Obvious rural melancholy sold by Turner, Elgar, Blake
pales into insignificance beside the cityscape.
People seen from buses, sat in the cruel, white light
of the late night launderette or the arcade's dangerous door.
The city's desperate niches radiate despair, they mirror
the pastoral fraud, these poison blossoms here.
Edward Hopper pictures, unpainted and unframed
capture unknown sitters, unwanted and unnamed.
Corners crammed with loneliness, claiming naive lives,
snatched from light to dark in the blinking of an eye.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
I really like this. The observation of the lives unfolding in quiet desperation and fear around us as the city breathes. The detached nature of the commentary, the picking out of the commonplace in it's uncommon detail, you have a poet's eye for the world around.