autumn in the city

in the city,
nobody here knows me.
they can't complain when i walk back in the dark,
past seven p.m.
slipping down side-streets
and watching the lonely clouds
sliding across the navy expanse between
the pin-prick stars.
the adrenaline beat hard in my heart,
waiting for the club to the head,
or the knife between the ribs,
or the van on the corner's edge.
instead i rang the doorbell,
and climbed up all the stairs.
i can leave the house, early
and walk past the tube stations into strange parks.
sit and watch the squirrels do squirrel-type things,
and follow the londoners along the path.
i can write bad mental poetry.
i can sit up late and even type it.
since tomorrow no alarm will break my quiet.

on the tube my bag made my dress ride up,
and a stranger saw my knickers
but that was okay.

Reviews

[LJW]

This is really special, just brilliant in its simpicity and honesty. The whole thing is wonderful.

This is especially good:

i can leave the house, early
and walk past the tube stations into strange parks.
sit and watch the squirrels do squirrel-type things,


I have always worked extra hard on my endings. i think if the ending doesn't make a reader either smile, laugh, connect, or sit back in their chair and say "WOW" then I may as well have written graffiti on a wall somewhere.

Without a doubt, your last stanza is the best last stanza I have seen anywhere. I LOVED IT and kinda wish I'd written it, but I'm American and don't wear knickers and anyway, your wonderful mind thought of it! :-)

[LR Young]

I was sent here WkK. and goodness, there is so much that sounds so familiar to me. I know exactly how that feels. Funny the things we let slide, and yet at the same time, fear the other things that may slide into us...isn't it? Wonderful.

[Phibby Venable]

this is an amazing poem...and I loved following you, image after image! love the feel of
loneliness and keen observation..the pin prick of stars!!

[Ed Hart]

I think you are long past the point of being able to write bad poetry, even in your head...

[Emily B]

Edna St. Vincent Millay was an expert at this sort of poetry. Such commonplace little lines that amounted to such momentous revelations. I'm glad Kortas sent this my way. A great little piece of writing.

Don't spend too much time in those back alleyways hoping for that club or knife. It would be a shame to deprive us of more of your words.

[W.k.kortas]

See, bad writing hits you in the face and beats you around the head and shoulders, usually because it is so up-front and shallow that it clubs you with the message until you beg for mercy. Good writing, on the other hand, sneaks up on you and burrows under your skin. This, happily, falls into the latter category. On the face of it, it seems that absolutely nothing happens, save for the spectacle of a lonely person walking through London, sitting in parks watching squirrels and daydreaming. On further study, there is clearly much more to it. I suspect the use of Autumn in the title is no accident--not only for the odd paradox of the blaze in color produced by the gradual process of the death of the leaves, as it were, but also for the oddity of trees/nature in the vast expanse of a great city. The narrator has nowhere to go, no place to be, yet she is clearly waiting and hoping for something to happen--but not just anything, but rather "the club to the head,/or the knife between the ribs", something so wild and impossible that it will not and cannot happen at all. This curious juxtaposition is repeated again in the final scene of the accidental (ostensibly, anyway) flashing of a total stranger on the subway, which of course results in nothing, which, as she says, "was okay", when it fairly clearly is not. This piece is so subtle, so well shaded. It is a first-rate marriage of craftsmanship and observation.