The sense of belonging is lost!
The walk was shorter than I thought.
I was scared in that lightless narrow quiet street.
A vague autumn touch here and there, all manmade,
And nowhere near the trees, where I would have liked to see them; the leaves!
Some occasional walkers like me, but no sense of belonging or security, despite the fact that I have a social security number now.
Numbers are no good!
Numbers:
Seventeen houses on the side I walked on;
Two very large ones; I did not like them at first but then they were the only ones with a light pole on the front yard. I liked that; I was not scared anymore!
Many trees, I did not count how many.
Three other walkers; all were going the opposite direction. Or I was the only one going the way I was going!
Four bikers; three of them men.
I so much like to write numbers like numbers (17, 3, 4, … ) but I have been criticized for that. So here you are: Seventeen, Many (but of course finite), Three, Four and me.
This is not a poem.
It is not intended as one, not by me.
But I like to break the sentences here and there, as they come to me; not to my mind but to my body; that’s my lips and hands, as I read them out loud and type.
I type funny, someone said recently.
I had one glass of wine, thought of the wind, the sense of belonging, the color orange and how I will cope, no matter what ...
Mark Rothko, Yellow, Red, on Orange, 1954
The walk was shorter than I thought.
I was scared in that lightless narrow quiet street.
A vague autumn touch here and there, all manmade,
And nowhere near the trees, where I would have liked to see them; the leaves!
Some occasional walkers like me, but no sense of belonging or security, despite the fact that I have a social security number now.
Numbers are no good!
Numbers:
Seventeen houses on the side I walked on;
Two very large ones; I did not like them at first but then they were the only ones with a light pole on the front yard. I liked that; I was not scared anymore!
Many trees, I did not count how many.
Three other walkers; all were going the opposite direction. Or I was the only one going the way I was going!
Four bikers; three of them men.
I so much like to write numbers like numbers (17, 3, 4, … ) but I have been criticized for that. So here you are: Seventeen, Many (but of course finite), Three, Four and me.
This is not a poem.
It is not intended as one, not by me.
But I like to break the sentences here and there, as they come to me; not to my mind but to my body; that’s my lips and hands, as I read them out loud and type.
I type funny, someone said recently.
I had one glass of wine, thought of the wind, the sense of belonging, the color orange and how I will cope, no matter what ...
Mark Rothko, Yellow, Red, on Orange, 1954
2 comments:
سلام دوست من
بنوش بسلامتی ولی از سیطره ی کمیت بر جهان گریزی نیست
منون مسعود جان
گریز هم نمی طلبم
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