The City: a poem

I have seen only
one true city
that cannot hide
its true citiness;
In the desert a city
cannot escape itself;
It must come out at night:
it is only practicality;
Even its religions
can only hope
to steal its reasons
for their own.

A city is not the cars dusty
wrapped in cloth
Or the style of cloth
wrapped round the people
to keep out the dust;
It is not the dust beneath it
Or the tents, cloth or stone
raised to escape it;
In the city at night
you can see it
is only a market:
two hands tender
silk for spice
batteries, milk powder
slacks or telephones.

A veiled shopper
brushes past us
Bargaining a new
veil to block the dust
or maybe the stares
the eyes of the
nine-toed man who
pauses his load
to cross traffic;
Roads are not for
driving they are
for spreading goods;
Tea for sale!
calls the youth
Quench your thirst
for commerce.

And the wailing
poetic call
from a tiled dome
Is but one more
vendor’s pitch
in a city of pitches:
Buy from me.
Sell to me.
Pray with me.

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mw says:

February 24, 2010 at 5:34 pm

I like your poem. Reading, I thought of Kashgar. But your city, the city in your poem, could be anywhere. Like in Vienna, where we are now, or in Beijing, where we used to live. What is a city for? What is a poem for? Your poem could be read anywhere, in any language, although there are strong middle eastern connotations. Do you have more poems like that, or other poems?