Free indicative article on graffiti wallets men

February 28, 2011 - 6:52 pm Comments Off

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Have time to read a poem?
I normally don’t do this because I’m comfortable with my writing. However, poetry is NOT my specialty. But a professor wanted me to consider toying with one of my pieces for submission. It’s supposed to be a casual, narrative-type poem that reads almost like a story.It’s long, so I’m only going to post the 2/3 of it. If you can offer any advice or criticism on words or phrases I should change or remove, or where the poem begins to droop, I’d really appreciate it:It seems like a dream, the sticky heat a blankettangled around sore legs as we made our waydown foreign streets of cobblestone. It seems likea dream—one that I haven’t woken up from.I had alreadywitnessed so much in so littletime, and the memories, though jumbled,linger around me like the intense heat.The lemon gelato was meltingquickly into thin, sticky streamsdown my fingers under the influence ofthe thick, boiling pitch of burned sky,but everything disappears when you witnessthe Trevi fountain at night,Neptune’s water almostliquid gold in the artificial light.Now there is a jewelry commercial that featuresthe Spanish Steps, and every time I see it,I have to remind those around me thatI was there—an graffiti wallets men impulse beforeremembering that I was actually chased downthose ruby-flowered steps by empty-handed gypsy men,bold enough to follow me into the maze of people,clever enough to end their pursuit when I stoppedin front of a man sitting on the steps, playing the guitar—“The Sounds of Silence” if memory serves.But I only caught a piece of it before he pausedand looked over his shoulder. The gypsies were slipping away.“A tourist, hn?” He appeared a tourist himself,though he was definitely European—Welsh, maybe.“Well, keep your money hidden anddon’t wear skirts if you can help it, yeah?”An ancient, leathery woman who hadonly rags and a baby, begged in tonguesoutside the holy city, and the people in the linecarefully avoided her as they entered the Vatican,hoping the Pope could bless them and their families.The woman removed the dirty rags from her scalped head,and I avoided her,too.That was Rome,but this is Florence:Music reverberated in a piazzacaged by cathedrals and walls worthy of castles.And, robed in red and white with gold, they danced,twisted, and leaped through the center of the uneven square,mindful of those with drums and cellos,and ignoring the sweltering heat.I watched them, breathless,and before I was ushered into the alley,I made out a golden cross—that universal symbolthat was left behind with the music and revival.Now we were surroundedby endless lanes of shimmering stores.Venetian glass from the neighboring island glittered,the smell of leather thick in the hot air.Signs of the overpriced hung above our heads:Gucci, Prada, Armani.But there are street venders that sell imitationsfor a fourth of the price. And we are cheap and happy,So we crowd around pallets of purses and walletswhile the sun rises higher. That statue is only a replica—don’t be fooled.The real David is through these doors.‘No cameras, let us search you.’And under bannersof white and red and green, they did.He’s quite large to be carved from a single block.Right outside, Avril Lavigne, torn and sun-faded,was shouting at us from her place on the wall—surrounded by politicianshidden behind a coat of graffiti.“We fly half-way across the world,and we still can’t get away from her,” Mary scoffed,her freshly-inked henna of the Chesaluting me as we stood shoulder to shoulder.Thanks, Paperbag. : ) I’ll definitely take that as a compliment. Anderson = Love.
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