...but I was very happy writing them, so I do not mind that they are not good.
Torstrasse 167
Legs in the sun
Peonies, basil, and red heather in the window boxes
Fronds on the bamboo trellis soaking up the sun
Swigging water from a plastic bottle
Wondering if my feet are burning
(Thankful that, at least, the soles, now, aren't,
After nearly a week of traipsing Berlin, East and West,
North and South, in high humidity
In heavy brogue boots
Bought with Alessia in Florence,
Boots supple and forgiving as clogs.)
Drinking and drinking
to ward off a hangover
the clear clean beer of Berlin
probably wouldn't bring
anyway.
Traffic and works and low chatter
come up through the boulevard trees.
This building, with its carved cracked windowframes
elegantly decorative -
its somnolent portals of black wood
and high-ceilinged bulky mass
survived my ancestors somehow
and now,
small five-petalled white flowers
delicate as my nephew's hands
grow here, lovingly, casually tended
as, perhaps, do I
if with less knowledge.
It is clouding over,
But the heat remains. Berlin is on my skin,
Its claggy promise clinging.
A bronzed fly alights upon the hairs of my leg
And rubs its hands, hoovers the skin for filth
Jumpjets, hovers, alights again. Life tickling me,
Taking me for a turd. The clouds thicken from white
to bruised grey. Soon will come the thunder. Ya.
Sparrow city, sweet-tongued, smiling and free.
With Britain, my thoughts wither.
But here the leaves have a rained-on look before the storm,
A bee comes, bumbling from glowing flower to glowing flower,
My water bottle is almost empty,
Two litres nearly drunk,
the unformed hangover, like the gathered clouds,
dissipating.
Tones of blue --
violent celebration
and the purpling velvet of petals.
Even - tender exaggeration of the city, pushing me into cliche -
a cream-finned butterfly visits, briefly,
the yellow flowers, then takes off, dancing to the sparrowed trees
and then away.
This is my home
nor am I out of it, however absurd that sounds
and however much I had to drink last night.
This is my holy day
sitting surrounded by flowers I cannot name.
Boots supple and forgiving as clogs.)
Drinking and drinking
to ward off a hangover
the clear clean beer of Berlin
probably wouldn't bring
anyway.
Traffic and works and low chatter
come up through the boulevard trees.
This building, with its carved cracked windowframes
elegantly decorative -
its somnolent portals of black wood
and high-ceilinged bulky mass
survived my ancestors somehow
and now,
small five-petalled white flowers
delicate as my nephew's hands
grow here, lovingly, casually tended
as, perhaps, do I
if with less knowledge.
It is clouding over,
But the heat remains. Berlin is on my skin,
Its claggy promise clinging.
A bronzed fly alights upon the hairs of my leg
And rubs its hands, hoovers the skin for filth
Jumpjets, hovers, alights again. Life tickling me,
Taking me for a turd. The clouds thicken from white
to bruised grey. Soon will come the thunder. Ya.
Sparrow city, sweet-tongued, smiling and free.
With Britain, my thoughts wither.
But here the leaves have a rained-on look before the storm,
A bee comes, bumbling from glowing flower to glowing flower,
My water bottle is almost empty,
Two litres nearly drunk,
the unformed hangover, like the gathered clouds,
dissipating.
Tones of blue --
violent celebration
and the purpling velvet of petals.
Even - tender exaggeration of the city, pushing me into cliche -
a cream-finned butterfly visits, briefly,
the yellow flowers, then takes off, dancing to the sparrowed trees
and then away.
This is my home
nor am I out of it, however absurd that sounds
and however much I had to drink last night.
This is my holy day
sitting surrounded by flowers I cannot name.
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