The crow caws – a gentle reminder;
The beginnings of a communication.
The rain falls – a stark reality;
The returning to my development.
The light glows
Amid the afternoon,
Electric, to disperse the shadows.
I’ve penned these words, to trap
This moment. But this could have been…
Any other time.
Not the first time I met her
Framed in a doorway, smiling,
New to me – yet familiar.
Not even in the grand gestures of friends
Defined by drink, bravado and fear.
Not the smiles which
Surrounded me before I knew how –
To smile, to laugh, to communicate.
The magic I incline towards
As only parents know
Is that lull
Between the resistance and the sleep,
That moment when the
Thrashing ceases, the
Mumbling sporadic, ebbs
And flows;
“Dada” “Mama”
Continues
But you have had a
Half dream
Awakened by a snort
To realise she’s nearly there:
She’s nearly, and finally,
Dropped off!
What collection
on a tram going… anywhere.
There’s always beauty to absorb
And forgive me this
But I don’t rely on the soft
Murmurings of children,
Their whispering delights,
The sheer ecstasy in their laughter:
Its peel, its shrill,
Its peak, its crescendo.
I mean not this!
What collection,
Collective beauty
Striking in their multitude,
Amazing to behold.
And I do not mean
The Christmas lights,
The street stalls,
Vendors and all;
I do not imply
That the passers-by,
Each with his tale;
That’s not for me.
The cars full,
Or just one,
Going some other places.
The workmen starting, finishing,
The orange light flashing
as it darts by,
and I by it do fly.
I do not mean this either.
For this is not my beauty now.
Above, beyond the streetside buildings
The glowing castle on the hill,
It stands above its dominion grand,
A pleasure to behold.
The literature around its streets
The tourists amassing
In Its wake;
The history,
The lineage deep – but
This is not here what I mean.
The river gently rolling by
between two banks
both day and night.
It is not blue, not anymore,
for darkness and the
time have fallen.
Yet secretly
in sleepers’ dreams
it moves
between two cities
still; a waltzing,
gliding majesty:
but this still is
not the one beauty.
High Culture, low,
theatre or pub
where voices eloquent erupt
and wisdom
often hid in slur
still not the beauty to
which I refer.
All beauty, every single thing
transformed by smiles
and my thinking –
Finally it diminishes with this,
My basic urge, my flailing thrust.
I am a man quite positive
and sitting on this tram tonight
I think of all
That art has found
but my fond lust
is still around.
It was then that he spotted them, tossed aside, suitably withered; a bunch of flowers which, probably because of the previous handler’s inability to decide which recycle bin they should go into, had just been discarded in any old haphazard fashion. The paper still wrapped them, almost as if they had been untouched, and while withered to some degree they still maintained their form, almost like fake, or preserved, flowers. Their colour even reminded him of a rich autumn, the deep colours after the scented bloom.
„Could love be like this?” he wondered.
Casting any reservations aside he leaned over to pick them up, a twinge in his back reminding him to bend his knees. He grabbed the bunch and pulled himself up with a groan, his free hand grasping the side of the blue ’glass’ bin for support.
He steadied himself, an ever so slight dizzy spell washing over him. He smiled. In the bracing air of early evening, the sun hidden behind the looming hillside stealing away with it the last warmth of this day, the cold air against his teeth, his slightest perversion. He giggled at this. An old man passing with his dog looked on curiously before deciding a ’good evening’ wouldn’t hurt afterall. The dog sniffed close by but decided, if not a threat, neither was he very interesting. The owner called him on, the lean, muscled, brown dog complied and gracefully wandered off.
He took a moment to review the situation. What a picture he must have cut, laughing like a loon with a withered bunch of flowers to hand; a satire of some Shakespearian sonnet, perhaps.
Alive to the moment he decided to take the slow road home, for tonight he decided love was all around him, though an initial urge to sing was surpressed, at least till a better song arrived.
He pressed forward, taking the path parallel to the tramlines as counsel. Away in the distance a motorcar spluttered. Somewhere a dog barked . In fact when listening he realised a lot more of the constant murmuring which is ubiquitous in the city, even way out here in the sleepy suburbs.
He crossed over at the tram stop to the other side of the lines deciding instead to veil himself from the luminous eyes of the roadside houses. Under the cover of the tree line, a guard of honour looming above him, he found pace of footing ,and thought; adequate to take him on in splendour. Negotiating a pavement’s edge where the kerbstone was coming loose, he was slightly startled but his balance was maintained. It did, however, return him from his reverie with a sudden jolt, enough to bring him back into the present and the realisation that he was missing a beautiful evening. The sounds returned, the dogs chorused now, and the biting chill of air…
„What a beautiful evening.” he concluded.
The underpass behind him a beacon to another world, the noise of busy traffic trickling down from the big road further on, and up.
He let the pause end naturally and moved on towards what was without doubt his favourite street in these parts. It was thinly lit, the sharp white fluorescence sparse, potholing the darkness. The shadows leaned in, cut finely at the peripheries, but now a slight moisture was beginning to blur those same edges. Lining the street, houses of different shapes and sizes. A country house here, an apartment block there, bauhaus, gothic, victorian, rustic. A street resplendent in styles, a street for his imagination. He took his time to walk slowly along this little delight, a place away from the often brutality of urban life.
The rumble was lessened here, perhaps by the trees, the buildings; the mystery deepened. The windows, lit up at this time of evening, told stories of homecomings, dining, drinking and TV watching. Beyond those in proximity, the patchwork of lights played too on the hills, their distance tempting further his imagination.
„This could be where my love resides,” he wondered, a warm glow of pointed happiness swept over him. In this moment he was at once sentimental, melancholic, and full of joy.
A car horn sprung him from his delightful trance, his having unconsciously alighted from the pavement. He stepped aside in the blaze of lights, uncertain as to whether he was genuinely angry, frightened, annoyed, or another. He left the pulsating rhythm of his heart digest before coming once again to reason. The car long gone was no longer a threat, imminent or otherwise, and so was inconsequential, unequivocally so. Smoothing any doubts, laying flat all rough edges, he stole away once more into his strolling fantasy, or at least that’s what he had intended to do. The street’s end neared, however, and this would certainly spell choice. Going left and uphill towards the main road brought him closer to reality, to the certainty, while down and across the smattering of bridge brought him coiling around into the unfamiliar, and therein lay the greater possibility. He didn’t tax his mind with probabilty; he had too long a way to go to agree to forge company with that tainted muse. Already then his mind was made up; he would march the night away in search of a fanciful dream. Suddenly the flowers in his hands came aglow…or at least they could have.
Crossing the gulley slightly enlivened by the late rains of autumn, he thought how unimpressive this place really was. His mind flitted then to the banks of the city’s great river. He saw himself falling instantly and hopelessly in love; his jokes working , she being pretty. He would, therefore, be handsome.
The thought clouded as a twinge of nostalgia lurked. He scoured the shadows of his mind, shooing away at the cobwebs of memory, but alas it was within his heart that his torment did truly dwell. This, at least, he wished for, because the alternative was insurmountable.
He imagined her face, this intrusive recollection, then tried to revive his river bank odyssey but this other, she imposed once more. Maybe they could be together; these two worlds; his memory and his imagination.
„Better apart!”
That’s what she’d told him, that day, evening, night…he couldn’t remember. He could barely resurrect the numbness, though he’d wanted to. Any feeling, even that, brought him closer to her.
Again he wrestled with her image, graven image. He buried her, interred her, and watched her, in horror, sprout and blossom. He rallied throwing instead her tale into his new flight of fancy. A heart rendering story it would be but only until so far as he became over-bearing – had he become overbearing? He shuddered. Her ghost still lingered… The rusty rose heads loomed, the audience in his theatre; his one man play erupting.
He was at the top of the steps before he realised it and again he was forced to clear his mind, trying as ever to find some ’now’ in the midst of the ’weres’ and ’maybes’. Behind him the stairway fell into a semi-darkness, the street light at the foot, sickly, illuminating only his imagination.
„There there be monsters.”
Now it was the other hill’s, his hill as he imagined it, time to shine. Shrouded in trees the street lights traced a sporadic, if linear, route accompanied by the gloss of gaudy buildings and lonely dwellings. The sound of the cars, those cars far off, muffled to a soft caress on his auditory plain. Nearby a gate closing loomed larger. He imagined fear, their fear, those people who had emerged, seeing him, a stranger, looking to their eyes, a little dishevelled in his simple clothing; unshaven face, untamed hair, and generally unattractive demeanour. He imagined more then; perhaps his own lack of worth in light of his stature and his possibly insignificant existence.
A car started, revved, lights flared, a dramatic wheel spin, perhaps a threat, or warning; then he, following in pretended non-chalance the red lights as they bounced to disappearing around a bend, muttered an irrelevant curse. For a rich district the streets sure were shabby; chewed up; laughable.
He moved on seeking the higher road. He wondered on all his travels if maybe tucked away amid the apparent residential, an oasis would appear, but like all corrupted dreams he began to doubt his welcome there. One time he could venture in anywhere, unafraid, unassuming, unintimidating, therefore acceptable. Nowadays he found himself in the muddle of introspection, a horrid place at the best of times, especially when one reflects upon the failures, and with clarity sees the points of no return. Whereas before he could turn a spark into a fire, a frown into a wholehearted laugh, a tired nowhere-pub into the heart of everything, his pain had extended into bitterness and with time he offered nothing to a room other than the misery some places are designed to nurture.
A negative introspection, it drove him often times further into the realm of fantasy which as often as not risked his triggering that which he dared not speak of, not admit to, but which surprisingly till this day still featured prominently in his dreams.
He never willingly thought of her, nor in his moments of greatest defence ever blamed anyone, least of all her, but she had hurt him, he had been hurt. But worse; he had never been man enough to admit his feelings for her. He had loved her. How could he not have, and yet, St Peter-esque, he had denied this love, this festering abomination, rather than lose face in front of the girl he was losing. Hadn’t he even picked her a yellow rather than red rose, symbolising friendship rather than love. Hadn’t he surrendered to banality in light of her feelings. He had tried not to in order to maintain control and instead metamorphisised into the most perfect, most pathetic parody of what he had dreamt he once could have been, and with her.
A dog barked, he skipped a beat and hurried on. An old woman stepped out from a gateway, startling him, and he her. She swore to Jesus, while he just laughed at his own inadequacies, and wandered on, the vanguard in a self-proclaimed, great exploration. This time he vowed to keep his mind in check, to keep his focus. He would endeavour, he announced, to become again the man he had once been. He sniggered, a sly snigger. Hadn’t this been the basis for his previous unravelling! So he’d have to be different, to reinvent himself! He’d tried that too, he was reminded. Everything eventually had returned to the norm. He was no more now than he had ever been before. Still the same itinerant drinker, still imagining around the next corner while huddling close to the past, assuming he was projecting the image of the worldly, downtrodden man struggling against all the odds; optimistic to the core.
He began to find the roads familiar again, and with hunger setting in, his dreams of the perfect watering-hole began to disappear. The withered flowers in his hands were, afterall, just that: withered.
Waiting in the rain, one bus missed, another five minutes off, darkness in full swing, the dirty yellow light no good for reading, the smoking habit knocked on the head some time ago, the bar too far away for a quick pint- shots not being his thing- Paul was forced to wait unaided. No desirable distractions.
In this biting cold there would be no parade of leggy ladies to while away the minutes. In fact, in the hollow that was this side street the only company was the occasional lumbering bus, none his, as they climbed around the corner above him and fell down onto the road below. Their engines strained, roared; their fumes filled his lungs.
Others waited too and all seemed to have that homogenous expression, perhaps a prerequisite stuck in this misery. He smiled as he wondered if every single person here was of the same opinion of each other as he was. He was no better, he knew this.
A couple arrived just then, that kind of couple. Not only are they in love but they want everybody to know it, and by tumbling about while in full embrace, bumping into those in close proximity, they were also trying to include innocent bystanders in their torrid love affair. An old man muttered a reproach,they sniggered, and continued to whisper, casting accusing glances at the reproacher. He eyed them with suspicion. Paul himself felt a pang of anger though he allowed that it could have been jealousy. He’d never been that free in love. Too cautious, much too cautious.
Another bus finally tumbled around the corner and pulled up to a halt before them, the waiters. Still minutes off deparute but nearly time, he thought. The driver would surely leave them on board to step in out of the drizzle, that persistent reminder that everything wasn’t alright. The engine suddenly died and the people dared not look around in wonder, for fear of seeing the same worry etched on the others’ faces as they could only imagine was blantantly apparent on theirs.
The driver climbed from his seat and manually opened the front door. Stepping out he closed the door again, and then, turning to Joe Public offered a conciliatory explanation. A groan rose. Paul didn’t understand what the driver had said but it was obvious. An old lady donned her reading glasses and checked the bus timetable. Another twenty minutes. Paul knew. The evening schedule had just begun. Time for that pint, he thought, and smiled. Finally sense prevailed.
Bloody travel agent! Overbooked us again it seemed. It wasn’t the first time I assure you. I’d once spent 6 months in a hotel in Guantanamo, Cuba. I’d only booked myself in for a fortnight but as luck, or misfortune, would have it, I’d gotten the extra 6 months cost free. Admittedly being as it was still a communist country, being exploited from bottom to top by a cruel, tyrannical government, I took my chances, didn’t put a hand up, for fear of attracting too much negative attention.
This time,however, I was quite surprised. I was in Central, what used to be Eastern, Europe, and as far as I knew the Red Dusk had gone. The sun had risen again on a fledgling democracy, and with it the promise of change. Well I’ll tell you this, and I’ll be quite frank; what a farce! The service was non-existent, the faces all too non-expressive. Szomorú vasarnap? Szomorú every other day!
All my queries met with blank faces; all my worries, not allayed, were bolstered. I was in the proverbial dog’s dirt. I mean…well, let me tell you what I mean.
I’ve been here…where’s here? Well, it’s my room, at least that’s what it says on my ticket that I received at reception; why no key? You can go figure. There was a number! What you may be inclined to ask, was the number. I’ll tell you. I’m not one to shy away from such questions. Room 404. Room 4 oh ’expletive removed’ 4. I mean, I’m not a numerologist but where in any books does it suggest that the configurement of a 4 followed by a 0 followed by a 4 implies chaos. I mean, I’ve known disorder, but Jesus this is chaos. I feel like I’ve been led into the inner mechanics of a dictionary defintion and that this is in itself, unashamedly…TURMOIL.
God, I don’t like to complain, usually, but this is beyond border-line ridiculous. What I mean to say is that on opening the door to what I considered to be my dwellings, if I take a literary, academic phrasing, I found all sorts of mayhem ensuing. I mean, and God knows I’m being repetitive, I found unholy hell, a mess that could only be defined as ’mess’s much more topsy turvy-cally inclined, wiser, eccentric uncle. I’d discovered pandemonium, a word I’ve only now so confidently pronounced.
Christ if only it were a coffee stain on a rug, if only it were the crumpled sheets on the bed where a hasty post-cleaning coitous took place, preferably between two of the prettiest females of the staff. Whatever a deluded mind may search for in terms of solace, it does not here reside.
What I’ve found instead is worse than hotel room depravity, it’s utterly contemptable. I’m even nauseous in elucidating upon this matter. How horribly naive I was to assume change. There is nothing here but the ’Pig to man, man to pig’ analogy. Nothing, I swear nothing, has changed!
Privacy: non-existent. I’d heard about the KGB agents in Russia but this borders on the surreal post surreal. I’d heard about land sharing but I didn’t think that it extended quite so far as this. I’d heard about adjustment, and that I was, according to my guide-book, supposed to roll with the punches, but come on! One cannot reasonably be expected to suddenly change without some repercussions. I, myself, was unwilling to admit that any of this was true. How could it be, I mean, how could I, having sincerely asked at reception for a room, accepting the base confusion, tolerating the utter misinterpretation, still be expected to arrive at my room, a room with a door by the way with two glass panels, not very private, and on entering, only to find a troupé, and I choose my words succintly, cos these must have been in an actor’s guild, a travelling circus, or another…well, how could I have been expected to keep my cool. I tried, I really did, but finally I moved towards what could only be described as a hatch, like in a public building, a place to throw questions and build frustrations, and with a fury of such an occasion I braced myself.
„Excuse me,” I said to a lady conveniently on the other side of this partition,
„Excuse me!”
She looked up, said something, then continued to write.
„Excuse me…” I implored and this time she set her pen down.
„Yes…” she invited, even this being heavily accented.
„Is this Room 404?”
„Yes” she replied, „Do you have a ticket?”
I did and I gave it to her.
„Take a seat”
I did but didn’t know why I should. I’d paid for this room…except I couldn’t remember having done so.
A number came up on the board: „206”. I looked up, in a daze. I let my eyes fall on my ticket-„207”. Well at least I’m next, I proffered, to nobody in particular. I fidgeted, let my legs bounce…
„207”
„Hello, I’ve booked a room.”
„Name and tax number, please?”
„Huh?”
„Name and tax…”
The imperfect lamentations
Etched in stone
Worn in time.
The memories that grass
And earth consume.
That time makes inconvenient.
The wind that shatters
The still warm air
Caresses leaves into
A whirl
And gently sways the grass
Revealing tombstone’s top.
To hell with the darkness!
To hell with the light!
I’ll hide not in the daytime
Nor in the shadows of night.
Neither domain shall contain me
Neither one grant reprieve.
As a child of the infinite
In this realm I’m conceived.
In the Mouth of Madness
I strove to control insanity.
I believed within,
Though outwardly mad,
I could maintain integrity.
I floundered on
The mind’s vast shores.
A ship strewn
Upon the rocks.
I reached beyond
my limits there –
At the foot of reason’s cliffs.
I prided myself on creativity;
Praised my word smithery
While fearing to write –
Away from the huddle of my
Own imposed privacy.
I criticised everything
Grew tolerant of nothing
And chose to remain silent –
My pen dried up, my mind closed down
No longer god of anything.
