Woot! I am done for the week, it is over, I don't have to stand around emotionless serving customers at the bookshop !!! Ok ok on to more serious stuff... I need a new fountain pen, the old one is growing on me and I have a unquenchable desire for a new fountain to scribble all over with. Hopefully a parker vaccumatic, really saving up to get that bugger. Oh... and I have this current fascination with gypsies. Why ? I really don't know, maybe it is their lifestyle, free and nomadic. Also their superstitions and beliefs along with their music and of course who can forget, freedom ... hmm i think i already mentioned that. Anyway here is a poem which i Wrote a day ago and forgot all about it. here goes.
Winter! Turn back time
Autumn,Summer
Spring, Love in the air
cool nights, breeze in her hair
fluous language, no words can tell
the volumes, the scriptures all permeate the unenlightened.
And I stand
the train is late, half past four.
Sickened, hundreds waiting, baggage
clutter the station.
And she stands, resting her head against the
mighty pillars holding up the architecture
curves and lights, play, ignorance is bliss
the train arrives
Fills the station with white fog
Blocking vision
suffocating senses, olympus ? only a state of Nirvana
a God induced madness
relieving the past, i board the train.
Carrying my dead feet,
rooted to the platform
the moving animal
the noise is unbearable.
I am haunted by her figure.
she stands there
the shadows engulf her
dark figure in the pillar. Ghostly, stained glass windows.
Repeated announcements waft on the air
muffles, muffins being ordered from the boulangerie
I sit in the cabin, claustrophobic
and call out to her, still by the pillar.
She stands outside the window
the window, a frame of the mona lisa.
Birth of venus by Michaelangelo
Le Grand Louvre.
Her breath misty, in the winter cold
steam emits
misting up the window, I no longer see her, the beauty of Paris
gone.
Cathedrale De Notre Dame, her eyes look down in sympathy.
Her Silhouette, remains entranced in my mind
her figure, the Madonna
stately, standing, justice and proud,
Arc de Tromphie.
A horn blows through
ricochetting through the station
her body livens up
the sleeping beauty, arising. Poison waning.
Dawning, moving upon the train station
pillars move, the smoke emits
chug through, picking speed.
blur.
I run through
abandoning, luggage all behind
a passport and my wallet.
the final moment, jump!
My knees grazing on the hard floor.
the blood line, on the marble flooring. A bohemian art.
Back on the platform, still there ?
ma cherie ?
No more, the pillar abandoned,
the Eiffel tower, her figure, structured and composed.
The station abandoned.
Only clocks and numbers, the Montmarte ! Oh Mon Dieu
Band of thieves, darkness ensues, the station plunged into the Revolution.
Red, the sign of the Communists, they have come. Dieu ! receves mon ame!
The newspapers litter the station
tales of fiction. a mess, tossed up by the wind.
A note left, a scarlet letter,
written in the language of the lovers.
J'ai lassie la station,
ne me suis pas plus !
I have left the station
follow me no more.
The next train comes next morning
3 'o' clock, Tres bien
I rest, on the bench. Open to all.
the magpie lands near.
cold, cold.
and faintly i can hear her sounds.
Et le cloches sonnent
sonnent a ma vie. sonnent dans la station
echo d'echo.
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