Midtown, 6 a.m.
John Claiborne Isbell
The New York Public Library is not
free of the gull’s cry. In its upper rooms,
the books are serried. Outside, you have got
the lions, and the glass and concrete looms
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a hundred stories past the homeless folk
in sleeping bags or cardboard at its base –
the early traffic – or the sort of bloke
who nearly lets a smile light up his face
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as I go past. It’s almost dawn by now,
the streets are venting steam, the early shops
raise up their shutters, and don’t ask me how
the city has survived the night. It stops
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for nothing, not at 4 a.m., not when
the pillowed dream, the new moon cuts the sky,
the crime rate rises. I am back again
amid the pigeons and the passers-by,
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I feel the pulse that never ends, the bright
arterial display of it. My eyes
lift past the rising sun to where the light
in those high floors is on. I watch the skies.
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Fliss: Welcome, John, and well met! Many thanks for this poem, your third contribution to the showcase, hooray. So, here we are at the New York Public Library, at 6 o’clock in the morning. Is there any particular date attached to the poem?
John: Well met, Fliss! You ask a fair question. My records indicate that I wrote this poem on 21st October 2022. It is now in my Interstate manuscript, a chronicle of US travels.
F: It must be so interesting to travel around the US, John. The library sounds so grand, with its lions; naturally I had to take a look online! But I also like your inclusion of other aspects of the cityscape, and especially the contrast drawn between the architectural grandeur and the homeless persons at the base. I’m intrigued by the bloke too; was this someone specific you encountered on your way?
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J: Well, he was just a passer-by going about his day. I gave him a smile, which, this being New York, he almost returned! I’ve visited forty-nine of the fifty US states at this point, or quite a few, and over thirty get a bespoke poem in the manuscript. It’s a very interesting country, I think. The library is grand, with some major manuscript holdings. Again, this being New York, there are indeed homeless people at its base, at 6 a.m.
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F: That almost-smile reminds me of how people were in London, John, around the time I used to travel to the capital for job interviews, the early 2000s or so. I love the description of the city through the rest of the poem. The new moon and the pigeons are particularly appealing! You use the word ‘pulse’ at the beginning of the final stanza, which seems a good cue to discuss the meter here. I think the poem’s in pentameter, chiefly iambic, or o-O, to use the well-known eggs-inspired Word-Bird notation; is that right?
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J: You and W.-B. are quite correct, Fliss! This is my default pentameter; and yes, iambic throughout, I believe. I suspect the almost-smile is an urban thing. One mustn’t show weakness! I am chuffed you enjoyed the description of the city. New York City streets do indeed vent steam through their manhole covers. It's good to hear that the moon and the pigeons speak to you too.
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F: To me and to W.-B. alike, John. Returning briefly to the final verse, another highlight here is ‘arterial display’, for its connection with the pulse of the city. Re. meter, with the second line, I hear the emphasis on ‘free’; do you hear it on ‘of’? Of course we have flexible ears at WM and don’t seek to impose our own on others. That would look odd!
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J: That would look very odd! Perhaps the person would then have two pairs of ears. You are quite right, the stress falls on ‘free‘, making the opening to that line perhaps trochaic? But it soon settles back into iambs, I think. I am glad you like the phrase ‘arterial display‘, which is indeed intended to pick up on the word ‘pulse‘ earlier.
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F: Yes, perhaps trochaic! Did you enjoy being in New York, John? Or were there other areas you visited during your US travels that you preferred?
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J: I am very fond of New York City, but as a huge metropolis, it is somewhat different from the countryside and small towns I chronicle elsewhere. I do like to make it to the city every few years, to see friends and feel the pulse of the place.
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F: That’s interesting, John. I imagine it’s much smaller scale, but I remember the contrasts between London and the countryside towns of the Cotswolds, for example. Well, I think we’ve covered everything! Many thanks for your contribution to WM 03.
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J: You’re welcome, Fliss, and Word-Bird too, with her notation. Eggs are egg-sactly the way meter ought to be recorded, when one is avian.
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John Claiborne Isbell is a writer and now-retired professor currently living in Paris with his wife Margarita. Their son Aibek lives in California with his wife Stephanie. John’s first book of poetry was Allegro (2018); he also publishes literary criticism, for instance An Outline of Romanticism in the West (2022) and Women Writers in the Romantic Age (April 2025), both available free online. John spent 35 years playing Ultimate Frisbee and finds it difficult not to dive for catches any more!
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