Poetry: The Street Where I Live

The Street Where I Live

Out of the rain, the chatter of cars,

the whistle of trains, and the clang of iron

as my neighbor descends the back stairs,

(to where, I have never known)

I am here, eyes closed in my room,

too soon awake, still half-asleep,

sifting through memories of places

and as my mind drifts, I could be anywhere

like the wide room where I grew up, Savannah,

wrapped in a blue blanket, blue curtains,

the years yet to be lived, merely dreams,

joys and fears to be written in my journal.

Or I’m in Japan with its silence and hunger;

for I am a poor man and a rich fool

living with strangers I can’t understand,

but here, toes open to the air, there’s no danger.

Then asleep in Madrid, near Anton Martín,

cheap bars grating open beneath my window

like heavy eyelids in the dark, I am tired

of navigating slim streets and empty parks.

And what if Vermont? Pine-scent, fresh snow,

and my family below, filling the house,

even with my eyes shut, I know I’m not alone.

I can feel anything like this, but when I open my eyes

I’m back in my own time on the street where I live;

the other times and places just one street out of sight,

surrounding me like a city. London, Sydney, Montreux,

Paris, Seychelles, the islands that dot my world,

when I think of them, they come, ripe with who I was,

even eyes wide open, to the brink of my horizon.

Patient as old friends and quick to forgive,

there are worlds within reach of the street where I live.

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This poem has been on my mind for a while. I've moved around a lot and I've traveled the world; I've slept in many places and I've seen many things. For me, each place also carries with it, then, the feelings I had when I was there. So when I consider for a moment that maybe I am there, I can almost feel as if I am there - both emotionally and physically (though if my eyes are open it's not quite the same). Have you ever tried closing your eyes and imagining that you are back in some other part of your life, sitting in a chair you used to sit in, or sleeping in a bed where you used to sleep? I assure you, it is an interesting experience. It is that sort of experience that I hope to have captured with this poem. I have been told that a concurrent theme in my poetry is that of placelessness; well, I'm sure there is no other poem of mine that reflects that quite as well as this one. 

This is a second draft, and a major draft at that, but I'm sure there are still plenty of areas I could improve on with this poem. Please let me know what areas of the poem you like best and I'll just deduce from that what needs work. Or if you have specific feedback on how to improve, I always accept that as well.