Poetic City

[Tony]Its different for me here, living in the city. Instead of crickets and the wind outside of my window, I am learning to fall asleep to the constant drone of the interstate. The sounds here have become comforting. They are a constant reminder that this place is alive, that I am alive, and that humanity, in its endless string of tiny victories and errands run, is alive and always up to something.
My windows stay open in the fall-- the cold air helps me sleep. I like to wake up to the cold breath of the morning; the kind of air that snaps at your bare feet and makes you want to wear layers of clothes and drink thick hot coffee before a shower. I am still growing to accept the wake-up call of children being loud in the street, indulged in their playground games. I am still learning to not be alarmed at the sound of people talking outside of my window in the earliest hours of the morning. I am embracing the sound of pulsing car stereos as evidence that there is a culture here, and identity that is shared and that I will one day identify with.
I find that its harder to be romantic here in the city. By romantic, I am not referring to the Hollywood love stories of roses and chocolates, instead I am referring to the romantic that drives you to admire nature, to describe the normal in flowery and succulent language. Its harder to pretend to be an intellectual or to wear some scholarly or poetic façade when there is little to be defined by the abstract poetic imagination. Wordsworth would hate it here. Those poets of the sensitive heart, who bend words to bleed the sounds of their illusions would be lost. Wordsworth, Shelley, Keats, Shakespeare, Frost, Emerson, and Thoreau would find themselves alone in a place that had little use for their sonnets, symbolism, and pentameter. They couldn’t write about the way forests of fall red trees look like God’s blushing cheeks. They couldn’t personify some rare and beautiful flower or the color of the sunset or compare them to the colors of their lover’s eyes. They may decide their inspiration comes from the boarded windows of a lifeless foreclosed home, or maybe dedicate an ode to a stop light. But I feel their words would have still been too arrogant for this place.
Yet, there is a poetry here. It seems to walk to more deliberate beat of a bass line and drum tap instead of the melody of a mandolin. There is a mystery to be discovered here, but it may be less focused on the inward eye and more on turning outward to see your neighbor for the first time. In order to find the romance here, I am learning to see through a different lens. I must abandon my artist and poet eyes and exchange them with the eyes for a community. Its then that you see the smiles of mischievous children and fall in love with them. Its then that you catch the beauty of a simple greeting, hear angels singing from a corner church, and appreciate the sanctuary of a quiet prayer for a city.
I have seen joy here that I cannot quite comprehend and I have seen pain here at levels far beyond the words of books. I feel that I am severed from the quiet and stable world of Caribou Coffee and local newspapers. The people here don’t seem to need coffee. The idea of a lazy Sunday morning with a cup of joe, a newspaper, bacon and eggs and sleepy hellos does not fit completely. I watch as my neighbors seem to have mastered their chaos. It’s the chaos that seems to be the coffee, keeping everyone moving, engaged, excited and dramatic.
Love and hate here are raw and unwrapped. I hope to become as raw and unwrapped as that.