Rooftop

[DieterM]

Zinc and slate against my thighs,
a metal sky above me, low,
forbidden, lurking,
if I stretch my ungloved hands,
I reckon I could harvest
all the citrine gems, the golden beryls,
fire opals, amber stones
concealed behind these autumn clouds

The red brick chimney in my back
discharges central heating fumes,
and it feels almost friendly,
like a lukewarm handshake
from a perfect stranger

While I close my eyes, the world
keeps spinning round and round,
vague smells of car exhaust,
domestic fuel, spicy dishes drift up
from the busy avenue nearby
where cars are honking, children lauging,
stories lived

The mizzle wafting in the air
feels like so many tiny tears
but it’s just water falling down

Perhaps, when I get back to life,
today, tomorrow, sometime soon,
there will be snow, a blanket, white
and spotless, cloaking all the dreary details
of the city

But right now, I do not move,
a static gable rider high above
the vales of Paris, quite content
that all I have is bricks,
and zinc, and slate, and murky skies…

[Bar22do]

It is a touching, fine poem, Dieter, rending Paris wounds and atmosphere these days so well, while contained and discreet. I loved reading it, enjoyed (as always) your sense of poetry and the power to share both reflection and emotion.
Thanks for it all.

Bar

[tailor STATELY]

Enjoyed very much. I imagine an impairment by the protagonist ("While I close my eyes, the world keeps spinning round and round") who is trying to make sense of the world; the snow being a metaphor of purification. Reality can wait.

Ta ! (short for tarradiddle),
tailor STATELY

[DieterM]

Dear Bar22do & tailor STATELY, thanks for commenting. I'm glad you liked my poem… have been carrying it around within me for quite a while, but the words wouldn't come out. Then, they just gushed forward in one flow, and now I'm happy they're out and in place.

[Hawkman]

I'll return to this with a fresh head tomorrow, Dieter. Too tired to think right now.

Live and be well - H

[MartinB]

Reminds me of a book I read over the summer called Roofworld. It was not that great to be honest, but the freedom of rooftops, the dangers of urban life and some crazy guy tearing stuff up all appeared. I loved the phrasing and normality of it all. Good job Dieter.

[virtuoso]

You know Dieter, I often try and make sense of the glamorous neon skies that cover the contaminated environs of the big city. Some say the sky embellishes the waste and contamination, while other poets say it covers and pardons it. I liked your personal fulminations on the subject. It is a very interesting conclusion that you draw. It kind of stuns me. Many of your poems that have a fatalistic impulse maintain that vibe right to the poem ' s ending. In this poem, you breathe it all in, and then contentedly lie in the shadows (bricks, zinc, and slate). I am glad you are back writing about your dreary world. Your fatalistic vision is stimulating. I know that sounds crazy. Your dreary job, not-so enchanting daliances, and somber landscapes are riveting. I hope you keep sculpting your not-so endearing world for us. You and Delta really bring vitality to the mundane existence of us all!