.
It’s raining now in New York City;
Yes, I know that’s true.
For like that dreamer, Walter Mitty,
Daydreams take me, too,
To fabled places far away
Upon a lazy, rainy day
Where I can see and do and say
What fancy leads me to.
So, while I sit here, nearly snoring
From the droning speech
Of my old prof, so awfully boring
When he tries to teach,
I see rain gush in New York´s gutters
Watch wet crowds and hear the mutters
Of the raving Times Square nutters,
Skidding taxis screech.
I see the ferry part for Staten
Dudes in tuxes, dames in satin,
Ride in limos through Manhattan–
All beyond my reach!
It’s snowing now in old Saltillo;
Yes, I know that’s true.
As slowly now an agéd trio
Wanders into view:
A man, his donkey, and his dog
Who come to market through the fog
To buy supplies and many a log
To burn the winter through.
Through flakes, they pass a bright piñata,
Pots and bowls of terracotta,
Then trudge home with all they got—a
Winter-weary crew!
It’s cold now in the plumbless ocean;
Yes, I know that’s true,
And life moves daily in slow motion
In that world of blue;
There in those murky realms below
Where silence reigns, and men can’t go,
Weird, unknown creatures live and grow
In one vast ancient zoo.
Unseen in those unfathomed deeps,
The galleon rests, the sea worm creeps,
And there in dreams the kraken sleeps
In dark worlds hid from view!
It’s blowing now on Arctic ranges;
Yes, I know that true,
Where changing seasons bring few changes
All the cold year through.
While down below, along the shore,
The penguins throng, a thousand score,
The icebergs drift, the chill waves roar
And swooping seagulls mew,
Above, winds blow on barren heights
That pierce dark skies on cloudless nights
Where all year round the northern lights
Keep flashing neon blue!
So let dull profs whine on and on,
As they are wont to do,
Behind glazed eyes I´ll still dine on
Sweet scenes I’m privy to.
How rare a form of recreation!
Roaming in imagination
Far and wide to every nation
As dreams let us do!
For in our dreams, with wondrous freeness
We can go where none have seen us,
Climb a mountain, fly to Venus,
Visit Kathmandu. . .
Or maybe Timbuctu!
.
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Martin Rizley grew up in Oklahoma and in Texas, and has served in pastoral ministry both in the United States and in Europe. He is currently serving as the pastor of a small evangelical church in the city of Málaga on the southern coast of Spain, where he lives with his wife and daughter. Martin has enjoyed writing and reading poetry as a hobby since his early youth.
A very lovely poem, Martin, that had me wandering along with you.
Thank you, Joe!
You had me smiling at “Walter Mitty”! I like the rhyme scheme, too, and the clever rhymes like terracotta / got — a, and freeness / seen us / Venus. I love the comparison of the ocean to a zoo. “Where changing seasons bring few changes” might be my favorite line. The imagery throughout is clear and wonderfully done; I even felt cold reading the three verses about cold places!
Such fun! Dream on, Martin!
Martin- as Cynthia remarks above, the rhymes ARE clever, and it’s a pity your old prof didn’t shut his face for a minute and just let you whizz him round the world in poetry. Probably a lot more edifying, and certainly more interesting.
Martin, this poem is a delight from beginning to end. I’m particularly fond of the pinata/terra cotta/got-a rhymes and the freeness/seen us/Venus rhymes which sound like vintage Rodgers & Hart. Indeed, this poem reads much like an enjoyable song lyric. Thanks for the morning smile.
Vintage Rodgers and Hart– what a compliment! Thank you for your feedback, Brian.
This is expertly done, with interlocking tetrameter-trimeter lines and the interior triplet rhymes. You’ve got to know Spanish (where the “ll” is always pronounced as a y-sound) to pick up on the rhyme of “Saltillo” and “trio.”
The contrast between the glitz of Manhattan and the rusticity of the man, donkey, and dog is a perfect counterpoint.
Thank, you, Dr. Salemi, for your appreciative comments.
There is a lovely, lazy rthym to this poem. which mimics the flow of both traffic and humanity. New York has a history; you have captured its feel.
Sally,
Thanks for your response to the poem. I have only been to NYC once in my life, but it did make an impact on me, so I am pleased you say that I captured its “feel.”
I really enjoyed this poem! These were the flights of fancy my imagination had when I was in secondary school. It’s also the sort of poem that should be in a school text.
One thing though, Martin. You might want to change ‘It’s blowing now on Arctic ranges’ to ‘It’s blowing on Antarctic ranges’ since penguins aren’t found at the North Pole – which would also make ‘northern’ lights, ‘southern’ lights.
Thanks for the read.
I thought the same as you Paul, at first. Then I thought that Martin must be talking about all the mountain ranges in the Arctic. There are many.
Next he says “down below” which must mean the Antarctic, and that is when he talks of the penguins, icebergs and seagulls.
Then he switches gears to “Above” which is evidently a quick mental trip back up to the Arctic, where the northern lights are dancing blue.
Of course, it is his daydream and anything can happen in a daydream.
I really love this poem, Martin.
Okay. Got it. I got confused by the below and above.
I wish I could say, Mike, that my geographical knowledge were as accurate as you suggest. I have to admit that I was imagining penguins by some seashore in the chilly north, so my reference to “down below” and “above” were in fact referring to sea level and mountaintop level. Now I know that no penguins are to be found in the Arctic Circle– except in my imagination! Since the poem works interpreting it as you suggest, however, perhaps I´ll leave it as is, with a little ambiguity covering the tracks of my geographical ignorance!
As a matter of fact, Paul, this poem is based on an earlier, shorter “free verse” poem I wrote in secondary school. I guess a lot of us poetic types had similar experiences in secondary school!
Regarding the reference to penguins, you can see what I wrote to Mike Bryant. Thanks for your feedback!
This is my kinda poem! It’s beautifully and admirably crafted. It’s rhyming, rhythmic, rapturous, and has a message that sings to my heart and takes me back to my days as a schoolgirl gazing at the rugby players in a scrum on a frosty English morning as my English teacher droned on about the significance and influence of The Bard… I wish I could tell Mr. Major I heard every word, even though I wasn’t looking at him.
Your end rhymes are wonderful and I love the form so much, I want to try it myself. Thank you, Mr. Rizley, for the smile and the excellent and inspirational poem!
Thank you, Susan, for your very positive feedback. I hope you are fully recovered from the dreadful bout you had with COVID, about which you wrote three very well crafted, bloodcurdling poems, expressing the pain and angst you experienced as you battled your way back to health.
In stanza 4: “plumbless?” Did you mean “unplumbed?”
Yes, and “unplumbed” would not affect the meter, since there would be an elision between the word “the” and the first syllable.
The words “plumbless” and “unplumbed” both appear in the dictionary, though there is a slight difference in meaning. Whereas unplumbed means “not fully explored or understood,” plumbless is used in English literature with reference to a body of water to describe it as “extremely deep, impossible to plumb, or fathomless.” That latter idea is what I wanted to express, although the first idea is necessarily included in the latter.
If you tell me that “plumbless,” Martin, is attested in the literary canon, then I will take that as gospel truth, though I can’t find the word in any of my dictionaries. Going by the standard practices of lexicalization, a reader must suppose that “the plumbless ocean” means “the ocean without a plumb,” which is a rather odd expression. And again, “fathomless” is a less apt expression than “unfathomable.” This is just an opinion, so don’t sweat it. You done good, and nothing I write can change that.
Martin, your poem is a beautiful gift of lecture room travel. The poetic form is distinctive, yet unobtrusive when easily caught up in enjoying the poem’s flow.