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The City In Which I Loved You Analysis



Author: poem of Li-Young Lee Type: poem Views: 11

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And when, in the city in which I love you,

even my most excellent song goes unanswered,

andI mount the scabbed streets,

the long shouts of avenues,

and tunnel sunken night in search of you...



That I negotiate fog, bituminous

rain rining like teeth into the beggar's tin,

or two men jackaling a third in some alley

weirdly lit by a couch on fire, that I

drag my extinction in search of you...



Past the guarded schoolyards, the boarded-up churches, swastikaed

synagogues, defended houses of worship, past

newspapered windows of tenements, along the violated,

the prosecuted citizenry, throughout this

storied, buttressed, scavenged, policed

city I call home, in which I am a guest...



a bruise, blue

in the muscle, you

impinge upon me.

As bone hugs the ache home, so

I'm vexed to love you, your body



the shape of returns, your hair a torso

of light, your heat

I must have, your opening

I'd eat, each moment

of that soft-finned fruit,

inverted fountain in which I don't see me.



My tongue remembers your wounded flavor.

The vein in my neck

adores you. A sword

stands up between my hips,

my hidden fleece send forth its scent of human oil.



The shadows under my arms,

I promise, are tender, the shadows

under my face. Do not calculate,

but come, smooth other, rough sister.

Yet, how will you know me



among the captives, my hair grown long,

my blood motley, my ways trespassed upon?

In the uproar, the confusion

of accents and inflections

how will you hear me when I open my mouth?



Look for me, one of the drab population

under fissured edifices, fractured

artifices. Make my various

names flock overhead,

I will follow you.

Hew me to your beauty.



Stack in me the unaccountable fire,

bring on me the iron leaf, but tenderly.

Folded one hundred times and

creased, I'll not crack.

Threshed to excellence, I'll achieve you.



but in the city

in which I love you,

no one comes, no one

meets me in the brick clefts;

in the wedged dark,



no finger touches me secretly, no mouth

tastes my flawless salt,

no one wakens the honey in the cells, finds the humming

in the ribs, the rich business in the recesses;

hulls clogged, I continue laden, translated



by exhaustion and time's appetite, my sleep abandoned

in bus stations and storefront stoops,

my insomnia erected under a sky

cross-hatched by wires, branches,

and black flights of rain. Lewd body of wind



jams me in the passageways, doors slam

like guns going off, a gun goes off, a pie plate spins

past, whizzing its thin tremolo,

a plastic bag, fat with wind, barrels by and slaps

a chain-link fence, wraps it like clung skin.



In the excavated places,

I waited for you, and I did not cry out.

In the derelict rooms, my body needed you,

and there was such flight in my breast.

During the daily assaults, I called to you,



and my voice pursued you,

even backward

to that other city

in which I saw a woman

squat in the street



beside a body,

and fan with a handkerchief flies from its face.

That woman

was not me. And

the corpse



lying there, lying there

so still it seemed with great effort, as though

his whole being was concentrating on the hole

in his forehead, so still

I expected he'd sit up any minute and laugh out loud:



that man was not me;

his wound was his, his death not mine.

and the soldier

who fired the shot, then lit a cigarette:

he was not me.



And the ones I do not see

in cities all over the world,

the ones sitting, standing, lying down, those

in prisons playing checkers with their knocked-out teeth:

they are not me. Some of them are



my age, even my height and weight;

none of them is me.

The woman who is slapped, the man who is kicked,

the ones who don't survive,

whose names I do not know;



they are not me forever,

the ones who no longer live

in the cities in which

you are not,

the cities in which I looked for you.



The rain stops, the moon

in her breaths appears overhead.

the only sound now is a far flapping.

Over the National Bank, the flag of some republic or other

gallops like water on fire to tear itself away.



If I feel the night

move to disclosures or crescendos,

it's only because I'm famished

for meaning; the night

merely dissolves.



And your otherness is perfect as my death.

Your otherness exhausts me,

like looking suddenly up from here

to impossible stars fading.

Everything is punished by your absence.



Is prayer, then, the proper attitude

for the mind that longs to be freely blown,

but which gets snagged on the barb

called world, that

tooth-ache, the actual? What prayer



would I build? And to whom?

Where are you

in the cities in which I love you,

the cities daily risen to work and to money,

to the magnificent miles and the gold coasts?



Morning comes to this city vacant of you.

Pages and windows flare, and you are not there.

Someone sweeps his portion of sidewalk,

wakens the drunk, slumped like laundry,

and you are gone.



You are not in the wind

which someone notes in the margins of a book.

You are gone out of the small fires in abandoned lots

where human figures huddle,

each aspiring to its own ghost.



Between brick walls, in a space no wider than my face,

a leafless sapling stands in mud.

In its branches, a nest of raw mouths

gaping and cheeping, scrawny fires that must eat.

My hunger for you is no less than theirs.



At the gates of the city in which I love you,

the sea hauls the sun on its back,

strikes the land, which rebukes it.

what ardor in its sliding heft,

a flameless friction on the rocks.



Like the sea, I am recommended by my orphaning.

Noisy with telegrams not received,

quarrelsome with aliases,

intricate with misguided journeys,

by my expulsions have I come to love you.



Straight from my father's wrath,

and long from my mother's womb,

late in this century and on a Wednesday morning,

bearing the mark of one who's experienced

neither heaven nor hell,



my birthplace vanished, my citizenship earned,

in league with stones of the earth, I

enter, without retreat or help from history,

the days of no day, my earth

of no earth, I re-enter



the city in which I love you.

And I never believed that the multitude

of dreams and many words were vain.






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