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Petrified Praha (Prague)
| Open Poetry #47 |
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Petrified Praha (Prague) |
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martiniat8 Senior Member
since 2003-06-21
Posts 897Prague, Bohemia, Czech Republic |
He sat in the darkness of his bedroom the window open to the narrow cobblestone street bellow the sounds wafted up from the pub on the corner the muttering voices and languid chuckles of a language he did not know nor understand and the mixture of clinks, clanks, clangs and chatter of mugs, china, forks and prater shifting back to his thoughts before they shatter he wrote, he wrote in second person because because, it just seemed easier after all this was supposed to be a story he was writing the plot began to be scrambled He was a feeling, a feeling he could not describe it wasn't heartbreak, but there was some anger and this freedom he had did not feel like freedom if it was freedom, perhaps that was the problem he did not want it He wanted to be wanted, needed, and yet... he wanted to be alone it seemed every time he read his email, and picked up his phone there was some woman, another woman different women stabbing him in the heart in two weeks, in two different situations he received the same message the same stab of recognition, "Do not contact me again" Half of him desired, nay desired desperate to find someone else a good person, to fill this void, a new pretty face, a new pretty smile eager and anxious to know him, and listen to his stories, awhile but while he waited as he drifted and sifted through the faces He thought about this land this, Czechdom and read an email from a woman who stated "unfortunately, I am Czech" He began to wonder about this country about the cruelness of these other women, his former companions, friends, lovers, and company how suddenly they contacted him out of the blue being nice, giving him hope but why, no one knew to only hear 24 hours later... Konec, the end. Why would you contact a man? Just to stomp on his heart? He had heard a story earlier in the day about the Czechs of the past that, migrated away in waves of state religious persecution Hussites and the coming protestants fleeing to America from Catholicism and yet Catholicism died here unsure as to why he thought... as he ought, to try now, Atheism was king it is the truth the sad truth and the state of things and he wondered what was left that all of the good people had fled over the years many miles, over many tears all the faithful fled who, what was left for him to wed? His thoughts drifted back to his first impressions his first observations of this soulless city the blank drawn stares and faces on the metro a pity and eyes that were eyes that were empty those that smiled, that would turn in interest seemed to be only reacting to some sort of stimulus. He didnt want to see anyone speak to anyone see anyone but still desperate for a single ray of sunshine a single ray of hope he couldn't describe this feeling in any other way, but Paralysis |
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| © Copyright 2011 Kenneth Bradley Smith - All Rights Reserved | |||
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OwlSA Member Rara Avis
since 2005-11-07
Posts 9347Durban, South Africa |
A sensitive and intimate call from the heart and very well presented – may it be answered in the way you wish. I would suggest, “softly, softly catchee monkey.” The “faces on the Metro” made me think of Ezra Pound’s “In A Station of the Metro,” one of my very favourite poems. Owl |
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