#127

The breezes
in my upstairs apartment
are like Italy
like in old films
a grand hotel
like ancient wallpaper:
toile and fleur de lys
my grandmother’s oleander tree,
her pearls
*
like writing when it works–
the empty beach in Tirennia
with its blue striped umbrellas:
the way I imagined the breezes
drifting across Africa
waves lapping against its shore

*
like Claudine and Lily (my two cats, now dead)
like the love between us
like too many metaphors and similes
like lists
like an open road
like music:
a huge piano in an empty room with gauze curtains
playing Chopin
or an endless loop of Underworld
like Kate Bush’s Aerial
like light
*
like Kawabata’s colorful lanterns
carried in a long procession down the hill
like the Hermit, the Magician and the Heirophant
*
like Orpheus’ samba
like jazz
*
like my Dad –
I catch glimpses of him
like me
when I’m not clenched up –
then there are moments of clarity
and joy.

This entry was published on 07.22.14 at 9:16 am. It’s filed under art, automatic writing, creative writing, journal entry, poetry, prose poetry, travel, writing and tagged , , , , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink. Follow any comments here with the RSS feed for this post.

One thought on “#127

  1. I am there with you. Very visual. I love the images. It is like walking down a hall and looking into different rooms and experiencing different scenes. I especially like the Kawabata. One of my favorite writers. His “The Old Capital” is absolutely my favorite novel.

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