Saturday, May 21, 2005

A London Poem

I’m walking down
Charing Cross Road
An early day in spring
I notice the scents
Lingering in the air
I feel them invade
My very being
So many
Of the spices of life
Are present here
On these many spots

The girl looked
At her face in the pond
It was the eyes
The eyes that
More than anything
Made her face
«They’re really something
Aren’t they?»
The older woman
In the mirror said
«It’s like they are
The entire face
Like pools of dark blood
Rising from our depths»

This place of places
Is coming to me slowly
Like a warm, pervasive
Prevalent wave
I notice the old things
I awake from my slumber
I notice everything new
I find what I’m looking for
I find what I keep yearning for
The Shadow grows from me
Reaching out where I
Can feel and touch it
I know again
What I’ve never forgotten

There are old structures
Not structures at all
In human life
The walls certainly not walls
Keep whispering to us
From corners, edges and shadows
Ghosts cry to us
From the realms
Distant and close
Opening us
To all things

I reach out
And grab the flow of spices
And even though
It keeps flowing
Through my fingers
While I weep
It burns my skin
And touches my Self
As never before
I sit on a bench
On Leicester Square
Enjoying the lovely evening
Fluttering birds’ wings
Flap and stir the air
Surrounding us

I walk through the forest at night
The ancient, eternal forest
A girl sits by the fire
I am approaching her
Or I sit by the fire
And she’s approaching me
I can never tell
We swim through the Serpentine
All of us
All of us out here
On the Freedom Road

These walls are not walls
But mist and shadow
Not concrete and solid form
But strands of night and fire
There is a house somewhere
A house of horrors
A house of joys
Peeling off modern human armor
Like one would do an orange
Devouring it like
One would an apple
The perceived horrors of freedom
Open wide the secrets
Buried in humanity’s past
Opening us to the world
To the world again

So we come here
To these intersections
These crossroads of choice
Seeking what we already have
Finding what we’ve already found
Realization is a powerful force
In human life
All journeys go everywhere
All travel is inside
So I walk these streets
Hunt these forests
In search for what
Will always be here

A good Journey
Stays with you forever
It echoes like thunder
Through eternity
Dreams are what happen
When imagination
Wants to meet reality

I can taste every grain of salt
Every single flavor
On my tongue
Experience every wave
Assaulting me
The air surrounding me
Is aflame with life

The morning commuters
Look like corpses
As usual
Like skeletons without flesh
Covered in skin
I have been up all night
And still look as fresh
As a flower

I have been here
Only forty-eight hours…

Amos Keppler
The City of Cities
May 17-19, 2005

I'm still out there, on the Freedom Road
My feet are still firmly and unusually
Planted on its fluid ground.


Rigmor said...

Unfortunately, for most people, London is like the description of the commuters. And I am so happy I am not a London commuter anymore, tho there are parts of London I certainly miss... (no suprise there, i gather!)

Amos Keppler said...

Commuting is bad, no matter where you are.