As I turn left off Oxford Street
cloaked in a low sky and shuffling
along with the other furrowed brows
I search for the accents of my youth
"Tomato" or "Tomahto" or "Tomata."
"Aunt" or "Ant" or "Auntie"
Punching my cold fists into a
Harrods jacket I enter the tube,
shortly reaching a grey gray
station and see the pub with an
old fashioned clock against the
familiar liquored mirror,
damn, it's way past our meeting time,
and
am I at the right place?
I really could go for
comfort food now, we need this
Connection
"Buffalo Wings? " Or is it "Fish and Chips? "
Maybe "Saltfish? "
Which of these do I want?
Eh, it's too late for such a search.
A sudden hiss of wind
angrily flaps my jacket, and
a raindrop
taps my shoulder—
as a stranger does when they have
wandered too far and need
direction.
The rain falls.
The sun falls.
The fog falls.
The days fall from the harboring arms of mothers.
I walk alongside the parceled flats,
pausing at a low bridge and look out at
the bruised dusk of the Old World
as the wind swings my bag like a beacon
against the cold.
Oh, come now - and dance with me
Caribbean.
This is interesting. I guess this is what it feels like to move away where there are different accents and different delicacies, different spellings and the like. It's trying to find yourself as you're lost between new experiences and old experiences, new preferences vs. old preferences. Being lost trying to figure it all out, possibly being lost directions wise too lol. Anyhow, thanks to this poem I was able to live that vicariously. So thanks for posting ^-^ ~Nika
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Thanks Nika - glad it's not opaque (not a fan of opaque :) Best, Tony