There is a poem which is called "A Tour of the Holy Land".
I'd like to know who wrote this poem and possibly any information about it.
The first stanza of the poem starts...
In this city, the taxi drivers have a grim sense of humour
and drive too fast. They look at you, not the road,
in the rear-view mirror. They tell you their woes
in lurid, neon tones, sparing nobody, and expect yours
to be at least as bad. They wind down the window
to spit out phlegm and cigar butts and to shout at girls,
but you are qlready two blocks away before you can put a name
to the face of the one who, waiting to cross, has tied your heart
in a knot.
Amanda. Miranda. Their names are the names of streets
that lead unerringly to an angle of shadow
on the Indian bedspread, or a small bottle containing bluish liquid
rolling along the dresser top until only the moment
keeps it from falling. Like a sultry, pouting mouth
that is about to ask for the loo but just might...
I asked a friend who read the poem to me for further help and she has
the entire poem but she doesn't know who wrote it. It was torn out of
a book and given to her. There is another poem on the back of the
page called "Frog Prince" which is probably by the same author. It's
first paragraph is:
Am I good or bad, clever of stupid?
Stendhal asks himself
in the summer of 1832..
Sincerest thanks to everyone for your help.
Mark |
