POETRY JAM - LOCAL

“Home is where the heart is.” - Pliny theElder

Poetry Jam today has set the theme of “Local” as inspiration for all participants in its poetry challenge. The instructions are: “Give us a feel of what makes your town or city special - it could be a person, a local character, a place off the beaten path that few know about or a food that you can only find - maybe even a celebration that only happens locally.”

Oddly enough, this immediately brought to my mind a distant place, which once upon a time I considered as “local” when I lived there alone for a few months. It was Amsterdam, where I went on sabbatical, many years ago. Yes, it was quite special and yes, I met a host of interesting work colleagues and made a few friends, however, it was also a bit of a hard time for me as my beloved was far away from me, on the other side of the world. Pliny said, “Home is where the heart is”, and though I made a new home for myself in Holland, my real home was back in Australia, where my beloved was. So “local” was a questionable concept in my predicament then…

Amsterdam IV

In the yellow streets of Amsterdam
So early in the morning, that night still darkens the sky;
When the thin houses loom high over the canals
And the water flows so slowly that it mirrors
The yellow lights unblemishingly,
I walk the cold streets, going home at last
After a long night’s pretence at carousal.

I know that I will call you as soon as I get home
To share my night with you, to tell you yet again
How much I miss you, how much I wish you were here with me.

In the cobblestoned, jaundiced streets of Amsterdam
Early in the morning when night lingers on;
When the revellers go to their beds, staggering and tripping
And the air echoes now and then with a rowdy laugh, an off key song;
When the young men boisterously call out as they piss in the dark corners,
I walk home insulating myself from the drunken merrymakers
Walking quickly straight ahead, past the cheap whores in a line.

I know that I shall sleep alone again tonight,
After drinking of your soft voice across the thousands of miles,
I will dream of our frustrated embraces for one more night.

In the empty streets of old Amsterdam
Early in the morning when only I walk in the lonely alleys;
When even the air is asleep, and the wind dares not to blow,
When alleycats have found a snug, warm corner
Where they can dream of nimble mice and careless birds,
I walk the narrow streets, going home at last
After a long night’s torture without you by my side.

I know that I will count the hours once more tonight
To see if they are any less than last time I counted, discovering yet again
How slowly time passes until I can spend the night in your arms.