Saturday's Poem: all that

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Here's one by Charles Bukowski, whose wry and irreverent poems really appeal to me, even the blunt and bawdy ones and the frankly cranky.

It was nostalgia, though, that led me to choose this one; I can vividly recall those pots of red geraniums on the window sills, and playing on the fire escape with my friend Carol in the summer, and those two little details evoke many other images of an era that seems remote and dreamlike now.

Of course memories of those long-ago times also bring my father to mind, and I think one reason I've been looking back so much lately is because a milestone date is fast approaching: On March 29, 2011, my father would have been 100 years old.

Wow. That takes my breath away. I'll certainly be posting something in his honor on that centennial day.

In the meantime, here's ol' Charles Bukowski in a surprisingly sweet frame of mind, just remembering the city: all that by Charles Bukowski:

“the only things I remember about
New York City
in the summer
are the fire escapes
and how the people go
out on the fire escapes
in the evening
when the sun is setting
on the other side
of the buildings
and some stretch out
and sleep there
while others sit quietly
where it’s cool.

and on many
of the window sills
sit pots of geraniums or
planters filled with red
geraniums
and the half-dressed people
rest there
on the fire escapes
and there are
red geraniums
everywhere.

this is really
something to see rather
than to talk about.

it’s like a great colorful
and surprising painting
not hanging anywhere
else.”