Yellow Brick Road

A Journal by Don Gerz

Previous Entry Share Next Entry
“Lost Realities”
dongerz



 

Muffled echoes of the city's darkness

Resound from building

To alley, to tavern.

Van Gogh's starry, starry night

Removes itself.

 

Dreaming of clear summer evenings,

We remember warm breezes

Too vague to make our yearnings real.

 

The snow is dirty ---

Dust in the snow before it descends

As a bleached December desert.

Taking refuge behind the tavern door,

We see winter's ashen flesh

Enfolding the city's bones.

 

Inside, the quiet night removes itself

While hallow laughter drinks our tears.

Loneliness is easily camouflaged, the

Smoky light stalks our waning desire.

 

Alone together inside this tavern night ---

No chance, no chance at all of resolving

Our fate entombed by the dust,

Dust in the snow outside.


  • 1
This ends on a rather note and I'm puzzled as to why. What's brought these people to this lonely state. But I can certainly imagine similar moments in my own life. On a beach actually, looking out at the waves. Loving the scene and wishing for company, thinking back on fond memories with another. I can't decide which stanza I like better though:
"Dreaming of clear summer evenings,
We remember warm breezes
Too vague to make our yearnings real."
OR
"Inside, the quiet night removes itself
While hallow laughter drinks our tears.
Loneliness is easily camouflaged, the
Smoky light stalks our waning desire."

The first reminds me that those fond memories of\with another have an added quality to them. They suggest more than what was in a very Don Quixote's "Golden Age" sort of sense. It was never quite like that. Going back would not fix everything.

The second reminds me that our loneliness is something we want to camouflage, even though it doesn't seem to me a sign of weakness. When we are lonely, while we want to share ourselves with someone else, we often want to keep our loneliness private and I think that's quite a curious thing.


Thanks for reviewing this, Brit. I began writing poetry in 1968 as a college junior for a creative writing class and then stopped that same year. (I made a C in the course. The prof...a published poet...hated my stuff. I can see his point of view, but at least I tried.) I didn't write poetry again until this one in 1983. (It shows!) I was a traveling salesman on the road, lonely for my wife and kids. It's not very good, but it was a start...I mean, a restart!

  • 1
?

Log in