Sunday, March 19

Nostalgia in iambic pentameter.

There's part of me loves the American
midwest, although I've never had a home
there (what's it like to have a home someplace,
anyway, I wonder?) except my family
is all from there, so we go back
for holidays when we can make it (word
choice: "make it home"?).

                                        The fields and small
towns are comforting, their colors bright but
not the same way as Paris or Naples;
or Venice, Edinburgh, and Cologne,
for that matter.

                 What matters seems to be
singing familiar songs on Sunday mornings
in buildings with carpeted stairs that creak predictably,
glancing over familiar candies and soda drinks
at the gas stations, men that sometimes
wear over-alls, and the women framed by
frequent faded gingham cloth while their
hair is wispy in summertime heat as they
can and preserve fruits and vegetables.

It sounds so unrhythmic, so banal as to be unpoetic
(word choice: there is nothing that is unpoetic here;
how can you say something is unpoetic when it
comes from you?) but you have to realize that if there is
nothing poetic about such earth and familiarity,
where is the poetry in all your wars, in all
your cities so great and grey, your people
so proud--even in the best sense--your grandiose
adventures, men who sit in dusty studies
or actresses entrancing as they tell
the same story night and night after dawn?

Something in me has a wanderlust
that keeps me from calling anyplace home
and close to that there is a part
that wonders if I've just left home behind
for this.

         So I trip the cobblestones abroad
and wonder if I'll ever find the sweet
and solemn ideals that are rooted so deep
in a memory that's never existed here anyhow.

(Comments: Too idealistic. Are you being
nostalgic or just plain ironic? And do your relatives
call you a city kid like mine do when I go back home?)

1 comment:

The Ubiquitous Quill said...

I really, really enjoyed this. Very YOU.