Sunrise, and I read the New Yorker magazine
its poems not of the city, even might
have written them myself, it seems
The heat grows, I toss out the New York Times
Vade Mecum of commute, tired of the weight
of business and estate, pages that I never use
And now the New York streets, unforgiving
red-light-jumping cars, pedestrians running on
adrenalin and wheels, upending
all the slow, a boy on crutches
baby carriage
scattered in their haste
to steal a march upon
the New York morning sun
And even those possessed
of lifetime wage employment can't resist
the caffeine-driven New York state of mind
the traffic cops, tabloids and terror plots
I tell myself, look up, construction in the sky
precise design and accident, human-conceived
magnificence, the fragile towers, peaks
beloved Chrysler spire, a beauty glimpsed
at last, the New York windows to the sun
and clouds where passengers no longer fly.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
What a gorgeous preview into your day dear Frank! And especially the finale with my beloved Chrysler building, oh to have such wonderful surroundings for a place of work..... I shall now take a peek at the estuary and spot a few gulls.... ah yes and some boats! Good.... but not as good as yours! ! Loved this poem... HG: -) xx