After the sun, for the Day 19 prompt.
A lone man stands in front of the bus shelter, his bag slung across his shoulder, hands stuck deep in his pockets, staring out towards the square, at the space where the bus should be.
Behind him, four bicycles lie in various states of harness. Before him, the square lies suffused with light. The calm, strange for this time of the day, is broken when as though dumped from an arriving train, a flood of people begins to traverse the square. After that comes the rain, after which it becomes clear that the quiet that came before was only the calm before the storm.
bag slung across his shoulder
The square lies
suffused with light. Calm, strange day.
Then the rain.
If you came in late
Naiman’s banned from Hearthstone-
Attempted to judge this lady in
Ten tailored jogging pants.
Fold up the paper map
You should get lost
This May you can get
A lot of writing done
This has been cobbled together from tweets by @BillSimmons, @DailyDot, @DamiOyedele, @Esquire, @NYTimes and @BLoreWriters in response to the Day 17 NaPoWriMo prompt to write a “social media”-style poem, quoting from friends’ texts, tweets, FB status updates, twitter accounts, and blogposts, and the back of the cereal box on your breakfast table.
Call me Ishmael. Some years ago—never mind how long precisely—having little or no money in my purse, and nothing particular to interest me on shore, I thought I would sail about a little and see the watery part of the world. It is a way I have of driving off the spleen and regulating the circulation. Whenever I find myself growing grim about the mouth. Whenever it is a damp, drizzly November in my soul; whenever I find myself involuntarily pausing before coffin warehouses, and bringing up the rear of every funeral I meet; and especially whenever my hypos get such an upper hand of me, that it requires a strong moral principle to prevent me from deliberately stepping into the street, and methodically knocking people’s hats off—then, I account it high time to get to sea as soon as I can.
This is my substitute for pistol and ball. With a philosophical flourish Cato throws himself upon his sword; I quietly take to the ship. There is nothing surprising in this. If they but knew it, almost all men in their degree, some time or other, cherish very nearly the same feelings towards the ocean with me.
There now is your insular city of the Manhattoes, belted round by wharves as Indian isles by coral reefs—commerce surrounds it with her surf. Right and left, the streets take you waterward. Its extreme downtown is the battery, where that noble mole is washed by waves, and cooled by breezes, which a few hours previous were out of sight of land. Look at the crowds of water-gazers there.
Call me Ishmael-
I thought i would sail the world
Driving off the spleen
Growing grim about the mouth
I find myself pausing
Before coffin warehouses and
The rear of every funeral.
This is my substitute for pistol and ball.
Cato throws himself upon his sword;
All men cherish very nearly the same feelings.
There now is your insular city;
Coral reefs – commerce surrounds it.
The streets take you waterward-
Noble mole washed by waves
and cooled by breezes.
Look, crowds of water gazers.
**An erasure poem derived from that seminal opening to Herman Melville’s Moby Dick