Cloud Asylum
"To be sad, it is necessary to feel."
~Clarice Lispector
i
The clouds were different then,
with no two skies the same.
At 18 years of age he fled the states
for a fictive reverie of Switzerland
for a fictive reverie of Switzerland
only to abandon his Smith Corona
in a 4th floor Zurich motel room.
Setting out to wander
the damp streets,
the damp streets,
his mind under
a clotted cloud,
he had become a foreigner
a clotted cloud,
he had become a foreigner
to everyone and everything,
unwilling to face
the non-fiction
of ordinary days.
unwilling to face
the non-fiction
of ordinary days.
He'd shorn his hair
as well as
as well as
any hope of belonging.
His body, the clumsy marionette
of a love-sick heart
barely tread the solid ground.
It was here, beneath
a canopy of cumulus clouds,
barely tread the solid ground.
It was here, beneath
a canopy of cumulus clouds,
that he fell in love
with sorrow.
with sorrow.
In his pilgrimage through the city
he purchased a music box
with a bust of Chopin atop the base
for no other reason than
it’s delicate tune rhymed with his feelings.
How long could he wander the world
like some soul-sick star
making the locals uneasy.
What had he hoped to find
in so foreign a place?
in so foreign a place?
Had he thought the high altitude
was enough to heal his heart?
Unaware he would live
the rest of his life
the rest of his life
by the skin of his teeth,
the shock treatments having injured
the synapses in his brain
leaving his thinking fractured,
leaving his thinking fractured,
a head perpetually in the clouds.
forever lost
inside the sky of himself.
inside the sky of himself.
ii
He was old now,
as old as the many grown up men
who'd been unable to show him
how to live with too much feeling.
Only now does he know
what a man could be.
He'd managed to hold
on to a lofty beauty
within himself
that would never desert him,
as old as the many grown up men
who'd been unable to show him
how to live with too much feeling.
Only now does he know
what a man could be.
He'd managed to hold
on to a lofty beauty
within himself
that would never desert him,
nor would his forgetfulness
of neighbors names;
of neighbors names;
his pleasantness concealing
it's harrowed history.
it's harrowed history.
He cleaned apartments in New York
and assisted seniors in a spectrum
of much needed services.
He screened classic films
in his building's community room.
Riding the elevator was a chance
for shared appreciations
for what he gave
and received
for shared appreciations
for what he gave
and received
in his small community.
He had a cat he stroked
while he wrote poetry.
He was grateful he had a roof
over his head,
a shelter
over his head,
a shelter
from
his secret history
with clouds.
Peter Valentyne
June 5th, 2019
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