Impressionistic Poem No. 3: Warsaw
I could find no substance to my thoughts;
I searched and found naught but sweat,
and the scars here and about from old temptations.
Then, from yellow corners
and the cracks in the tiled corridors,
through the paneled walnut door
of my meditations,
I heard the intimations of a song.
An ebb and flow,
like sirens chanting Cherub’s hymns;
yet distant in their descants.
Such lovely echoes
to the smell of must.
Such comfort, in contrast to
a strange bed,
and an unfamiliar sunset.
Ah, but beauty is more aptly worshipped in its subtleties.
The anticipation of beauty is more compelling than beauty itself,
and the memory of some hallowed chords sung
in lonely rooms of my mind,
is far fairer still then to have tasted such,
and have it end.
No, but give me hope,
give me the memories of beauty;
I am content with these,
and I will find healing in them.
A word from Mr. Godoy:
The poem you just read was written in Warsaw, Poland about the impressions of a moment of inspiration when I heard choral music echoing down the halls to the room where I slept. I tried, to some extent, to capture the colors, smells, mood, and thoughts of just a few fleeting minutes, which is why the location and time of day is part of the poem. This specific style is what I call impressionistic poetry.