It is when I am painting Paterson
that my fervor is purged
and I am free to bask in my
own extolling of this holy city.
It is when I am reading of Paterson,
that seven men with severed strings
form an aggregate communion of disunity.
These seven men, with six strings,
bought for five-pence apiece, march to
a beat in fours, and sing about the three.
They are never found without their other,
and the wenches dance to the nines,
decrepit lives drained to the lees
here in Paterson.
It is when I am in a place I have never been, Paterson,
that I am in a place I will never be.
Wisps of smoke snake over the horizon,
steeples mark the times, and the
occasional glimpse of a man walking by
looks as though he is a Parisian blur,
an occupant of desolate streets.
A few trees bristle in the light breeze,
and the tidal shades shift over Paterson.
The remnants of the clashes of industry remain.
Rivers of water and concrete
both sparkle with a typical New Jersey grey,
as though out of a Frank photograph taken anywhere in
the silent wildlife of low-rise American grandeur.
There are dogs scrounging around for scraps
buried in the pavement
down that street on the left.
And off to the right
there are men sniffing for bones
thrown out by the shopkeepers.
A wheelbarrow, with specks of red paint
clinging on due to the dependency of farmers in Cheyenne,
stores the morsels men hold so dear.
It sits near a hill, just off one of the
angular streets that claim to compose Paterson.
Trains and boats and planes
lumber through Paterson with heavy hearts,
eyeing the mythical monotony with arched brows.
Cars wonder over the Pulaski Skyway
and young boys dream out windows,
inhaling the stench of time-charred waterways.
The night begins to fall and the
doors to the bar housing the conscience of
the architects of this city begin to shudder. The
furnished souls would shiver here tonight,
as something is amiss on the grease-kempt
streets of Paterson.
Slick ignorance is belied by
the sedimentary dust enshrining Paterson. The
hearts and minds of beaten leather jackets
and fading blue jeans are not to be won by
snakeskin sharks from the North,
and Paterson will methodically resist
any attempt to change its status as the
Agroville who stitches together
the surrounding landscapes.
The fall of America is a curious one indeed.
Among the boarded shacks and crumbling levees
lies the true sepulcher of the wistful entity
that justified the possibility of the million-mile
horizon stretching over the jagged hills of Jersey
to the far Frisco coast and some uniform place beyond.
Sipping whiskey out of paper-bagged bottles
sit the contented denizens of Paterson,
who watch the clouds continue to drift by
even as the shelves of the sacred store lie bare.
A contest entry
- Gold Anyone? by loveisthemoment.
600 points, ended February 1, 2008, 67 entries
• next poem in this contest, remove from contest - ~ SET the BAR ~ Anything Goes~ Possible of 5750 points handed out! by Florida Sunshine.
950 points, ended February 24, 2008, 182 entries
• next poem in this contest, remove from contest - Create Me A World by SoulfulBubbles.
500 points, ended June 7, 2008, 6 entries
• next poem in this contest, remove from contest - Speak out! by Luna Argintie.
930 points, ended September 9, 2008, 205 entries
• next poem in this contest, remove from contest
Comments
1 - 13 of 13
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You have just raised the ghosts of Ginsberg and Kerouac.
I freakin love this poem.
LOWELL POE -
Sadly many places throughout America are left ~ Not as it should be ~ folks move on ~ to better ~ wanting more ~ leaving behind the ruins ~ the ghost of the past ~ It was an interesting write to say the least ~
Thanks for entering the "Set the Bar" contest ~ I really appreciate you sharing your work with me ~ best of luck to you!
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Hey, this is my poem... This captures the feeling and image of the place that I visit when I have need to. It's not just the falls or the idyllic setting, but the the Sociey of Useful Manufacturing that sets the ground-tone. It's Hamilton's response to the falls that makes us proud. It is the downfall that defines what we have become. The poem has caught a lot of what we were and goes on to what we have become. The Agroville reference was great because it gives a sense of place within a larger framework, while commenting on the present economy.
The poem's grease-kempt streets and gnarled figures have a Dickensonian feel. The poem is 50/50 positive and negative which sort of sums it up. It is this dichotomy which has the purging effect you mention - it tosses the mind back and forth such that something new comes out of it - a strong sense of reality.
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Brilliant
Woooowwww......."The fall of America is a curious one indeed.
Among the boarded shacks and crumbling levees
Lies the true sepulcher of the wistful entity" nicely penned.
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I really like the way you captured the scenery and ambiance of a place I have never been. Many of the places and references were lost on me. But some of the deeper ones rang true. As dirty as it sounds, sometimes it feels good to say I'm a fucking American.
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i've never been to NJ, much less patterson...
bvut, just the same, your words make me feel i've been there...
Trains and boats and planes
Lumber through Paterson with heavy hearts,
Eyeing the mythical monotony with arched brows.
Cars wonder over the Pulaski Skyway
And young boys dream out windows,
Inhaling the stench of time-charred waterways.
The night begins to fall and the
Doors to the bar housing the conscience of
The architects of this city begin to shudder. The
Furnished souls would shiver here tonight,
As something is amiss on the grease-kempt
Streets of Paterson.
very descriptive...
mike, aka jonathan wikkins -
magical
Absolutely enthralling.
This work brings about an olden and whimsical feeling to my mind, similar to things I learned in Literature. The kind of thing I would make me children read because it was an important piece of literature in the past.
Flowing and beautiful, this piece is a jewel.
Paper Crane
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very visual and dark..
Never been to Paterson, so I miss on many of your references, but the images are stark and memorable...Makes me want to visit Paterson for the most obvious, yet morbid reason..to witness the fall of America.. Grand undertaking..congrats. Mat Larkin
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You are like me in this poem in terms that we both write alot for one piece. Awesome how you tell story that relates to this time period of American history.
But what is destroyed can be rebuilt eventually.Right now we are witnessing the fall of a world but generations from now your kids will be living in a hopefully better time.
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I too have visited Paterson and I remember the narrow brick and cobblestones streets, the quaint stores, huge pizza slices and overflowing plates of spaghetti, the city waterfall, and the castle on the hill that was transported from Europe ... brick by brick. A small town with an intimate feel, where everyone seemed to know one another. Where diverse cultures melded. Time and progress has changed the city over the years. Industry relocated, changing the economy. The face and feel of the city has changed too, but the richness of Paterson's history and the memories of those who grew up there remains.
I enjoyed the write and best of luck in the contest!
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really interesting write.
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Well..
How have you been Mr. Jack Kerouac?
This was much in tune to his writing,
and of course a native Jerseyan.
I think you did a great job with this piece.
Very original , articulate, and extremely well written.
Definitely one of the better pieces I have read on this sight. Much to good for shameless. I kid you not when i tell you this is an amazing piece of poetry. Definitely art.
MANY BLESSINGS GYPSY POET,
LOWELL POE. -
I take this as being Paterson, NJ...a place I have not heard of , but I do know of NJ. I live on the east coast also..Maryland...I have spent my summers in NJ when I was very young. Your words are very discriptive, I could imagine the places you discribed. Well done...thanks for sharing
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