It's unfortunate and just the teensiest bit ironic that now that I've really dedicated myself to this blog, which is supposed to be an account of what exactly New York means to me, I find it means less to me than ever before.
I don't mean to imply that I find the city meaningless, but I remember a time when I was inspired at every turn; every rumble of every train, every errant piece of garbage in every gutter, held some new significance for me. Someday I will write all of this down I would think to myself, someday when I have time.
Occasionally I did write something down, although it was scattered and sporadic. But, since it's Friday and possibly/probably my last day of work before the temp winds blow a different way, here's a little something from when New York was a constant and overwhelming inspiration.
Sonnet for New York
As Gertrude Stein once pressed her flag against
The pulse of France, so I would like to claim
You as my own: true, I feel at times
Caught in between my collarbone and sternum
In your pocked and mottled sky, in your
Cacophony of streets, a type of beat
That might be home. I wonder if it is
The spark and rumble of your subterrain
That echoes underneath my skin. I have
Cocooned myself between your grooves and cracks
The way a river fondles stone. At times
Like these, broke breathless, gripped beneath
The starry lights and bar fights, I think
That we will be in love like this forever.
About Me
- Leigh Hile
- I'm an NYC-based director, and this is an outlet for my various musings about theater and about the city of New York. Sometimes the subjects run together, sometimes they are entirely separate, but between the two they comprise the most fitful, most intense, most trying love affair of my few years. They fill my head, my heart, my mouth every hour of every day; they could fill a book.
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