In the hot rooms
folks are sleeping, sleeping.
I grasp my book,
pour a glass of red wine.
Down creaking stairs
I go creeping, creeping
To the front room,
the lounge not mine.
Out in the square
with the tall yellow houses
We drove and we strolled
in the light of day.
There were purple veronicas,
droopy red fuchsias,
Crunching of gravel
and children at play.
And down the brown stairs
I go creeping, creeping,
Two flights down
from the second floor.
The guests are asleep,
the host is sleeping.
I ease round the door,
the whining wooden door.
And I peer round the plush,
the red plush curtain.
The still grey road
and the bulky black tree,
Indistinct bushes
and cold iron railings
Sleep by the hill,
by the vast grey sea.
Comments
Nolan | March 22, 2010 - 20:25
You capture the atmosphere well. Enjoyed! Thanks!
john_silver | March 26, 2010 - 00:52
Luly whisper - I can't seem to find the way to send you a private message, so I'll just use this comments section to respond to the very kind enquiry you posted as a comment to my sonnet "Paris". (Nice poem this "insomnia" btw, very musical).
Re clarifications of "Paris," the poem was written in Paris (naturally) and it is about the process of learning inherent in travelling (I have included the poem in full at the bottom of the comment, should you need to refer to it). It implies that an understanding of history passes through a personal engagement with its geography (i.e. going to see it 'with your own eyes'), and it conflates this with the traditional concept that the primary thing we can learn from history is humility. Thus our 'pilgrimage' through lands of Europe, for us as Europeans, must be primarily an act of humility.
Rome, my natal city, is brought in for purposes of comparison (geographical and historical): it symbolises the humbling parable of greatness-leading-to-ashes which is at once an historical and spiritual process (the reference to the famous phrase "all roads lead to Rome" is used as a metaphor for this inescapably spiritual journey). The poem ends with the statement that we all end up as "clay", albeit noble or ignoble, and that the understanding (and humility) of this is the primary thing that we can learn from Paris, our journey and our history.
I hope this helps. Thanks for reading and commenting - it was very refreshing to see you express further interest in a piece of work I had written.
Thanks,
JS.
Paris, Paris, I have not come to light
Or spin you, I’ve not come to sing la Senne,
My throat seeks no refreshment from your night
And I’m not asking where to go or when.
For pilgrims are no conquerors, who come
To seek the root of their humility,
That common street where all their roads are one,
Behind the mask of your plurality.
Paris, you’re not the basin of my past;
You are a road, but you lead not to Rome.
And what is Rome if not a bust (the last)
That honours ashes, cinder dressed as home?
Paris, teach me the junctions of the way
Which leads to noble or ignoble clay.