Pier by Northerly Island and Other Poems

By Arsh Siddiqui

Pier by Northerly Island

The lucky ones could see it clearly long ago 
A viridian grass carpets the murky lake bottom 
Leafy and bushy vines stretch to the surface 
A foggy blue glass seals all below from the lake breeze 
Debris lines the rim and top of the glass 
Flecks of white and thin brown sticks rest above 
The further you look the more the glass hides the green 
It shimmers and glistens of blues too in the light of day 
And at night lights of blues and yellows and whites flicker and shake to the soft tempo of the wind 
Much is hidden from a searching gaze though 
Lucky were those that lived this lake whence clarity could still manage It musters hard now to provide the green undergrowth alone 
But the ombré towards a clear glass stays out of reach

Evergreen Out The Window

For it lasts a long time now and a long time yet 
They covered the streets by my home 
I could see them all the time out the window 
The depth of winter did not hurt it 
And neither could the heat of summer 
For years they were always by me 
When I looked out the window each time 
They live far from me now 
Those that I see out the window become trees of brown And those that do pervade the winter are established unnaturally On the elevated and outdoor courtyards of apartments five floors up Disquieting 
The ones I knew and the ones I loved are not here 
And those that resemble them are false 
Ornamental fixtures that dot the streets and skyline They are everywhere 
But they feel false or perhaps aloof 
Different 
Comfort lies beyond a glass window a long time away

Variations of Wind

The wings that fly beneath the sky That begs us all why not try 
They who split the air 
And can float upon it bare 
The wind that I feel 
Pushes me back to keel 
Yet when I look around 
Naught else has run aground 
Some walk windless 
Nothing from before or back to give stress Some walk with speed 
The wind behind back giving lead This preternatural aid helps them succeed Some even float in the air 
Little work for them who lie there Never had the need to give a prayer Never was there a need to despair The wind pushes too hard against my body No chance to actually embody 
Myself 
But molded as I am 
To be aerodynamic

Sequoias

In the garden of the sequoias 
between both red and brown 
I am yet to see the orange. 
Giants surround me with their bushy heads reaching to the sky. 
They looked indestructible to me 
and perhaps to all of us. 
And yet there they are, 
far ahead of me - 
melting into puddles - 
their hair bursting into smoke. 
The orange does come quickly 
bringing a perversion of the red. 
Those that breathe and eat around me sputter lungs caked in blackened grey. 
Orange coats the reddened brown, 
their last night their most bright. 
Not sparkling dots in the sky 
but waves of crashing bright light 
crowding out those dots 
(not to be seen for). 
The might of a single speck over the crowd of brown, the fragility of balance. 
I would wish for one last clear blue view of those giants.

Madeleines

Brandied cherries and madeleines. 
Waltzing together through the fresh park air 
wet mason jar within arms reach of each straddler. 
Falling one upon each other. 
Dropping one cherry into each other. 
The madeleines sitting upon white porcelain plates on the table behind, cups of white china with light brown liquid of cardamom and cloves tainting the white lip. 
You were two at that time then - 
dripping a tangy red liquid from the mouth 
<< est-ce que tu es choque ! >> 
In the park I sit now too, 
at that table, 
untouched madeleines still with an orange tea. 
You two aren't there, 
the day is morne, 
the park is bare. 
<< c'est jolie et dégueulasse >> 
You two couldn't help yourselves 
and I thought it amusing. 
Everything is spent now, 
so I sit and watch. 
The taste is still in my mouth - 
tangy red. 
I never ate one, 
couldn't stomach them, 
though the taste remains, 
unable to be cleansed. 
Should I savor it or should I let it haunt me? 
You two are gone now 
taken with the wind I suppose, like so many others. 
Was it that I could not help you 
I think I tried but the taste remains. 
You left a trail of seeds spat out haphazardly behind you, but I did not, could not, follow.

The Taste of Honeycrisp

The warm day cast its breeze our way, 
I sat facing away from it. 
Next to me, my friend had a slice, 
I had an apple. 
Cars rolled by every now and then, 
slowly enough to not interrupt the scene. 
People walked by too, 
wearing bright colors and shorts. 
The world felt silent and calm then, 
like a picture. 
The kind of picture you would gaze at longingly at a museum. 
The kind where you would see people sit down on grass, in a park probably, 
and they would just eat, or talk, or watch. 
And you would ask yourself 
why they had the freedom, 
why they could do nothing, 
why they could exist in permanence. 
The weather was our first taste of freedom. 
But the sun will hide again, 
and I will not be able to taste its rays upon my face again. But the wind won't subside again, 
and I will not be able to watch people calmly again. But the wave will tide again, 
and I will feel its weight crushing me against the floor again.

Arsh Siddiqui is a computer science student at Virginia Tech in Blacksburg, VA doing nothing that involves writing. He finds language interesting and spends his time rambling.