In today's blog, I thought I'd post another poem about what I see when I cycle around my town. This poem is not rhymed and is rather short, but nevertheless, I hope you like what you see. Thank you. Now here it is...
To Town And Back
Spinning wheels attached to a metal frame,
The energy seeping through my thighs.
My movement steady and rhythmic in nature
And my legs feel as if they’re not present.
Four wheeled metal boxes revving on the right,
Toxic fumes spluttering from their behind.
Horns and sirens bouncing off concrete buildings,
Small talk approaches then fades away as I pass.
Fatigue gangs drunk out of their skulls on the sidewalk,
Slurring foul words, polluting the air with a poisonous cloud.
People out walking in the streets to nowhere
Wrapped up in scarves and hands buried in their pockets.
Old ladies in doorways sweeping dirt to one side,
Occasionally lifting their heads, then returning to their work.
The hub-bub of traffic, slowing down, then speeding up,
Weaving round parked cars on the kerbside.
Cold wind numbing my face, blowing my hair in all directions.
Cheeks coloured pink, hands gripped around the metal bars.
I have seen what needs to be seen, done what needs to be done,
Now to town I have went, home I shall go.
Hi Naomi, it's Josh. I'm leaving a comment here for you.
ReplyDeleteThis poem really feels energetic to me. Like everything is in motion while you read it. It speaks to me because I've had this experience on a bicycle before.
I'll tell you something else though, and that is that too often I ride my bicycle to get from point A to point B, without really taking in the experience, without watching the people around me. So often it's all about how fast I can go; always pushing, heavy breathing, and sweating. But then, bicycles have this built-in paradox. By their nature, they won't allow you to stop too long to analyze any scene. They're constantly bringing you new sights and new experiences, but they don't let you get into them.
Anyways, what this has to do with this poem is, of course, the disjointed nature of the images that flow by in each stanza. Things happen and their only connection is that the cyclist goes by them. I think the poem succeeds in this.