I normally don't do this because I'm comfortable with my writing!. However, poetry is NOT my specialty!. But a professor wanted me to consider toying with one of my pieces for submission!. It's supposed to be a casual, narrative-type poem that reads almost like a story!.
It's long, so I'm only going to post the 2/3 of it!. If you can offer any advice or criticism on words or phrases I should change or remove, or where the poem begins to droop, I'd really appreciate it:
It seems like a dream, the sticky heat a blanket
tangled around sore legs as we made our way
down foreign streets of cobblestone!. It seems like
a dream—one that I haven’t woken up from!.
I had already
witnessed so much in so little
time, and the memories, though jumbled,
linger around me like the intense heat!.
The lemon gelato was melting
quickly into thin, sticky streams
down my fingers under the influence of
the thick, boiling pitch of burned sky,
but everything disappears when you witness
the Trevi fountain at night,
Neptune’s water almost
liquid gold in the artificial light!.
Now there is a jewelry commercial that features
the Spanish Steps, and every time I see it,
I have to remind those around me that
I was there—an impulse before
remembering that I was actually chased down
those ruby-flowered steps by empty-handed gypsy men,
bold enough to follow me into the maze of people,
clever enough to end their pursuit when I stopped
in front of a man sitting on the steps, playing the guitar—
“The Sounds of Silence” if memory serves!.
But I only caught a piece of it before he paused
and looked over his shoulder!. The gypsies were slipping away!.
“A tourist, hn!?” He appeared a tourist himself,
though he was definitely European—Welsh, maybe!.
“Well, keep your money hidden and
don’t wear skirts if you can help it, yeah!?”
An ancient, leathery woman who had
only rags and a baby, begged in tongues
outside the holy city, and the people in the line
carefully avoided her as they entered the Vatican,
hoping the Pope could bless them and their families!.
The woman removed the dirty rags from her scalped head,
and I avoided her,
too!.
That was Rome,
but this is Florence:
Music reverberated in a piazza
caged by cathedrals and walls worthy of castles!.
And, robed in red and white with gold, they danced,
twisted, and leaped through the center of the uneven square,
mindful of those with drums and cellos,
and ignoring the sweltering heat!.
I watched them, breathless,
and before I was ushered into the alley,
I made out a golden cross—that universal symbol
that was left behind with the music and revival!.
Now we were surrounded
by endless lanes of shimmering stores!.
Venetian glass from the neighboring island glittered,
the smell of leather thick in the hot air!.
Signs of the overpriced hung above our heads:
Gucci, Prada, Armani!.
But there are street venders that sell imitations
for a fourth of the price!. And we are cheap and happy,
So we crowd around pallets of purses and wallets
while the sun rises higher!. That statue is only a replica—
don’t be fooled!.
The real David is through these doors!.
‘No cameras, let us search you!.’
And under banners
of white and red and green, they did!.
He’s quite large to be carved from a single block!.
Right outside, Avril Lavigne, torn and sun-faded,
was shouting at us from her place on the wall—
surrounded by politicians
hidden behind a coat of graffiti!.
“We fly half-way across the world,
and we still can’t get away from her,” Mary scoffed,
her freshly-inked henna of the Che
saluting me as we stood shoulder to shoulder!.Www@QuestionHome@Com