Bryant Park 2007

I finally got all the old stuff off of my old laptop, and now I can go through it at my leisure and delete all the not-absolutely-necessary pictures and beginnings of stories and old AIM conversations.  I’ve already unearthed some good stuff.  Like this poem.  So get ready.

I’ve been hooked on sestinas since studying Elizabeth Bishop’s Sestina in high school.  It’s a complicated form, and I like some guidelines in poetry.  I have cobbled together a couple that I like: one called The Morning After, which is conveniently about Drew, and then this one.


I am watching a grandfather skating around the ice
At Bryant Park, holding on to his granddaughter’s hand.
They are wearing handmade sweaters, red and blue.
The ice is fake and white, a device of the city,
But I believe it, as I believe the pine trees that scream,
Yes!  Foliage grows in New York City!  It’s fresh and clean!

I’ve taken two showers already today, but don’t feel clean.
I don’t think I can keep blaming it on the city.
I keep seeing your face, the memory encased in ice
Like I can still feel the vibration of the scream
Some people say ice is clear but I’ve seen it blue
I slowly pull my woolen glove from my cold hand.

The pocket opens reluctantly to admit my hand
The photo inside makes me want to scream
The storylines are old and faded, but still clean
The edges of the photo are stained a pale eggshell blue
My blood runs cold as I look back to the ice
And see the new disaster blooming in the city –

A lot can go unnoticed in the city.
A lot of people can get away from crimes, crystal clean
Over the happy laughter, I almost hear the man scream
As the little girl’s grandfather goes down on the ice
I don’t see him ever let go of her hand
As her red sweatered form falls down upon his blue.

Someone scoops up her body, crushing orange on blue,
And they try to hurry her off the ice
I hope someone has alerted the authorities of the city
And that someone else is holding her hand
That poor little girl – this morning she was so clean –
She hasn’t even realized that she should scream.

Finally her scream comes out of the blue,
And suddenly my hand feels so much more clean.
The pulse of the city keeps beating, strong as ice.


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Filed under Fiction, Sentiment

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