Molly Puckett - Storytelling

  I believe that being humans means creating stories. Without stories, we would have no music or books. As a child, I remember making up stories about bugs or worms that I saw on the sidewalk. As I grew older, I began writing poetry about things that cannot speak, having a fascination with the context of historical remains and how we can create stories with physical human history. Several years ago, two skeletons were discovered, locked in an embrace at the time of death. These skeletons gained the name: the Hasanlu lovers. Based on the name, it is assumed that there is a story of romance. It is speculated that these skeletons are both male, based on skeletal structure. Are these lovers locked in an endless embrace? What if this was a father and son? What if it was a man and a woman (one who had similar bone structure to a young man)? There are things that we will never know, because these skeletons cannot speak. As we talked about in the beginning of the year, humans communicate through the use of symbols. This kind of communication connects with the human love of stories and storytelling. Along with this short exploration of storytelling, I’ve included a poem I wrote while “giving in” to the human tendency to create a story. 


The Hasanlu Lovers 

Molly Puckett


Let me bury myself next to you

I knew we were not ephemeral, 

Meant to be forever, together we grew 

Our forever, always possible;


Bodies may litter our beautiful streets 

But we will stay safe in our hiding spot 

They won’t find us between these sheets 

Your ragged breaths across my face, cold and hot 


Let me kiss your face one last time 

Though it may be the last thing I do 

Into this death, we have climbed 

Through fear and end, I will always stay with you


This war, their scream

Shall never separate our bond

You will forever be my only dream

Even as our life is drowned in a pond


Let me love you,

Even in death, as our bodies decay, 

They will remember us. Yes, me and you; 

Our love forever on display.


They will find our palace of peace 

May they attempt to rip my hands from your face

My love and grasp upon your lips shall only increase 

We will stay here, in our eternal embrace 


We are not their Greek tragedy 

Let them believe they understand our glory


Leaving behind a scintilla of our love’s immortality 

Let them paint their gossamer story.

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