Memory

A friend calls and we end up discussing poetry. She reminds me of a reading we went to where the poet came on stage with her handbag, placed it at her feet and began to recite - an ordinary woman with extraordinary words. 'That was Carol Ann Duffy wasn't it?' she asks. No, I strain my memory, knowing it wasn't her, but not able to remember who it was. 'You used to keep one of her poems on your 'phone.' my friend says, and this is the prompt I need; Wendy Cope. It was Wendy Cope, and she was fabulous.

A few days later, I search out the poem, remembering nothing about it except that it exactly summed up how I felt for a good long while, and that it brought me so much comfort at a very difficult time. I find it. I read it. I still think it is brilliant, and reading it again feels like finding an old friend.

Defining the Problem

I can't forgive you. Even if I could,
You wouldn't pardon me for seeing through you
And yet I cannot cure myself of love
For what I thought you were before I knew you.