It Changes Every Minute
I was assigned my new seat. My new workstation is at the end of a line of cubicles, at a corner facing the window. I am seated next to an angmo dude, facing another angmo dude, backfacing yet another angmo dude. I wonder whether that is really my place. At least I will not be sandwiched between two people and I will have a nice view.
``How am I going to get any stories done? I am probably going to spend most of my days watching the birds.'' I said.
A female colleague laughed and said that she used to be distracted by the view when the company was in another building facing the river.
``It was so beautiful. I couldn't take my eyes off. The river glitters. And at a certain time of the day, when the sun shine at the right angle, the river would take on a colour that is.....'' She described the view, collecting as much details as possible from her distant memory.
I laughed and gently poked fun at her romantic indulgences. ``It is the same river.'' I said.
Another colleague looked up from his story, unwilling to let me get away with my ignorant comment, said, '' It changes every minute.''
``Waaaaa........You are such a romantic. Do you write poetry?'' I stopped myself from saying more to I quickly pummel a sarcastic remark that was emerging. My mind quickly searched for the nicest thing to say to quickly finished it off. ``It would be nice to read some of them, your poetry.'' Ok, I hope that came out sincere.
``You know you can never cross the same river twice,'' he added.
I twitched my lips in a slight disgust and rolled my eyes. That was just too much for me.
``You do write poetry,'' I said trying to keep a straight face while hiding my secret thoughts of picturing him behind bars, hands tied to a railing and with some strong Roman soldiers flogging him.
People who write poetry should not be allowed to walk the streets freely, especially when they pollute the minds of decent people who are trying to live an honest life with romantic notions that serve no purpose to the economic, social and political stability or human advancement. They attempt to create a community of men and woman who easily fall prey to writers and movie makers, who are too happy to manipulate their romantic desires, giving them an illusionary dream that offers instant gratification that is temporal but has no relevance to the eternity.
Glad I haven't learn the art of thinking aloud. tsk tsk tsk.
``I don't write poetry. A greek philosopher said that.'' He said, oblivious that his answer saved his life.
Another colleague chimed in, ''Greek philosopher? Is it that one who parted a river of some sort?''
MUAAAHHAHHAHHAAAA...............He is funny. He definitely doesn't have the making of a poet. I like him.
The River
by err......Me (ok, please don't set some roman soldiers on me. please?)
A river forms
as the river's gone.
A change
to preserve a change.
It is strange
how they say
the river will not stay.
For I see the stone tossed yesterday
in the river that is not the same.
How would I fare
For the days remain,
if I care
if I'll see the same river again?
I imagine they would smile and say,
today's too long to explain
why the waters part but retain
a river yesterday
``How am I going to get any stories done? I am probably going to spend most of my days watching the birds.'' I said.
A female colleague laughed and said that she used to be distracted by the view when the company was in another building facing the river.
``It was so beautiful. I couldn't take my eyes off. The river glitters. And at a certain time of the day, when the sun shine at the right angle, the river would take on a colour that is.....'' She described the view, collecting as much details as possible from her distant memory.
I laughed and gently poked fun at her romantic indulgences. ``It is the same river.'' I said.
Another colleague looked up from his story, unwilling to let me get away with my ignorant comment, said, '' It changes every minute.''
``Waaaaa........You are such a romantic. Do you write poetry?'' I stopped myself from saying more to I quickly pummel a sarcastic remark that was emerging. My mind quickly searched for the nicest thing to say to quickly finished it off. ``It would be nice to read some of them, your poetry.'' Ok, I hope that came out sincere.
``You know you can never cross the same river twice,'' he added.
I twitched my lips in a slight disgust and rolled my eyes. That was just too much for me.
``You do write poetry,'' I said trying to keep a straight face while hiding my secret thoughts of picturing him behind bars, hands tied to a railing and with some strong Roman soldiers flogging him.
People who write poetry should not be allowed to walk the streets freely, especially when they pollute the minds of decent people who are trying to live an honest life with romantic notions that serve no purpose to the economic, social and political stability or human advancement. They attempt to create a community of men and woman who easily fall prey to writers and movie makers, who are too happy to manipulate their romantic desires, giving them an illusionary dream that offers instant gratification that is temporal but has no relevance to the eternity.
Glad I haven't learn the art of thinking aloud. tsk tsk tsk.
``I don't write poetry. A greek philosopher said that.'' He said, oblivious that his answer saved his life.
Another colleague chimed in, ''Greek philosopher? Is it that one who parted a river of some sort?''
MUAAAHHAHHAHHAAAA...............He is funny. He definitely doesn't have the making of a poet. I like him.
The River
by err......Me (ok, please don't set some roman soldiers on me. please?)
A river forms
as the river's gone.
A change
to preserve a change.
It is strange
how they say
the river will not stay.
For I see the stone tossed yesterday
in the river that is not the same.
How would I fare
For the days remain,
if I care
if I'll see the same river again?
I imagine they would smile and say,
today's too long to explain
why the waters part but retain
a river yesterday
posted by eternal bough at 9:46 AM
2 Comments:
you mention thinking aloud. it reminds me of funny story. nothing else to do with your post.
my friends were in a lift. a lady steps in. "wow, she't hot!" my friend says.
*awkward silence*
"oops, did i say that out loud?"
my other friends were highly amused.
your poem is lousy. this is the rhyming pattern.
A
B
C
C
C
D
D
D
E
F
E
F
E
G
E
E
D
What kind of lousy pattern is that? But at least you try to rhyme. Better than some stupid haiku or concrete poem or one of those modern poems that just go on and on.
I am going crazy in the office, can you tell?
can you please don't take it out on my blog
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