Poem: New York

The pavement has rhythm,
Irregular beats
Through cracks in concrete.
A wave a wave.
The ding ding, the hum,
The smoke and sights from New York’s mouth are loud
But young.
It never passes,

The lights go forever, a wave.

Heinous grey somehow shines
Like metal.
Wet orange reflections
Capture lights that last forever.
The bricks look like paint in this city.
The sky is made of smoke,
The doors are made of the dead,
And the people are made from paint.

The river water flashes with light.
It’s bright,
And every night
The light from glass towers
Flashes back and waves.
It shows its colour,
its glimmer,
It’s heat.

It waves and plays.
A thick glimmering fog
That latches onto you,
Shimmering.  

This place has deep vibrations,
Purpose and strong footsteps, Rumblings and concentration.
It’s the people here that keep it up.
Wet, dry, hot, cold, down.
It’s a furious devotion.

Excitement flows like a river,
Going to each and every corner,
Then floating,
Awestruck In the middle.
Anticipation.
A flurry of turmoil,
A laugh,
A shout,
The never ending sound
And the mesmerised whisper.  

Try to paint the city black.
You’ll never succeed.  

Shout among the hum, the hiss
And New York’s smoke.
Open your eyes,
Smile and plead.
Walk with the wave until you’re part of it.  

A thousand fingers point
At the view from a postcard.  
Strong footsteps, anger and perspiration.
It’s thick with colour.
The lights are wet.
The eyes,
The smiles,
The sighs are loud.  

The city that never sleeps
Shimmers beneath a painted sky. 
The suffocated hum and hiss
Could not disturb this wave.  

The peripheries shake but don’t
Shout as loud.
A patient calm to the hum it surrounds.
The city exhales.
More eyes,
More smiles.
Look and remember
Red brick and chewing gum for miles.    

The flashing stops with the lights.
No more fight
No more smoke, but a fire.
It’s warm and it floats on the walls.
These aren’t the tourist’s details
These are the details of the strangers.
Privacy breached,
On the edge of the wave.  

Some prefer the bustle,
The commotion.
The wave, like an ocean,
Washing over every other feeling but pure awe,
Delight.
Bumping shoulders
With every person twice.  

It ends so fast.
Down an alley, down a road.
A new silent world
That quietly unfurls.  
These memories won’t be printed on paper, or
On a screen.
These are to be remembered,
Fleeting,
And not shared

Because why would anyone care  

About the shape,
The smell,
The charm.
This is the calm after the storm
Quiet and forlorn
With a ripple not a wave.  

The city’s awake,
And the blackness shines.

Katy Card