Here is the poem I spoke about in my blog yesterday. Written in the seventies – inspired as I was then, by poets like Bob Dylan, Allen Ginsberg, Jack Kerouac.
Some walk in my puddles
but others don’t see them
or even me
Their eyes are shielded by colour TV
and brochures selling ‘Freedom is a Drip Dry Shirt’
Can anyone tell how it really could be
Well no-one can ever see
that a dead guttered newspaper
was just yesterday one editor’s meat
and a printer’s poison
There’s something lowly
about tracing the journey of a drink carton
along the waterways of night streets
Your feet get wet
but the dogs are always friendly
There are strange faces in the windows
and quite often it’s midnight before you realize
that most of them were yours
You straddle the murky water
with one foot on the high road
the other on the low road
and I’ll be in the east end before ye
It hurts to be hungry
but if you dream in odours
the smell of Granny’s apple pie
will satisfy one craving
There are others
that not even dreams can cure
Sometimes you catch a distant glimpse
of a lantern in a waiting window
as inviting as the grand stairways
and splendid lights of childhood dreams
and you stumble
and injure yourself
in the rush to reach it
but there’s always just a little further to go
Even the welcoming committee
is always moving on
I read back over some of these poems and wonder where they came from. Freud or Jung might have had a field day with them.
Till next time,
Cheers,
Sue
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