this time

Another free-verse originally posted over at Long Awaited’s Poetry Thursday. This is basically a chick-flick in poetry form, though on repeated readings there does seem to be a kind of other-wordly feel to some of it. Maybe neither of them are entirely alive, or one of them is, or it’s just a plain old romance story. I’ll leave it up to you to decide for yourself.

–

 

The first time

he walks by her

little table

in the sun-lit plaza

she misses him

entirely

because she is

looking

–long, intently–

at the building.

It reflects the light

all arches

steel and stone

reach high and soar

into the cream-blue sky

–beautiful, elegant–

and so she

doesn’t notice his

quick gaze.

He thinks she is

–captivating–

in the golden afternoon

with her dark eyes

pointed far

above his head and

he wishes

–fleeting, wistfully–

that he was just

a fraction

taller to her

notice.

 

The second time

she strolls by

him in the rain

where he

misses her

barely

as he watches

–tired, absently–

the figures shudder past

in the puddle

at his feet.

The lights shift

and the world dances

–uncertain, trembling–

in the water’s skin

where he

catches glimpses of her heels

and writes it off

to mere

imaginings.

She marks him

–striking–

and wishes he

would leave

reflections

and see her

stepping past.

 

The next time

he looks

left at the flash

of a camera

–blinding, sudden–

instead.

She glances down

when the crack

nearly trips up her

heels

–jarring, uneven–

and

they walk past.

–Nearly.–

 

But this time

he turns

as she rounds the

corner golden

sun in her hair

reflects in his eyes

–Sorry, I didn’t–

–No, really, it’s fine–

They step on

together, future

unknown past

the next bend

in the

street.

First time of

many.

–Hello.–

We have lost a thousand ways of knowing…

This will probably be my last shot at free-verse for a while (I’m starting to itch for more structure), but I thought it was worth posting. The quote in the title comes from someone else. This is not how she meant the phrase, but it is how I find myself applying it to her speech. The content of the poem (and especially the ironic sense) naturally comes from me.

-

“We have lost a thousand ways of knowing…”

Cool fall outside
Bright wind, sharp sky
Oft held at bay
By glass and screen
Trickles in
Breezes through and
Makes the
shutters bang
against the pane
Loud percussion
strikes the air
and bounces
against her wise
words of
philosophy
Phrases of man
and nature bound in
walls and
theories
Quick-silver in quiet
Tossed like
seafoam
crackling leaves
blown by the wind
that bangs
the shutters open
Will you not
close the
window,
teacher?

Your deep speech
of man and his
place in the
world are
soon lost in
the long
tone of the
breeze which
whistles in
Carrying the dying
world in its cool hands
The shutters
rattle loud
against
your stronghold

Quick, teacher,
before
you too
are blown away
After your
speaking.

at the corner

This free-verse is a little long, a little depressing, and turned out more than a little different than I expected it to. Ah well–sometimes poetry shows us what we don’t expect to see, and that’s half the beauty of the thing, I suppose. It wouldn’t be half as much fun otherwise.

-

I find him on the

street corner covered

beneath the awning to

avoid the driving rain

that beats against the grime-smeared

cement of the sidewalk

and pounds against my red umbrella

like a funeral drummer drumming

He leans against the rough brick wall

hands in the pockets of

his gray coat

looking down at the water running

over the pavement

and looking oddly

like himself

or at least the himself

that I remember from

so long ago

Not the same man though

because with him looking down

not seeing me (like he ever did)

he seems hollow

a shell empty

of the emotions I have

so long attached to him

and without those he just

stands gray and still

and utterly strange

Just a man now

a man I haven’t met

and am about to now

Why am I here?

It takes so much effort

trying to start again

when there seems nowhere

left to start

except for this rain-slicked corner

on the grimy sidewalk

where I am about to meet

the man who used to be

my father

I pause on the street

rain drum-drumming on

my red umbrella

and I think about turning back

just turning on my heel and

leaving him behind

to the rain

and the corner and the awning

and all the rest of it

that I worry to approach but

then I see him there

He stands beneath the awning

hands in the pocket of his gray coat

eyes downcast and he looks

sad and lonely

and hollow and not at all like

I remember him

Maybe that’s because

I remember him wrong but

I know that look

all dark and absent and inside the head

like no one can see

I have often seen it in

the mirror

on the days I think of him and me

and little else

I could turn and run

off into the gray rain and

leave him far behind but then

what would that do

except leave me

too?

He looks up at me

Our eyes meet across the

few feet of sidewalk

between us and I see a

bit of something in his eyes

that I relate to

And maybe I see him now

the other memories

washed out by the loud

drum-drumming of the rain

that sends my footsteps

like a forced march

towards him like an invitation

I am not my father

But he is

standing here looking cold

and wet

and miserable

and like the human being

I didn’t remember

but that I can see right here

in front of me

So I walk forward

and let the red umbrella

drop because

what’s left

to hide

now that we seem to

be different

people than the ones

we came to meet?

Hi Dad

It’s been a while

Yeah

Me too

An Ode to the Transforming Power of the Coffee Bean

Another contribution to Long Awaited’s Poetry Thursday. My love for coffee and my predilections for metaphor and introspection all came to a head in this.

I.

Oh little bean
that grows fat
and ripe
under the sun
in sedate happiness and
tranquility sublime
Do you not know your life
is just beginning
That all your basic traits will
morph with
time?

Your lovely skin will brown
and blacken
as you’re roasted o’er bright
heat’s flame
And your rich scents
escape as barriers slacken
Until you are
transformed,
deepened,
changed
in all but name

II.

Oh little roasted, hapless bean,
so sorely put upon
Your suff’ring mounts
as through the grinder
you trudge
The solidarity of
your individuality
powdered
and gone
And you reduced to no more
than black sludge.

Then the heat’s too great
to bear
and water’s flowing through
But your best traits
—your taste, your smell—
survive
You’ve changed from
simple bean
to complex brew
Your ugly
grounds
are filtered out
You are
very much alive.

III.

Oh little blended bean
now dancing in
my cup
Was this new state not worth
your trials and snares?
Your excess heat
and tears
waft slowly up
to leave you
drinkable, free of
former cares

Your purpose is achieved,
destiny found
As you bring joy
and energy
to my gray day
Though you still contain
the occasional ground
Your hard life then
makes you
warm
today

IV.

Oh beaten bean,
that I could be like
you as my
happiness
and calm
are
plucked
from
me
I have to endure
roasting
and grinding, too
When I am
powdered
down, useful may
I be

When I am harshly
filtered out
And purified by
stifling heat
May I sing rather than shout
And end up
A pleasant
cup
to everyone I meet.

V.

Pondering on God’s
precious bean,
I swirl my cup and think
I wish
my life to
emulate
the coffee that
I drink.

What Shadows

“What shadows we are, what shadows we pursue!” -Edmund Burke. This sonnet was originally written for Long Awaited’s Poetry Thursday.

Your mem’ry clings like shadows to my heels
and streams behind me in the light of day–
although the thoughts are weightless, still it feels
as if you dog my footfalls on the way.
The morning creeps before me into noon
when harsh beams strike my eyes as down they shine.
I lose my way entirely, and soon,
the feet that walk are yours, and shadow’s mine.
Which one of us now follows, and who leads?
Perhaps I shade your turns in day’s slow fade,
since in the bright of sun everything needs
the silhouetting cast by choices made.
Dark and dark we be, and I tread lonely.
What are we, my dear, but shadows only?

The Five-Minute Sonnet

This is exactly what the title suggests. I had five minutes to write a poem. This happened.

-

My pen grows weary in my heavy hand

As paper glares at me beneath the light.

The black print smudges into one thick band

As weariness and boredom I do fight.

Oh, what has happened to my afternoon?

When it began I had a load of hours!

But now my deadline cometh far too soon

And I spent time staring at the flowers.

I wish I had begun this yesterday,

Fro now my brain and pen are running dry.

This homework seems triumphant in the fray,

And if I do not finish I will die!

The golden sun is fading in the west,

So now I finish writing, and go rest.

Death Tapped at My Window

In the midst of storm

A dark, heavy, rain-laden night

That bubbled up like tar from

A bright cool April,

Death tapped at my window.

-

Tap tap, he sounded,

But I only thought to hear

The rain upon the windowpane.

-

Tap tap, he rapped again,

But I only noticed flashes

And the crack of lightning.

-

The storm moved on.

I did not notice his tall form

Where it stood for

Just a moment

In the bright light of dawn

Before he faded with

The rain.

-

In the dusk of evening

A fresh, warm, golden twilight

That lingered on forever

At the end of pretty June,

Death hurried past outside.

-

Run run, he said (I think, to himself)

But I did not fear for me,

Because he was passing by.

-

Run run, he said again,

But I did not stop him,

Because he was in a rush.

-

The twilight moved on.

I lost track of his long shadow

Where it disappeared

In just a breath

Into the other gray shadows

Before he faded with

The light.

-

In the biting wind

A chill, dying, melancholy afternoon

That chased men from

The beginning of November,

Death passed me on the road.

-

Swish swish, went his robe,

But I feared to look,

In case he neared me.

-

Swish swish, went his robe again,

But I could only shiver,

As he passed me on the side.

-

The wind moved on.

I watched him stride away

As he moved along

With firm, long strides

Into my future

And though he disappeared,

I feared.

-

In the cold of dawn,

A freezing, stark, white morning

That froze the world’s rotation

In the middle of January,

Death knocked on my door.

-

Knock knock, he pounded,

But I hesitated,

Unsure if I was ready.

-

Knock knock, he tried again,

But I came slowly,

Feeling very young.

-

The dawn moved on.

I saw the light of day

As it came in to me

Like new life

That I began to understand

And so I reached to let

Him in.

-

Come in, I said,

And he smiled at me,

Because I understood.

-

Come in, I said again,

And let us have a drink

Before we go.

The Violinist

Not quite lyrics, but not exactly normal poetry either, these lines were loosely inspired by Judith Jarvin Thomson’s theoretical moral dilemma of the dying violinist. The finished product bears little resemblance to her original line of reasoning, which is a good thing, since I didn’t agree with it to begin with.

–

Waking up

From mediocrity

To discover

Life is not my own

Whose life is this anyway?

-

Good intentions make this bed

Best intentions tie me here

Music notes are in my ears

Choices twisting round my head

With little choice at all

-

Disconnected from light of day

Forever tied

To a dead violinist

The genius of this dead violinist

Is my life worth the dead violinist?

-

Inspiration coursing through my veins

Inspiration never mine

Life leaking out

Into another’s soul

Heart no longer beating in me

My life is just

A dead violinist

-

Connected by a plastic tube

To a ball and chain of

Flesh and bone

Lying still with

The dead violinist

Am I really all alone?

-

Cornered now by dark and darker

My petty life is growing dim

Sacrifices must be made

But made by me, or made by him?

Now let the violins begin…

-

Inspiration coursing through my veins

Inspiration always his

Life leaking out

Into another’s soul

Heart no longer beating in me

My life is just

A dead violinist

-

Life is just a dead violinist

Can we live without a violinist?

My heart belongs to a violinist

My blood’s in a dying violinist

And I never gave it away

-

Inspiration coursing through my veins

Inspiration bleeding me

Life leaking out

Into another’s soul

Heart no longer beating in me

My life is just

A dead violinist

-

My dreams are victims of violins

His dying gasps are music to my ears

The music of the world

My heart is beating in his chest

Am I really all alone?

-

Am I really all alone?

I am really all alone

With the world’s last great dead violinist?

Will they even miss this violinist?

-

Mediocrity is sacrificed

For the world’s great inspiration

Inspiration dead to me

We all sleep on the dying bed

To be the blood bank

Of the violinist

The world must have its violinist

-

Because life is worth the violinist

If he ever really played.

Longing (or: The Homesick Disciple)

I feel the ache the most on lonely nights

When air is warm and stars shine softly down

Upon the old creased corners of my bed

And light up seas of sheets where I may drown

For body may lay prone, but heart does not

As soul chafes from the weary chains of sin

That bind it to this harsh, ungainly world

Lit by what star-bright hope can filter in

The light of endless joy seems just beyond

The near dark ceiling of the stars above

As if my vision weakens at the brink

Of seeing His deep felt heart-wrenching love

I watch the wall where moonlight’s deftly thrown

And long with all my heart for glimpse of home

The Secluded Scholar (a sonnet)

The shadows on the wall grow long and dark

as golden afternoon begins to fade

and dwindle to a gray and wat’ry mark

that dampens now the joyous noise of day.

Do you remember, dearest, when you bade

me to fill up those shining afternoons

by making for my yellowed books a trade:

dust for air and twilight dark for bright noon?

Those lovely days have left us far too soon,

as treasured daytime bold creeps into night.

Oh, if your joyous love I could exhume,

the coming dusk would be no fearful sight!

I long for your bright laugh and golden looks,

for I am choked at night by dusty books.