A Berlin Ballad

Above: the Reichstag from the outside. Below: the inside of the glass dome with the mirrors and ramps.

This past week I have been toiling away at my online high school, trying to make up for all the time I've spent "playing" in Berlin and Paris recently. My English class is going especially well, and I only have to turn in a project before I'm finished with the class. One of the assignments I had for my final was to write a narrative poem with a surprise at the end, inspired by Elizabeth Bishop's "The Fish." I wrote mine on our visit to the Reichstag in Berlin a couple weeks ago. Here it is:

The Reichstag

An old building in the middle of a square:

the usual steps leading to grand columns,

the usual yellow stone façade, perfectly symmetrical.

Four flags flying from corners;

black, red, and yellow

whipping in the wind.

The usual cold marble

with echoes of important people

and secretaries in heels.

We wait in line for security.

We wait in line for the elevator.

We wait in line for audio guides

Out of the usual glass doors

we walk on to the roof,

A slap of rain as we dash

into the unusual dome:

A glass orb, a hamster ball,

with ramps winding up around a cone of mirrors.

It’s cold here too,

but it’s from the opening at the top

instead of the hard stone downstairs.

The glass is obscured from the mist;

we bend over to look out,

spiraling upward.

At first we see only tops of buildings,

streets below.

But as we wind higher we see the park,

acres and acres of yellows and reds,

greens and golds.

Whole patches of crimson

defy the grey sky.

We corkscrew our way down,

another blast of rain.

We wait for the elevator.

We wait for the doors.

As we turn for a photo,

we can just see a glass sliver between flags. 

Lily