Trying to recreate the world

 

[caption id="" align="alignright" width="300"] The Lindens of Poissy, by Claude Monet (1882). (Photo credit: Wikipedia)[/caption]

 

[caption id="" align="alignright" width="300"] Claude Monet, photo by Nadar, 1899. Français : Claude Monet par Nadar en 1899. Türkçe: İzlenimcilik akımının öncülerinden olan Fransız ressam Claude Monet'nin, fotoğrafçı yurttaşı Nadar tarafından 1899 yılında çekilmiş fotoğrafı. 1840 ile 1926 yılları arasında yaşayan Monet, bu fotoğraf çekildiği sırada 50'li yaşlarının sonundadır. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)[/caption]

 

The bus is late and I’m


Thinking of what you said,


trying to understand, but


I’ve never met you,so


I have nothing but written words


which,however beautiful,may not give


enough for me to truly imagine


the depths of your heart.

My legs hurt and I have a cane,


but I don’t like it.I can’t accept


my own infirmity,my troubles,


my pains,my disagreements,my mistakes.


Rain falls over me and drips down the lens


in my spectacles,as if the world is weeping


the tears I can’t shed.

If I cried now,standing at the bus stop,


for all the years of pain


noone would know,they’d


think it was just


raindrops running down my cheeks.

The bus comes,but it’s half term…


The shops are too crowded,I can’t


stand in queues…imagine how most of you


say it’s boring.Well,I’d love to do it


but I’ve decided the pain is greater


then the rewards.

The bus driver stops at a place where


the pavement has been lowered to allow


the owner of this house to drive


their car into the front garden


so they won’t need to buy


a resident’s parking permit.


It makes it a harder task to descend


from the bus and I hope he won’t


start while I’m still getting down.

In the coffee bar are exhibits from


a local museum,and I think,one day


my cane and my watch from Argos,


my shopping bag with a picture of Monet-


such vulgarity.....


they may be in a museum too…


along with my door keys


my bike lock and my spectacles


and will somebody try to conjure me up


in their imagination.


Someone who used to like Topology.


knitting,writing and holding hands with lovers


on the top deck of the bus


crossing central London without noticing


anything except their reflections in the eyes


of the other.


Light bounces to and fro.

My mind shuts down, the words


packed away in boxes,till there’s only


you and me and a few elementary particles


trying to recreate the world


with the big bang


that will end it all.

 

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