
Then reigns within a split second of grace.
Familiar feelings are stripped of their name.
What is marvelous springs from one and the same
utterly common theme I cannot place.
Then some quirk of thought quells my fear,
makes the moment’s scattered parts cohere,
shows behind the hubbub and din there swells
a hum I might be able to hear
if I ceased listening, a drone which dwells
and will still when I disappear.
*
The title of course refers to the famous quip from Yogi Berra, whom I always thought of as a closet Buddhist.
I always loved déjà-vus, even before I dropped acid, after which point I saw them as harbingers rather then misfiled capsules of memory.
This poem is, incidentally, a sonnet. I also wrote a sestina on this “same utterly common theme I cannot place”.
Forthcoming.