Thursday, April 29, 2010

New York, New Me

I scribbled some queue words of my trip into a journal with the intention of using them to write an essay about my experience later on. But as I read down the list I found that my random phrases and tid-bits had a sort of rhythmic melody to them, so instead of writing an essay I’ve decided to be a little more artistic…a little more poetic… This, ladies and gentlemen, is what New York means to me.
(*The poetic format I wrote this in will not transfer properly...I apologize. It's much easier to read the way I intended it to be written. I hope the weird spacing isn't confusing....)

Sesame Street steps, up to the apartments, past the lampposts
Of a hundred years.
Umbrellas, black to clear, classic to gaudy, striped to tiger stripes bobbing
In the rain drops.
Cross the crosswalks, a shifting wall of folks
While the taxis wait their turn.
A red, red star high up on the empire
Of a Captain who once had the same tattoo.
Purses, shoes, stilettos, suits, gold buttons and belts
Walking, walking, walking.
Bright yellow ponchos to sit on, bus ride through
the open, windy chill.
Smell the sauces, and the dough, and the steam
Of good, good eats a plenty,
Of pastry, of pies, of oils from the olives, and the cheeses, and the
Basil on top.
Bookstore books, pages old and musty, used with history
Full of stories, ghosts, and wants and needs and smells of something like home.
Steam Pipes, sewers, garbage piles, unpleasant cinematic stereotypes
That make you feel good for a reason you can’t explain.
Jackie saved the future by saving the history,
Stone walls, cobble stone streets, 19th century windows and doors
A plenty.
Tree roots defy urbanization,
Up, up, up through the stone they rise.
Trees on the roof tops. Naked iron men in the parks, on the Iron. A fence with memories of the dead.
Rockefeller daffodils flooding beneath fountains, a golden pool of
Beauty.
I belong. I belong. I belong.
Bickering couples. Umbrellas standing by the subway. Pigeons, parrots of an urban paradise.
Camera in my pocket.
Foggy Ellis.
The Brooklyn Bridge just beyond my touch.
The Bronx is wakening my father, and the memory of old things good come back to life.
Home, roots, sentiment and identity.
The lights of Time’s Square blink in the fog on Broadway,
Life, Time, a clock that never breaks down.
I want to be a part of it through and through,
Down every alley,
High tower,
And village.
New York, New Me
Match making, soul mate: Bliss.

2 comments:

Anonymous said...

Well written! Normally I like order and structure - I'm not a poet or reader of poetry, but I got it!
Dad

jcdawn said...

Thank you, Dad! But I have to add: poetry is actually quite structured - strictly so, in fact. It's why I'm too lazy to do a whole lot of it.... But I'm glad you "got it"! I like to be abstract, but not TOO obscure...