Turn on again, that old, once new film of your life -
it's called the 'establishing shot'; and as it pans
across your once-favourite city, corny in the sunshine,
arty in the dusk and rain, the home to all your dreams,
the music slides in, takes the reins, the heartstrings of recall...
New York: for some of certain age, the needle hiss
before the recording studio draws in, lung-deep
the low lights, the clink of glasses, murmur,
- the film's in blackandwhite, the evening suits, the faces too -
as the silky rhythm, the syncopated beat
tells the old old story of a love that's sour or sweet..
Pacific Coast: a background seethe of waves;
the studio's Zen-silent; reminiscent saxophone,
a dreaming horn, a rhythm barely sketched;
is it the silence that draws out the sounds,
or sounds (as in the haunting - plink - of Japan's films)
that serve to paint the silence? ...
Paris: rooftops in the rain; and yes, its blackandwhite again:
accordeon plays first, a cardboard lung
wheezing out a memory of the dance of love
or barrel-organ, cranking out a background
like an old toothpaste tube; it's only half-believed
like some street-beggar's story; but you both know
that memory's longing for this sweet dipped madeleine
of romance and the words of love, from that endless source
and flow of Seine, its quays, its honest poverty,
its silver-grey and words of love...
Michael Shepherd
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-sound-of-cities/
