"midtown" poems
*A girl wearing a flowing gown,
on which yellow butterflies are in profusion
sows seeds of happy confusion
inadvertently in midtown.
The day on its upward swing
pauses a moment, catching my breath
I jump on, with her, we fly up
the girl smiling to herself
allowed me to arrest herself
inside me for keeps, without persuasion*
May 13, 2014
May 13, 2014 at 8:23 AM UTC
It’s early Friday afternoon and,
over plates of greasy spoon dinner,
the musician and the businessman
repeat their weekly ritual.
The businessman has his problems at home
and spills his guts to his musician friend.
“It’s been a real long time coming,
but she’s still been such a bitter *****
They’ve met this way since
their college days and nights
spent studying the bottoms
of whiskey bottles. And, as usual,
the businessman’s hair sits sprawled
on his head like a rag, and his tie
is loosened. The musician doesn’t understand
divorce: “You look like hell.
You know, if you need a place to stay,
Helen and I and the boy
can always make some room for you.”
They light a pair of cigarettes and wait
for a waitress to kick them out.
Into the haze of a Lower East Side crowd
the musician and his band play
his newest pieces, riffs on the happy swagger
of the Duke. His critics—
and he has many—
write that his jazz sings
the inescapable *********** of suffering
through the life of every oblivious body,
which makes the musician’s music
sound more like the blues
than jazz. But it’s jazz all the same
and perhaps it was the intensity
of the growling bass that shot
spirits down the throats in the audience,
reeling drunk in time to the beat
of the musical suffering.
The weekdays die and it is Friday again.
He has a big view of midtown,
the businessman, and though the window the falling
sun horizons over his socked toes,
parked on his desk in triumph over
all those stockholders. It’s a pain
to lose your family,
but the businessman puts on
a good face, and drinks.
This Friday, the musician and the businessman
are not in the mood for talking.
But a scotch thrown down,
and the two are tighter than
thieves.
The businessman complains of life at home
and the musician’s eyes cross.
That night, the musician skips his performance.
His wife cries in their bed,
shuddering with worry and asking him
what makes him so distant? she asks—
it’s a mystery even to himself.
He is sweating whiskey—
which suits him fine—
and he spends his night on the bridge.
One week later and it is Friday, finally.
Today, the businessman will see
his children at his former home
for the last time for a handful of months
at best. The musician has not been home
for three days. He stays at a friend’s apartment,
puts on his ***** blazer
and a record of the Duke’s
before he throws himself down the airshaft.
The businessman jumps on the 5:44
out of town and calls his friend the musician
to cancel their usual Friday meeting,
but his phone keeps ringing,
ringing, ringing, ringing, ringing.
Apr 12, 2010
Apr 12, 2010 at 10:01 PM UTC
Taos Pueblo fashion designer Patricia Michaels returns to New York City for “Style Fashion Week NYC”on September 10th to present her latest 30 piece collection at aspecial RSVP eventat Hammerstein Ballroom, 311 West 34th St, Midtown Manhattan.
Michaels was a finalist on season 11 of the Lifetime reality TV show, “Project Runway”, and “Project Runway All-Stars”, gaining thousands of admirers as the media world followed her success along with an excited and proud Indian country.
Michaels will present her trademark PM Waterlily line and her latest collection for Spring/Summer 2017. Known for her use of Native-themed fabrics, hand painted or hand dyed, cut and fabricated at her Taos, New Mexico studio, Michaels says she is inspired by nature walks at Taos Pueblo among the trees, wildflowers and water plants, and “seeds” are important symbols of her designs and concepts.
The following description is from the website, speaking of the “Modern Native” who inspires and wears her designs. “Patricia Michaels...will have a few pieces for colder climates as her woman travels to regions where during the summer the climates tend to be cold. She is a world traveler so one may made need that special look to freshen her palette.”
Those living in or near the New York area that are interested in attending can visit toEventbrite to RSVP for the September 10 event. Seating is limited.
We wish Patricia Michaels and PM Waterlily success in New York City and beyond.
According to their site, Style Fashion Week, producer of globally recognized fashion events, provides top designers a world class platform to showcase their collections. Each year Style Fashion Week presents the season's must see shows, unforgettable performances and exclusive installations. Our expansive Style Marketplace immerses guests in fashion as well as art and design. Guests directly engage with brands throughout the week.Read more at:http://www.marieaustralia.com/formal-dresses-brisbane | www.marieaustralia.com/backless-formal-dresses
Sep 3, 2016
Sep 3, 2016 at 1:38 AM UTC
dandelions
I sail to you through the great unknown
And tip toe on your white lines of gray matter
An acidic, atomic baby light blonde
with a heart of stone trapped in a yellow rain cloud
dandelions
In the syndicate of the hazel night moon
I smell their broken stems of wire
Wrapping my thighs in a sealed cocoon
Dancing in a brimstone fire
Melting in the midnight winds
dandelions
She can’t wait to roam free tonight
Feel the air flow between the thistle of my thyme
And find her midtown morphine
To soothe the demons, dancing in her mind
dandelions
Dispersing on a front porch swing
I scatter in the wisp of an ivory snow
Break a rhyme scheme, scream for rain
Pray for laughter, bleed for growth
Dec 17, 2020
Dec 17, 2020 at 1:02 PM UTC
written in midtown Manhattan while waiting for a bus, last year, and dedicated to anyone who has been cold latest lately.
sustained winds
magic-make
20 degrees
feel like zero,
waiting for the M57 bus
that cannot
iceman cometh
soon enough.
bus shelter soldier
marching to and fro,
a guardsman on duty,
passing the he-waiting time
by dream reviving
last night's pastime,
secret activity,
like coffee cup
comet tail sips,
re-image, re engage,
re-heat just enough,
to temper and mind deceive.
recall dreams of painting,
the frame,
already hung,
the naked white wall,
blank canvas,
dreams are time to experiment.
what I paint, however,
extends beyond the frame,
the mind visions,
landslide down,
secreted colors,
images, born and lifted,
upward bound,
street steam rising,
from wall to sky,
letters float.
tho scarfed and gloved,
my painted words,
crisp and crackle,
boundary break,
extend beyond the frame.
wind-chill
tactile exterior defeated,
the burn
of mind creativity
succeeds.
Jan 24th 2013
2:42 AM
Jan 9, 2014
Jan 9, 2014 at 9:17 PM UTC
A beggar lays chained to concrete,
to skyscraper that stretches past clouds,
breathing aside, neither dead nor alive,
we've given up on his release.
For what purpose does he survive?
When his stomach knots empty,
he curls fetal, hands clench chest,
and sobs escape in pants and whines
and saliva and not an eyelash is batted
toward his cup that silently watches:
It hasn't jangled in days.
Lashes litter the sidewalks
from eyeliner applied while
rushing to an extravagant event
in midtown Manhattan,
lights lips reflections,
where all will will be watching
her every move, her every step.
If he wills himself survive,
we can clean him up
in loving arms of sleep deprived nurses
before we kick him back to the curb,
abandoned again with rip-rotting liver,
while we vultures eye another *****
But that girl?
She better not trip over Prometheus
or we might just chain her next.
Oct 2, 2012
Oct 2, 2012 at 12:24 AM UTC
How you know him: Gurung’s label, established in 2009, reimagines traditional textiles with a sportswear attitude. January Jones, First Lady Michelle Obama, and Oprah Winfrey have taken memorable turns in his fiery red gowns.
What’s new: Gurung is teaming up with Toms this month with exclusive designs to raise funds for Nepal’s recovery from the 2015 earthquake. For each pair of shoes sold, $5 will go to Gurung’s Shikshya Foundation to support education and relief efforts.
What does heritage mean to you?
When I left Nepal and told people I wanted to be a fashion designer, they thought I was crazy. I didn’t know anyone here. But I still remember coming up to the Midtown Tunnel and seeing all the skyscrapers for the first time, and I finally felt that I was home. I became myself in America, but Nepal gave me my core. The reason I am grounded and pragmatic is simply that I was brought up this way.
What was your childhood like there?
I was born in Singapore and grew up in Nepal, where I went to an all-boys Catholic school. I was different and made aware of it. It was a challenging time, but I had an incredible relationship with my family that helped me. Trekking became a kind of escape, and I was always inspired by the Patan Museum, near my house. I still go back for the memories attached.
How is Nepal reflected in your designs for Toms, and also your foundation work?
The ikat pattern is called dhaka, a hand-loomed weave that I wanted to modernize as a digital print. Black, white, and red are very typical of Newari women [from Kathmandu Valley] and my favorite colors, which I used in my first collection. Five years ago, when I started getting all this attention, I started Shikshya with a focus on education as a way to give back. Since the 2015 earthquake, we have raised more than $1 million to help rebuild, but the process is slower than people think, and the world’s attention turns to someplace else. So it’s my job with everything I do to keep awareness alive.Read more at:http://www.marieaustralia.com/long-formal-dresses | www.marieaustralia.com/vintage-formal-dresses
Aug 29, 2016
Aug 29, 2016 at 10:36 PM UTC
Back and forth we've made rounds with this unrequited love. Shifting blames while stroking egos. I think it's time we let this go before we drive each other out of our heads.
© Sonia Ettyang
November 2018
Feb 16, 2019
Feb 16, 2019 at 4:04 PM UTC
He's giving her a piggyback ride across Harvey Avenue.
She's barefoot, her legs tightly wrapped around his waist.
In her hands a killer pair of heels click against each other.
She whispers something to him and laughs.
I want to know what it is--but to know would
unravel both space and time--it would make this
Monday night, in this anodyne, red-brick district
partly mine. Walking past, I let them go with a nod
and a "beautiful night."
Sep 17, 2014
Sep 17, 2014 at 5:17 PM UTC
I’m always afraid you’re gonna kiss me in the elevator
you ask me out to lunch and I always think you mean it
we just wind up at the nearest mock irish dive
every bartender in midtown knows your name
even when it’s swarmed by the christmas crowd
they always point to you, give a nod and laugh
we pull up stools in the mid day snow
my nose whines over the **** floors
we order warm whiskeys and work on the crossword puzzle
you say my company is charming but
you’ve never asked me a single question
and your eyes are always on the room
but when everythings still and no women are near
sometimes you’ll stop on mine
I take your picture in the snow
remember the morning I left and startled you with an exiting touch
your cheek painted with drool
I couldn’t sleep the night I stayed
so I scribbled neil young quotes on your chalkboard walls
listened to you snore, waited for the sun
walked through stuytown like I’ve lived there all my life
boarded a train back to the man who loves me
prayed both of you never care too much
and that I start soon
Dec 20, 2013
Dec 20, 2013 at 5:09 PM UTC
Leong's watching TikTok on her laptop (as always) and she asks Lisa (a NYC girl) “Are you familiar with the the “downtown girl” aesthetic?”
Lisa’s dismissive, “Yeah, it just looks like Urban Outfitters grunge to me.”
Leong explains, “It includes headphones and it’s supposed to be a Lower Manhattan style.”
“Yeah,” Lisa snorts, “Because Greenwich Village and the Lower East Side are SO cohesive.”
Lisa considers herself an Uptown girl (like the song) even though 59th Street, where she lives, is the border between Uptown and Midtown Manhattan. I’m learning that these distinctions are culturally key to New Yorkers.
“And,” Lisa adds, “why would someone wear, and lug around, giant, clunky headphones when you can use AirPods??”
“Amen sister.” I proclaim and even Leong nods in agreement.
“Later, Sunny, Leong and I are on a study break, eating salads and talking about who we hope Yale invites to the next “Spring Fling” concert. We aren’t being realistic; we’re covering who we wish would come. I’d named Charlie Puth, “Kat-Tun!” Leong squealed (A Japanese boy band - apparently Chinese girls LOVE their boybands) and Sunny countered with Ed Sheeran.
“I don’t like Ed Sheeran,” I mumbled, making a yuck-face.
“Why no Ed?” Sunny gasps with shock (She’s a big Ed fangirl).
“I don’t know,” I shrugged, “he’s a star by all measurable metrics,” I admit, “but,” I fade out.
“You want my theory on Ed hate?” Sunny offered, “He’s beyond talented vocally - whoever your favorite artist is, Ed’s probably not that far behind. He’s a stellar song writer and he’s making hit after hit; do you want my theory?”
“Too basic, too popular?” I guess.
“No, he’s not appealing to the gaze,” Sunny states.
“The gays?” Leong questions, stepping back into the conversation.
“No,” Sunny corrects, “the gaze - G-A-Z-E, he doesn’t try to look pretty all the time.”
“Ha!” I snort, “Gaze, I thought you meant gays too,” as Leong and I chuckle together.
“No,” Sunny laughs, “nothing like THAT. Ed’s just not trying to be a heartthrob, he knows that’s not his core strong point - and that’s why he’s discounted.”
“Like lesbians don’t comb their hair or wear makeup and wear pajamas to class” Leong observes, “they don’t want to attract the male gaze?”
“No, we’re not imbued by the male gaze.” Sunny states, “Ed just wants to lowkey.”
Dec 14, 2022
Dec 14, 2022 at 10:51 AM UTC
midnight taffeta calves, your mom’s rose-gold
diamond pendant resting between *******
too-long hair tamed, fastened at your nape
this peculiar impasse between pretending you’re
prom-young and you’re midtown-gala-elegant-old
you’re a little both, at twenty-one, and a little
drunk—fourteen-dollar champagne, picklebacks
and the desperate paradoxical preservation of this memory
you can hold your cloud-head up beautiful still
so you hitch your dress
runrunrun behind the Rhodes
crouch down in the thorns with every-elegant-one you love
twenty-one, desperate, ebullient, ****
and ****
stand up straight again, glowing, sage
check your coat and dance
nobody’s the wiser
Mar 18, 2014
Mar 18, 2014 at 3:21 PM UTC
“There’s a museum of *** around the corner”
“A what?”
“A museum of ***
A lady hums a melody on the bus to Queens, I lean in and listen to her quietly, but don’t say a word.
Crowds choke avenues as protestors call out the police. The police surround them. The irony of being protected by the same force that destroys is not lost.
Rain puddles on the black cement, I notice how soft the yellow water is in contrast with the harsh taxis.
A stray glove sits lonely on the subway stairs, useless without its other half.
“This entire factory used to be covered in graffiti, the city keeps painting over the art”
A snotty waiter recommends watery wine that costs an arm and a leg, he snorts when I don’t tip.
At a flea market a lady assures me this moonstone will “cleanse me,” I lost it rushing off to midtown.
The lights twinkle like flecks of gold against black stone and I realize night is never night here.
My guy tells me he doesn’t like me in the city, I tell him I’ve never liked myself anyways.
Dec 13, 2014
Dec 13, 2014 at 1:16 PM UTC
Country boy you haven't lived till you see the lights on Peachtree Street..
I could say the same thing about the fireflies on a July evening ,
The Buckhead nights on the north side of Atlanta ,
The solitude with your maker on the Chattahoochee River ..
A baseball game at Turner Field on a May afternoon ,
a flock of Wild turkey's against the setting Sun in June ..
Piedmont Park and the Botanical Garden ,
Wood Ducks feeding on a quiet , country pond in late August ..
People watching at a outdoor cafe in Midtown ,
Meditating amongst the Tall Pines with no one around ..
The High Museum and the Downtown nights ,
The morning call of Crows with the first glimmer of sunlight ..
Jan 23, 2016
Jan 23, 2016 at 7:33 PM UTC
we met up for a coffee
and we both got extra hot
but it was her eyes of gold
that would shimmer and scald
at that little midtown shop
three years and a day went past
where we almost tied the knot
and I stayed enthralled
'til I got a call
saying lets meet at our usual spot
and she didn't sip the coffee
as it went from hot to cold
like her eyes that glazed
on an autumn day
while they lost their flecks of gold
May 7, 2023
May 7, 2023 at 6:44 AM UTC
I was in 2nd grade when the twin towers were hit. I remember all the children in my class one by one being picked up from school. I had no idea at that point what was going on, but I was so jealous. I wanted to go home early from school. Eventually, my Aunt picked me and my cousin up. She told us about the towers as we walked home. I could see the thick, montrous black smoke of the fallen towers from the street I lived on in Greenpoint, Brooklyn. We went inside and turned on the television. Report after report confirmed the devastating aftermath of the attack.
●
My mother was in Manhattan, for she was a secretary at the Wall Street Journal. At the moment the towers were hit, she was just arriving, walking towards her job that was located in a building right across the street from the twin towers. But what she saw bewildered her. Hoards of people covered in white ash were running in the opposite direction of where she was headed. She asked one of these people what they were running from, and they frantically responded that the twin towers had been attacked. After learning this, she walked to my Grandmother's job in midtown Manhattan. They later arrived home safely.
●
Looking back at this recollection of my 2nd grade self, I have to admit I wasn't traumatized by these events personally. But in retrospect I can see now how it had affected all those around me. On the ten year anniversary of September 11th, Paul Simon sang Bridge Over Troubled Water at a memorial service in New York. As I watched it on the news, the lyrics filled my heart with warmth. What I suggest, through the healing of old traumas and in the handling of new wounds, is that we make ourselves a bridge to others, a source of stability in an uncertain world. This is described so beautifully within Simon's song: "When you're weary, feeling small, When tears are in your eyes, I will dry them all, I'm on your side, Oh when times get rough, And friends just can't be found, Like a bridge over troubled water, I will lay me down, Like a bridge over troubled water, I will lay me down." Through every unexpected tragedy, if we come together as a community, the most horrific pain will inevitably shrivel in the light of sefless love.
Sep 11, 2017
Sep 11, 2017 at 8:12 PM UTC
And suddenly. . . I was there!!!
Amazed by what I saw
The truth lies in the middle
On the road for six years
And honestly I don’t care
If I ever make it back alive.
The small stones in the road
Represent the fragments of my skull
That I left in many different
Black holes across this wicked
Universe and in this second verse.
I love when the rain falls
I feel you
I love the smell that is left
When you stay the night
I feel your fingers slide
Softly
d
o
w
n
d
o
w
n
my back
and my head
Cannot grip this memory and keep it
Together for you
Long enough
To shake me out of the crossfire
And back into that sparrow’s nest
Of hair that I call my home, you know
Girl, you need to know what’s going on
On the other-side
Your life is going nowhere down there
Midtown is not downtown
It is the final circle of hell
And you are just getting started
I’m getting all backwards and forwards
Is ****** for good stories
Take a step, take a breath back
In and out, out and in
A little love, loves a little sin
I want you
I want you too
I want you to remember
This
Feb 11, 2013
Feb 11, 2013 at 9:39 AM UTC
how many stories can we pour into our
summertime beer steins
how much before the foam spills over
into real-time
there’s no numerical answer to that, let’s state plainly
bubbles geometrically become one another, shrink
and multiply and turn amber-red in the august nightshade
and dogs skitter under basketball hoops, couples play in shadow
fathers sneeze and industry marches on
under our noses, outside our windows, between our ribs
how many stories can we swallow
before we’re drunk on the skyline and the view to the next
does it matter?
that one brew is for sale only in midtown
and sometime I might go back, drink it with you not there
watch the spinning hexagon floor tiles
and I’ll write you that I had it, and it was
all right
how many stories can we fit into the new year
stuff into the hamper, hide in creases of the couch
like quarters
like hands on knees, yours, yeah, the soft elegant spider-hands I
wanted on my knees since the first day—
two perfect hands
how many stories can we write on our palms
as reminders, how many can we fit between appointments
the ending’s not so important, is it—
bubbles join together, multiply, change shape
go hexagonal, spin
touch, remember, forget, divide
always even numbers
just shy of eleven
shy of prime
but amber-red in august
like that first time
Feb 20, 2014
Feb 20, 2014 at 1:58 AM UTC
Keep your head down,
Don't attract attention to yourself.
Be polite, but not too nice to that stranger in a bar in midtown,
He might mistake it for flirtation and try to buy you one off a shelf,
Maybe mix something in a drink.
Don't be a **** and don't be a bore,
And swallow your fear
Of the man on the subway who sized you up and winked.
While the world may stand and jeer,
You must work twice as hard,
Thrice, even, to be thought of
As just as good.
Which is why you ought to keep
Your guard,
And never give an excuse to show Emotions, lest everything you Worked for be written off as
"It's that time of month."
Jun 7, 2017
Jun 7, 2017 at 1:02 PM UTC
Vanilla mint chai
the taste attaches
to refracted light
from the gothic stained glass
Ornate banisters
mingle with the curves
of human perspective
human inspiration
Golden tunes
pulse my brain to desire
a crawl between literatures
into historical corridors
To escape the biting cold of the streets
to perch upon an easy wave
of knowledge and knowledge yet gained
that would be
living the dream
Feb 18, 2014
Feb 18, 2014 at 1:22 AM UTC
Lead turns into a lighter here,
While corruption blackens the fuse,
Nothing hospitable,
The buried Now are liveable to the factors of badge and gruel!
Exuberance of pallets line ten down each row,
What a sight to see being so chained down.
Cardiac pains,
Silent to creep upon Stiller's,
An encore for real life movies,
Yet this mine friend, is the dominant thriller!!!!!
Bland supervision ruins ones child play,
What beauty is on the outside?
Doth thou remember oh bill paying citizen?
Now where doth thou stay futile servant?
Pervertist,
Comrade to systematic function!!!!
Colleagues betray thou for midtown luncheon?
Do many perturb you to greatest of all lengths yet?
Didst thou trade in dead money for thine new raincheck?
Predecessor's are predatory, tenants of hatred filled temples.....
Art thouest them?
Or art thou thyself?
Thy theatrical artista!!!!!!!!!!
May 13, 2015
May 13, 2015 at 12:02 PM UTC
stepping onto the E train
where it's so claustrophobic
you might as well cut out your lungs
and die
that would be a bit dramatic
though not as much as the pain
bottled up in the eyes
which want to cry but can't
looking through you not at you
just don't take it personally
walking along 3rd avenue
where cars colonize the street
like it's a newly found kingdom
labeling yourself a New Yorker is a title
not yet earned
since you still check Google Maps sometimes
why bother getting lunch two blocks down
at some unheard of but kinda cool pizza place
when there's a Chipotle right here
and Nintendo World is a few blocks away
and Midtown Comics is right around the corner
there's magic to this
setting your search on Tinder to one mile away
where your options are as endless as your "swipe lefts"
wondering if the next one is the one
it could be, couldn't it?
work ends and you reenter the flux of people
moving so fast it's like they're running away
maybe it's getting Happy Hour drinks
or simply going home
there's less summer every day
only a little bit of sunlight at the end
not much but something to cherish
the ******** about it being hot
will soon be the ******** about it being cold
seeing yourself march through a labyrinth of strangers
going here to there
sometimes with life scaring you
moving into territory without open arms
Sep 11, 2016
Sep 11, 2016 at 1:34 PM UTC
*"This is my letter to the world
That never wrote to me."*
—Emily Dickinson
We would sit under New York skyscrapers
Upon the marble steps of Midnight
My friends and I
Dwelling on the Good Times
We knew it then
Our laughter was vastly infinite
Above us
The prosthetic Heaven
Of concrete and iron beehives
Overtaking Sky and Sleep
Heady Days
Drunken Nights
Our Youth lost
Rather wasted
And a devil-may-care
Hope for Tomorrow
We sang the Songs of the times
The tunes that would soon forget Us
It was alright to stroll down the gutters
Of our endless Urban Paradise
But those days and nights are long gone now
And I now wonder whether Space & Time
Will someday reconcile those memories and these dreams
Of the age that came and went and fled and lingers still
Jun 5, 2015
Jun 5, 2015 at 6:50 PM UTC
I possess no soul
I possess no mind
I am the wanderer
Of the dead forest
I am the black bird
Who sits on the highest branch
Of the empty tree
In the spring
I am the dead drunk
On the midtown subway pavement
That you cringe at
I breathe while the earth sighs
I sleep while the vultures cry
I walk around this dark town
Slow like an elephant
As you stare me with pity
I stare at you like a hawk
I carry a universe with me
I live your worst nightmare
I have a thorn
That carves devil’s stories
On my skin every second
I scream every night
My voice screeching like an eagle’s
But all you can hear is a whimper
My body trembles
My eyes are red with blood
Sweat drips from every
Inch of my skin
As I stand here
In front of you
Telling you this
I have lived through hell
But let the death be sweet
13.32
3.28.18
Apr 5, 2018
Apr 5, 2018 at 4:55 PM UTC