Poetry Prompt 6 - ‘Chance Encounters’

August 15, 2008


This week’s poetry prompt is ‘Chance Encounters’. Write a poem about a chance encounter you’ve had or can imagine. Was it your future husband whilst on-board a flight across the Atlantic Ocean? Or maybe a small conversation with a beautiful young lady you had 30 years ago which has not faded from memory.

Two years ago I was living in central Berlin. When walking to the local supermarket one day I came across an elderly drunkard lying on a bench who sparked my interest and which resulted in a short-short-story which is as follows:

A man, lying on the bench. He seemed asleep, perhaps he was dead. That couldn’t be, he was in motion still. Fingers twitched, spread outwards ever so slightly then closed. His chest heaved, once powerful lungs expanding and contracting. The wrinkles around his eyes were deep, torturous, scars of a hard life. The eyelids fluttered like the wings of a butterfly. He was an old man, in his 70’s maybe, solid in build but weathered by the onslaught of time. On the floor, next to his reclining figure were a dozen beer bottles, all of them empty.

Long ago, his youthful vigour had disappeared. The once clear complexion without lines or blemishes, had faded into distant memory. Even he could not remember now, the days of his youth. Images from the past paraded through his mind but were distorted, mutated, like the broken film reel found in the dusty attic. Faces of those he once knew splintered into those he saw staring at his tattered clothing.

When he was awake, drinking beer after beer, in a drunken haze, he had watched people walking past. The bench was situated a few metres off the main road in a miniature park, therefore he was able to observe from a distance. From beneath the trees he had seen the mass of arms and legs, merging into one another, creating a fog that eventually sent him to slumber.

As I glanced at his large belly protruding from beneath his dark green jumper, I saw not an old drunkard but a baby being held by it’s mother, close to her breast. The loving eyes that had once looked down upon his forehead, the soft fingers that had tickled his ears and stroked his cheeks. A heart that had been filled to the brim with love, now deceased, like the innocent and playful smile of that child.

An old man, alone with his bottles, asleep in the centre of Berlin.

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Born in 1936, Werner had spent his entire life living in Berlin. From the tribulations of the Second World War he had garnered a great interest in Philosophy, especially Existentialism. He put this to use after his education by teaching in the main Berlin University. Years later, after a failed marriage and the unrelenting flashbacks from his war torn childhood, he turned to drink and fell into alcoholism. Finally, despite sympathetic attempts to help, he was made jobless by his employers. For a couple of decades now, Werner has become a regular site in the Mitte district of the city, always seen with a bottle to hand.
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When you have completed the poem, post the direct link in the ‘auto-links’ box below and also make a comment in the comment’s section. Before or following this, take time over the coming week to visit other entries from fellow poets and add a friendly comment or two regarding what you felt about their poem. This last part is vital if we are all to gain value from this exercise.

Next Thursday evening I will create a round-up of my personal favourite pieces but remember, this is not a competition. If you need any help or advice, then either contact me or pose a question in the comments section and I’m sure someone will be available to give you a hand.

Posted by Edward | Filed Under Weekly Poetry Prompt | 13 Comments