The Lonely Street

back to the city copyBack to the City

POEM
THE LONELY STREET

It’s hard to walk down a lonely street
There’s too many people to meet,
Hypertension of multitudes with noisy feet –
walk, hop, skip, jump, run, stumble, crossover, stand, talk, cry, shout.

That kind of thing.

It’s hard to walk down a lonely street
Cacophony of cars, drive, swerve, stop, start, slide, beep,
break, close, open, skid.

That kind of thing.

It’s hard to walk down a lonely street
There are none.

Not in downtown metropolis, with mega big bronze bastion building centres of 1940’s, mixing with twentieth century modernism coupling with large pylons and picturesque preserved lamp posts eclectically looming proud over us all.

That kind of thing.

All of this making for a no hope scenario – not in this city,
not in this vicinity.
No sir, no sir, – no lonely streets here.

And if we pick a time of day or night at which to venture out
on the impossible quest, a task formidable,
no less so, than climbing the Empire State
We stumble at the first step of venturing forth –
encountering a drunken gang of over-indulgent males,
out of tune males, stumbling from road to sidewalk and back again,
trying to provide comfort with
noise-deranged empathy, noise, for the lonely street.

That kind of thing.

Where has the beautiful silence gone? The beautiful silence of yesteryear
with rapturous respect, and careful whispers lest one should offend.
The library ethos brought onto the street.
A tip of the hat enough to greet.
A smile at the-only-other human within miles of another smile.

A time when manners and protocol, and friendly gestures
were the order of the day.

A time when parcels of newspapers were left untouched
before the early morning opening times of all businesses of differing kinds, who enjoyed breaking the night, but glad the noise wouldn’t last,
and especially Sunday did they like, before and after church when all was well and there was enough of silence to rejuvenate the heart for the week’s noise ahead.

That kind of thing.

The silence of Golden years, when morals were in existence, and a calm visage could be seen more than once on a busy street, where noise and clammer seemed like silence because no violence was allowed, nor indulged in – in conversations – points were taken with measured response.

That kind of thing.

Is there hope for the lonely, silent street’s return?
Will it return?
Will it come back?
Carrying respect and mutual empathy and kindly greetings and six days labour and control of lower natures, at least outwardly so, and will streets ever de-clutter, buildings stand tall but also in silence, and times of pleasant curfew exist – not as a result of unwanted clamour or crime?

Will we see a silent street exist?
Will we reflect on the metaphor of loneliness, and be glad for the variety of the gaiety as day follows night, and noise is appreciated as it comes in balance to the wonderful silence that has gone before – before the sun’s rise and shine?

That kind of thing.

We put… the lonely street and the silent street and the long street and the reverend street and the outskirts street and the road to the country and the respectful necessary noise and the behaviour of normality and necessity and mutual respect and honour and care and love and proper treatment and community and tolerance and help…

That kind of thing we put….
In our memory banks, there to remain.
Close your eyes and imagine it so.
We can go back, you must know.
Back… and comfort the lonely street, as we take comfort in the lonely street.

That kind of thing.

The lonely street in metaphor form – beckons us to great heights, its greyness and brownness and smoke and elements and smells and restaurants and sellers and tradesmen

– and everybody has gone home now, and no one is abroad, all are at home,
families exist and live, and now, yes, now, you can go out to the lonely street with not many cars in those days and buses and trams are asleep.

It isn’t enough to reminisce – but it’s enough to reminisce – it will have to do – twenty-four hours of 24-7 is here to stay I’m afraid – and like a parachute landing or a balloon coming to earth – I have to leave you there – you will never find or visit a lonely street again.

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s