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Beautiful Solitude |
for Monsieur Edw. Cahill of Montparnasse
There is no romance as rightful as that found, unbound
walking in a strange city in ringing silence, there is no
love greater than a poet falling in love with a place
where no one speaks her language and it’s raining
I know the sultry nights, the marbled stones, the absinthe
of dreaming in beautiful solitude, the intoxication of gas lights
breathing evenly along a small street off the avenue where you
have penned a word with blood red lipstick on a matchbook
taken from the drunken hand of a Russian sailor in a tiny
bar called Le Cave, where the vodka flows and everyone
is laughing, living and dying in the same breathless moment
and you don’t feel beautiful, as much as wondrous and invincible
I know the sense of being utterly alone, as if in a womb
impenetrable, an unflinchable tower of the heart pulsing in you
a city that was always waiting for you, as if this city is your
true mother and not that poseur you remember from a spanking
This place never grows old in your imagination, or even
in a waking hour when the spirit of all you wished for as
a girl has faded, and a dirty floor calls your name or
when dinner, banal and inconsequential, is still uncooked
Trust me, this romance will outlast the miasmic linoleum of tattered
wishing although, by its very nature, it is mysteriously shellacked
by desire, because this city, this poem of your nature, this is more
honest than any impetuous promise or bond, this, ma cheri, is fact
copyright 2014
Viola
Weinberg |
