Love poetry
Posted on
September 1st, 2010by Patrick – 3 great comments. Room for one more!
Every once in a while a well-meaning relative or friend asks me, “why don’t you come and live out here?”
Part of the answer is in the question, really, isn’t it?
“Out here”.
“Out” can be nice, sure – for a visit — but “in” is definitely more my style. Yet often that’s a bit too abstract to be accepted as an answer. Not like you can’t get good doughnuts out in Whitby or a decent cup of coffee in Burlington. I’m convinced you can even get a good Greek meal out in the far-flung mining town of Sudbury. And the people? Yeah, sure, I bet they’re not all backwoods rapists and gun-toting hillbillies. Somehow, though, the context lacks poetry.
So in lieu of a concrete explanation, I hope to use this post to paint a picture. Perhaps I can print it off and simply hand it over next time the question is put to me – save me having to put up half-smiles and awkward references to twanging banjos.
Monday. Beep. Hiss. Medium double-double. I’ll have mine black. And a blueberry muffin; I know, I know — diet. Off in thirty seconds, dash dash dash to catch the streetcar.
Tuesday. The DVP’s backed up again? You don’t say. No, don’t take the Gardiner, that won’t get you anywhere – Lakeshore’s a better alternate. Maybe I should bike it in tomorrow. Wonder how much rent is down here?
Wednesday. Shock’s worn off. Gotta be in the office early today – why’s the damn GO train late again? “Attention TTC passengers…” Great, another jumper on the Yonge line — the day I get the car with no A/C!
Thursday. Late day. Overcast, gray. Spicy food hangs on the slow breeze and from somewhere high above a solo saxophone plucks emotion out of the air. Looks like rain.
Friday. Steamy mist from rises from the grates in the market; meaty men unpack trucks, hand over hand. Fresh fish, raw vegetables, new meat, freshly baked breads, mature cheeses, and coffee; all the world wafts through the narrow cobbled streets.
Saturday. Chinese people in the park moving in slow, circular motions in unity, pulling and pushing invisible objects. A solo erhu plays from a nearby bench. An old man with an older pipe strokes his long white beard; long white curl of smoke rises in antithesis. Joggers smile.
Sunday. Chess under the Cathedral. Click-clack of pieces on the cement tables. SMASH! the time clock – “check”! The old man doffs his cap to the young black man in his gaze. Respect. Flipside at the next table over. Third one down, it’s a mate between friends. St. Michael watches patiently.
Today…
... with pictures
... with sounds
... with videos
... with opinions
... that's shorter
... that's longer
September 3rd, 2010 7:01 am
Your "Won't you help brighten a lonely comment box's day?" gave a meaning for my browsing the web. Thank you for the wonderful awakening. I took your "lonely comment box" as a pictorial building brick to the picture of our today and thank you the hot for that provision to draw a monument to our responses. That is a key to the dreamland (the way we communicate between as depicts our being as frees our dreams if we have grasped the silence in the noisy streets)
Your post convinced me that my Butterfly in the Plaster can be free from fear to talk just with himself. There are people who hear the heart till now and I am glad to meet with you. We both see alike despite the huge distance in our locations.
September 3rd, 2010 7:07 am
Sorry for my hurry to submit comment. That was why my feedback on above appeared as Anonymous and that is why I am writing again now. I am not an anonymous but your friend Tomas from the Butterfly in the Plaster
September 4th, 2010 8:40 am
Thanks for the kind words, Tomas. Anonymous or otherwise :)