Taken from a soon-to-be-published anthology of existential creative works, the following poem, “Ice Cream Essence,” is a fine example of impressionistic poetry. Although its author is anonymous, the poem is suspected of having been written by Austrian poet Rainer Maria Rilke, or not.
Homesick at all for any Thing, I stand waiting,
carved by despairing commuters to their mould.
I live within my own time but if I lived within someone else’s
would they be okay with it?
How insignificant I am!
And glorious standing brings only back ache and varicose veins.
Gradually I see them, with such hope,
wisely and slow, they stumble those that run fast,
causing bare flesh to pummel against metal.
The road sign must be moved or at least painted yellow
and that which can’t be moved I deign symbolic
of death’s shadowing hedonistic youth.
Is there any way to combat their Taschism, except by thuggery?
“Never mud-wrestle a pig. You will lose, and the pig enjoys it,”
she whispers like a muskox in the tundra.
Meanwhile, I serve.
An object of ridicule, I would give anything
for a smaller forehead and two inches on the heel.
The thing to remember is that each day brings its rewards,
and all human beings desire to hear, “Whistle while you work.”
Yet care must be taken to scorn
those who sip unflinchingly on shop bought produce:
kernels, mini milks, orangeade sparkles
for financial reasons only, ignoring my quarrelsome
Lolly gobble choc bomb.
Otherwise nothing was red,
Not even idle wishes, which are not the same as choices,
except when it comes to making a choice.
Do I lose myself in the crowd to be loved and admired, thus
enfeebling my spirit with half wishes and half thoughts?
Too early to say, and besides the 99s are selling well.
I must generate an inner life of solitude.
Now comes giggling to the window
a young boy of a score plus one.
His steps confined by shoelaces untied
with shrivelled gums and clothes clinging,
hardly a white bone talking.
A thousand years since they said,
“Put this cream somewhere cold, otherwise it will go off”.
Then many have sold and I have sold out.
What is the connection? He was entitled to it, says his mother.
If the 99s have gone they have gone, I say.
The boy must learn not to be reliant on external influences, I add.
To find pleasure only in a 99 leads to despair:
Therein is the true nature of ethical duty and responsibility.
The diabetes joke failed to impress, yet in generations to come
it will be shown that Zumba lessons are a must.
Why might he dream tonight of sugared almonds and additives?
Man never gets what he desires.
His mother lost from the start.