In this violent pool of tiger’s heat
I had to leave home and walk the street.
Haunted by the hot air.
Its well known, ripe, stifling stare.
The stones steady and heavy.
The canal water looking like gravy.
I couldn’t go beyond a memorabilia shop
where I found the record album I'd never got.
Well,I had borrowed it for ages and drowned
in the fulfilling stream of its rhythm and sound.
Which had been evidently pursuing me
with the very heat's determination and glee.
I have just played it, full volume, I had to stand,
the interlacing solos, too grand.
I confess I even loved the stylus's screeching,
the past's tip I'm always beseeching.
The record album this poem talks about is 4 WAY STREET by Crosby, Stlls, Nash and Young. Obviously a vinyl album and that "makes all the difference".
1 comment:
This is wonderful. Lines that I would never dare to write, like the fourth couplet, the rhyming of "shop" with "got" which, I can't help thinking, ought not to work. Certainly not a well as it does. In fact I love it. So much of the poem is like that. Cuddly. Avuncular.
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