I'm taking two poetry classes and, after over two months, I think I've finally cracked under the pressure. I'm officially in touch with my feelings and I want to write gushy romantic poems under trees while drinking black coffee and supporting socialism. Here's the first:
(Revised 12/10/10)
Galway
Fog stumbled in over the hills today.
I welcomed its chilly presence
because it reminded me of Galway,
whose weather had always been so immense.
For Galway couldn’t but be beautiful,
The sky is always grey,
The clouds are always full,
The sun beats but a ray,
And yet, the rain reminded me to be careful
of the area nearest a quay.
For it was there that I came upon a goose
and it was there that I heard the sweet songs
of a person on the street whose words were so damn loose
and beautiful and real and strong
that I couldn’t help but keep listening
and imagining myself in those songs
until the rain, the rain came glistening
and it had been too long,
and it was time, time to keep moving,
time to forget about those songs.
But Galway couldn’t but be beautiful
Its sky is always grey,
The clouds are always full,
The sun beats but a ray,
And yet, the rain reminded me to be careful
of that city by a bay.
For it was there that I walked beside the sands.
It was there I saw a woman with her dog.
And I saw a soccer game with no fans,
for it was being played, by locals, near the bay, in the fog.
And I kept walking, walking, and just by chance
I saw a convent, there, beyond a wall.
I wanted to reach it, to see it, to snap it, like such,
but I was afraid, afraid that I would fall,
and the height of the wall is too, too much.
So instead, I took a picture from where I stood tall
and as you can see, it’s just out of touch.
Yet Galway couldn’t but be beautiful.
Its sky is always grey,
The clouds are always full,
The sun beats but a ray,
And yet, the rain reminded me to be careful
of the darkness that comes at the end of the day.
We went into a pub when the evening was done,
where warmth overcame us. We sat at the bar,
and the bodies around us moved as if one
for a rugby game united the air.
The locals sang and they shouted, and enjoyed their beer.
We drank and we watched but we didn’t dare
join in, lest we muffle their great Irish cheer.
So back to the hostel, my friends and I
returned that evening, full heavy and tired.
But just outside, up in the strong Galway sky
the pregnant clouds released their great prize
and below, the one being that yet remained dry
was enveloped by this sorrowful cry.
The crowds leaked out and laughed in reply,
for they were no strangers to this moody goodbye
but when I looked up, a drop in my eye
led me to think, and then think, and then only to sigh:
That Galway couldn’t but be beautiful
Its sky is always grey,
The clouds are always full,
The sun beats but a ray,
And yet, the rain reminded me to be careful
of finding a city but losing my way.
Don't make fun of me. It's a work in progress.
