Dull Grey Day
And Streets
That don't end,
But disappear
And begin again.
In a candlelit bar
out of the gloom
The piano
Tinkles
A Jazz noir tune.
I sit and watch
A woman
Fashionably attired
Wait while
A doorman
Summons a car
She departs
Into splashing streets
Rain dancing
To the wipers' beat
And I, dry behind
The jewelled pane,
Watch
As she slowly
Drives away.
In my mind
I follow
Through wet streets
To her condo
She exits
Beneath a portico
And an elevator
Whisks her
To her tower...
Sheltered
As a hothouse flower.
What does she know
Of rain or pain
Or dull grey days—
Other than her view
Of the lake?
The fire bubbles
In the grate
As she pours
A Manhattan,
Scrying the riddle
Of rain trail patterns
What, if anything,
Goes
Through her brain?
Barriers dissolve
And I’m given
A glimpse...
A vision
Into privileged
Position
And I stare
Amazed
At a string
Of dull grey days…
And despair so great
It drives her away
Back out into the rain
Where she enters
An unending haze,
And slips beneath
Dull, grey waves.
Very interesting and readable poem. I clicked on this post because I love grey, rainy days. I also love fine poetry, and this is great.
Looking forward to reading more. Thanks.
thank you, @majes.tytyty for your encouragement
@johnjgeddes, ‘sheltered/ as a hothouse flower’ is good. This is the power of poetry, to imagine another —but it is also a double-edged sword ... since it’s a reminder of how we presume/judge without knowing.
Who’s to say that, despite her appearance, your well groomed protagonist is not, in fact, a connoisseur of ‘rain and pain’?
As Transtromer suggests in these lines from “The Scattered Congregation”:
“We got ready and showed our home.
The visitors thought: you live well.
The slum must be inside you.”
thanks for your response, Yahia. I was actually implying the above - perhaps, I was too subtle in portraying the narrator's attempt to get inside the woman's head but the turning point occurs when he asks, 'What, if anything, goes through her brain' and then is given a vision of dull grey days culminating with her being driven to despair and walking out into the lake to drown. This frequently happens to depressed people in Toronto, and I may have assumed the allusion was clear. Sh'e not just a connoisseur of rain and pain, but also a victim.
Thank you for your thoughtful reply.
Aha, forgive me, my presumption... and thanks for taking the time/care to walk me through that. Art on, my friend!
I love how your stanzas are shaped like hourglasses. Was it intentional?
I intended to write in short lines, so the effect would be a narrow column of print but the visual form of an hourglass was unintentional, but I was trying to make the words come in waves. Sometimes poets are beneficiaries of happy accidents :)
Your writing is beautiful. You write how I feel, even if I can’t express it. I look forward to your writing.
thank you, @lowlylutfur - so kind
Painting is silent poetry, and poetry is painting that speaks.
Keep it up dear.
good line - thanks. @smileplease
beautiful ! thank you for sharing!!! <3
thanks<@iamsilvia
awsome share
I love this . It's really good.
Thanks for sharing
thanks, @lalitswami
I really are interesting your poetry.Poetry is not a turning loose of emotion, but an escape from emotion...
What City was this taken in? Very beautiful
it's from my city - Toronto - The Gooderham Building, also known as the Flatiron Building, is a historic office building - it figures in many of my stories