Manhattan Lullaby
(for Richard, one day old)
Now lighted windows climb the dark,
The streets are dim with snow,
Like tireless beetles, amber-eyed,
The creeping taxis go.
Cars roar through the caverns made of steel,
Shrill sounds the siren horn,
And people dance and die and wed-
And boys like you are born.
Now lighted windows climb the dark,
The streets are dim with snow,
Like tireless beetles, amber-eyed,
The creeping taxis go.
Cars roar through the caverns made of steel,
Shrill sounds the siren horn,
And people dance and die and wed-
And boys like you are born.
-Rachel Field
11 comments:
We love the city's noise and rush
The sirens and the hubbub.
But when little Zach hits school age,
We're moving to the suburbs.
:) Well done, Mumps.
@ Deborah...thank you for thinking of me and my family.
Having lived in The City (that would be San Francisco) as a younger person, I did enjoy the hustle bustle. The exciting, frantic,living that was going on everywhere. It was something as a young person you can revel in and participate in. But, in the tone of the poem; I realized even then, that the ability to have a cocoon, a snug, private, quiet place above the turmoil and away from the shrill sounds was something more precious than being immersed in the stew of humanity that is a big city.
Being above it all. Observing the cars and people below. Detached. I decided that it wasn't for me and moved to the country. I have never looked back....well....except for missing the great restaurants :-P. The country and small town to raise a child where you can touch nature and interact with people instead of looking at them from a cocoon above the madding crowd. That is living.
For me at least.
DBQ, I've never lived in the big city, but when I watch shows like Friends or Seinfeld I wonder what it would be like. I've spent most of my adult life in the country, but recently have been spending time with my mom in the suburbs. Don't know if it's for me...I have a feeling I'll end up in a small house somewhat near her, but away from the city.
Get those amber-eyed creeping taxies some tires, will ya? What good are tireless taxies that look like beetles just sitting there in the snow?
This is why poems are bad.
Brat.
From bad to wurst.
The scrapple is yet to come.
Thanks. I'll keep that to read to my little grandsons, one 2 years old, the other newly minted.
Thank you, deborah. I like it.
:)
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