It rains in Shanghai
Awareness comes pussyfooting in
and up the lassitude of certain twilight
sprawled contemplations, and nestles,
like a purring, furry paradox, an obscure
epiphany, in the crook of my recognition.
Somewhere, in a background that rises
and falls like something indistinct
breathing in the shadows, the TV
thuds judgments in collision, like
so many butts, to flaccid-pounding
echoes of sworn-by subjectivity
that remain in their seats and stick
to them, as if they were factual…
as if it really mattered… as if it
were crucial.
And then… maybe it is, to them,
in that sponsored acknowledgment
of being that comes, with a square
round of applause after the break…
as it can be to me, here, in this intimate
remoteness of perceiving how much
small things in life can become far
larger than life itself, all-inclusive,
unwritten and unseen, and yet
mattering as much as matters
of life and death.
Yes, maybe crucial is not as crucial
makes it but as it feels…
And I’m sure that, to someone,
somewhere, there is no more vital,
fatal reality than the one that cuts,
in clipped, matter-of-fact tones,
through the TV screen, the heaving
background, and my pliant frame
of body and mind:
“It rains in Shanghai.”
Yet, I’m yawning… when I finally
take my crucial, idle, twilight-clear,
snuggly awareness with me
to bed…
© 2007 Alexandra* ~ OneLight*®
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So often, people seem to make "mountains out of molehills" rather than making molehills out of mountains. That's one thought that comes to mind when reading this poem. Also, while reading, a vision came to me of Henry David Thoreau in the midst of a forest saying, "what could be more important right now than watching a rose bloom?" Ah, yes, there is much pleasure to be found in those simple things in Life.
"It rains in Shanghai" also reminds me that we should all be more aware of the events in this world that don't seem to affect us but actually do. All of Creation is One.
Amo te muito,
Teu Joseph
Richard
Love,
Eileen
Awareness comes pussyfooting in
and up the lassitude of certain twilight
sprawled contemplations, and nestles,
like a purring, furry paradox, an obscure
epiphany, in the crook of my recognition.
Now that's poetry at its finest.
"It Rains in Shanghai" creeps in and wraps around the heart with contented purrs of delight--a most beautiful, captivating write; thank you for taking me there.
You never cease to amaze--love the opening stanza, you had me from the first word!!
(((HUGS))) and love, Karla.
After, they yawned and went to bed among the opium fumes.
When it rains in Shanghai, the rickshaw wheels don't sqeak.
Sleep well.
Georg
Hugs
Fee