Friday, July 30, 2010

poem in schipol


The light is bright, no dimness, no dinginess . ..
in this atmosphere
it must shine, reflecting on the floors and faces,
and stainless steel in the construct
of this place . . . and all the carts . . .
all perfectly placed . . . no disorder . . . none. . .
all the chairs . . . immovable like boulders . . .
impeccable order . . . rows . ..
All these people
all straight and perfect,
tall with determination
built into their faces
so many blue gazes
and
all their little children
look the same
[except for the little girl with the big blue glasses
taped between her brows, a sturdy walk,
determined like all the rest . .
but a little off center as she follows
the rest
she looks for the dream]
the other children run and play and shout . . . like children everywhere . . .
shiny floor reflecting
shadows of the people,
people learning to have wings,
to fly away
above the clouds
to stratus as yet unknown.. .. ..
perfection is grown on these silver wings
of giant eagles . . .
high so high they flow.. .. ..
all the little people
wheeling silver carriages below
filled with their treasures
along the lines of the airport. . .
where all is straight somehow
perfect perfect white and blond
all in flawless little lines
flowing, slowing all in rows. . .
an orange glow
in this midnight snow.
fly fly away little one
you will grow
you will grow
its here somewhere:
the place you seek.
you come back someday
and ne'er again will fly away to find
your love, my love
look blind
and whisper
in the crevices of this deep black night
and see it grow . . .
a spark, a flare
and the wings will grow there
where you seek, you seek
you will grow
you will grow
you will see.
in amber shades of peaceful wishes
hopes and furies
glory and spaces
look and look
in glances of awe
you will grow
you will
see
my little one with wings
fly away fly away
fly away to me.

##
July 24, 2010
Amsterdam

You have to remember that I was extremely exhausted. . . to the point of hallucinations . . . I saw rats running around on the polished floors under the tables and around the legs of the sleeping people in the hard boxy chairs.  I also could swear that I saw a sports team of tall young blond men playing football in wooden clogs with a metal suitcase . . . I swear I saw this stuff (heard it too) . . . . .  and my very poor poem was written as a calming devise . . . I couldn't get any sleep in that place. And all the children, so many of them, with so much energy and happiness . . . when I looked at my clock it said 3:00 a.m. and I started worrying that I had the time wrong and it was 3 in the afternoon the next day and I had missed my 10:00 a.m. flight.  To my poor suffering mind this was the most bizarre place I have ever been in . . . as I meandered from section to section I had various experiences that made me question my sanity but eventually I found myself on the flight home . . . or at least in that direction .. .. .. or so I was told . . .

2 comments:

LittleFingers said...

That's the side effect after breathing the air of Paris over a too short period.

Wolfsong said...

So THAT'S it . . . actually I think it was just a very very strange place . . . . when I think back it was so funny .. . those rats in this spotlessly clean place. . . and all those happy children at 3 am in the morning . . . I was so puzzled and still am . . .????