“This boy is Ignorance. This girl is Want. Beware them both, and all of their degree...”
-Charles Dickens, ‘A Christmas Carol’
Want:
There is nothing more powerful in this world
As a force, than being wanted.
It doesn’t matter how want discloses itself,
But when it hits you- and it will-
It’s a deep, driving force.
Gravity is surpassed as you are
Suspended in a lock of plasmatic ether.
It’s surreal to be on the streets of London
And see a lack of wonderment
As people flit about, carry on from
Sidewalk to sidewalk
With a kindle of fire burning invisible but
Far-off, enclosed in a mechanism
That is driving them forward.
Never have I seen amassed a more
Resolute culture of living automatons-
Braving winds, rains, bicyclists, buses,
Narrow sidewalks, garbage bags, tourists.
Obstructions are trampled and thrown asunder
In the way of the roving, power-walking Brit.
It’s quite incredible, if not isolating, this sea
Of frowning, dreary-eyed Englishmen.
They are all on lockdown, phones in sleep mode,
Until they’re asked directions or they strike
Some destination, enough of an inconvenience
To shake them out of the hyperspace they’re
Lost within.
And yet, Want flows out of the London, like water
From a spigot, dribbling from edifices,
Spilling into side streets, coating public squares.
Historic want, homeless want, holiday want.
As a tourist, thrust into this once-in-a-lifetime
Opportunity in a foreign enclave,
What risks do I move myself to allow?
Those to forward my own satisfaction,
Or those to placate the wants, the hurried wants,
Of the people I find myself tied to in community?
I know that in scouring pubs, clubs, bars,
And the bottom of the hard cider glass,
I am suckling at only want for my own self,
Ignoring the scarred face of suffering hidden,
Only shoddily, beneath the glitz of London life.
In a bustling city, you grow paranoid
Before you grow familiar: In a crowded spot,
Washington DC-like Trafalgar, NYC-like Piccadilly,
I’ll claw at my pants pockets and messenger bag,
Zippers still closed, bulges for phone and wallet.
I feel uneasy all the same, as London’s underbelly
May be rough and mean, but it serves to remind
Us of our conscience, of our integrity, and then
Our luckiness, and chances to be selfless.
Why should I not feel guilty, as I state maxims?-
Did I not pass by the bridge-seated immigrant
Without a nose, struggling to stretch a hand?
Did I not freeze to add more to the charity pot of
the flower-offering lady with brown curls as she
Begged me to consider more cash, please.
Did I not step lightly past stirring, dirty
Sleeping bags, cardboard shanties; remember,
Sad silent men in a queue lining up for the
Chinatown market, eyes straight, sullen.
London opens with arms to me but it also tries
To open my eyes, which should motivate me,
But mostly serves to disturb me completely.
You find yourself enamored when you travel,
Struck with fascination by everything, lost in
The wanderlust, you forget
That everywhere struggles with despondency,
With delinquents, with drugs, with dirtiness,
With the stuck face of want, primal and
Unmoving against the London populace.
Ignorance:
When the city a sickly breath
Sweeping its dead out into the streets,
When the scarred chassis of this city
Roared back to life and regrew limbs,
When the pock-marked city grit teeth,
Dug its heels against the zeppelin cries,
London knew it had made a mistake.
With corpses, flames, and collapse
In its wake.
And yet it stood and dusted off
The pain, destruction, burning
Loss.
And if London can shrug through
The worst the world offers,
Then you,
The tourist,
The wanderer,
The explorer,
Can survive what London offers,
History flowing from the rafters,
And from loss become tougher,
You ask, this city will answer.
