Saturday, August 27, 2011

Morning Coffee



Morning Coffee 
at the End of the Day



We sat in trance to watch the pale sun rise
drinking chicory coffee whitened with
each others’ scents and sighs,
writing poems in the curl of steam
above the cups, chalking on the skies
that spellbright starwild chase that burns the blood
and ends in darkness, quick release, exanimate mud.

“These still must be gobbled down,”
you said, so professorially weird,
grey as grey could be today
in your wooly suit and beard.
All was not as well as hoped, but much as feared,
for loving is the gate I can’t pass by
and being loved a knot I’ll never tie.

I’m not afraid to keep these mocha kisses,
or braid a supple rope of words
to belt a habit culled from misses,
but what are you, which ghost do I love now?
Even as I ask, the heart confesses:
You love the thing that always runs before,
the shadow come to howl at heaven’s door.

Yet still we drink our coffee here and sing,
those songs that suit our joint imagining;
all bits of you blown scattered across the years,
each artifact dug from bone and cleaned with tears;
the amber eyes, the brown, the sailor blue,
the crack of wise, the note that’s always true,
the bridge that builds itself from golden air,

while you sip, and morning softly greys your hair
from yellow, currant black, till nothing’s there.


August, 2011




Image: courtesy google image search
originating site


12 comments:

  1. Witch, you made my eyes sting with this. It's got such a gentle melancholy beauty to it, and so many striking lines.

    "hat spellbright starwild chase that burns the blood"

    "so professorially weird,
    grey as grey could be today
    in your wooly suit and beard"
    (in fact, that entire stanza)

    "but what are you, which ghost do I love now?"

    And the last three lines...especially the last three lines.

    It is so hard to figure one's self out when it comes to love, let alone to divine what another may be thinking and feeling. Yet we try the door, again and a again, hoping against hope, and in spite of ourselves. And we do it all while drinking coffee and watching the sun come up.

    I will be back to read this one again.

    Re: the picture...ooh, she has long fingers!

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  2. this has a great flow hedge and i love the mood you're painting here.. sitting in trance, coffee whitened with each others scents and sighs...and writing poems in the curl of steam above the cups....THATS WHAT I WANT now...i wanna write all my poems from today on in the curl of steam above my coffee cup... LOVE this....off to get myself a steamy coffee....

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  3. I love this... I was going to say all the things Claudia said. I just love those lines and I can imagine how lovely to write poems in the curl of steam above the coffee cup :)

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  4. Wonderful inroad into the heart-song, the soul of poetry, the writer and her beloved Theme (animated into a lover) sharing a cup of first cup of coffee a the end of day, as a writer warms up to put words to paper in the deepening soak of night. (As this was posted at 2 a.m., I'll venture your morning coffee was midnight oil.)

    Some really stellar observations along the way: The poem about love "chalking on the skies / that spellbright starwild chase that burns the blood / and ends in darkness, quick release, exanimate mud" ... The frustration of never quite naming it right due to a lack or lacuna that is not outside but in -- "All was not as well as hoped but much as feared, / for loving is the gate I can’t pass by/ and being loved a knot I’ll never tie." ... and a harder recognition, from heart to mind that says, "You love the thing that always runs before, / the shadow come to howl at heaven’s door." ... And yet, like an old marriage, the work of naming love never ceases: "Yet still we drink our coffee here and sing, / those songs that suit our joint imagining;.." Outer and inner worlds carrying on the dance, even though the romance is just a verbal trance.

    Very pointed and effective drilling down into the inner nature of song. And a fine, fine love song, even if it's about nothing. Why didn't you include the entire title in the head? It's a great lead into the paradoxes that follow ...- Brendan

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  5. @FB: Thanks for that high compliment. And yes, on the fingers--cool rings, though.

    @Claudia; So glad you like this--your own poems always seem written on a curl of steam, with maybe some chocolate in there somewhere, too. ;-)

    @ayala: Glad you stopped by and had a cup of coffee with us. Thanks.

    @B: Yes, the midnight oil was burning last night--lots of gorgeous stars out, too, it being almost a new moon, but the coffee wouldn't be denied. The full title isn't in the header because the large font(unchangeable without a lot of fiddling) makes it wrap into two lines and enjamb awkwardly;it just looked weird. Thanks for your kind words and clear understanding, and as always, for reading with the inner as well as outer eye.

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  6. professionally weird...haha...nice...sounds like a great start to the day, mocha kisses...a supple braid of rope words...this is lovely...keep that knot tied...and the fire stoked...this is tender hedge...

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  7. Incredibly beautiful. The rhythm, the flow, so many glorious lines, the poignancy, the acceptance, the awareness.......all of it makes for a lovely read - one of your best, I do think and one of my favorites.

    I love especially "starwild", "loving is the gate I cant pass by and being loved the knot I'll never tie" - whoa, that sure resonates with me! - and "you love the thing that always runs before, the shadow come to knock at heaven's door."

    Wowzers, kiddo. You hung the moon with this one.

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  8. I come to the tetra pylon offering Hecate supper and in silence step away. Another inner paramour poem in the same week what can I do but give an offering of gratitude? I cry tears of happiness.

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  9. Thanks, Sherry. Glad you enjoyed it.

    @Anna: Nonsense, stop that crying and feed Hecate before she gets cranky, I say. Thanks so for being fond of these. I don't normally write many love poems, but this one happened to turn up from a stray thought. The wee hours are full of straying thoughts. Part of their charm, if one *must* have insomnia.

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  10. I was star-gazing Saturday night myself, and very starry eyed was I. So this lilting love song echoes my heart that night. I gazed and felt I was in love with just such a one as in your lovely, lovely poem. Oh so beautifully described and felt. . . . each artifact dug from bone and cleaned with tears . . . what a line, as gorgeous as they come.

    Normally I like reading and catching up in chronological order of your posts, but today I'm glad I read this after Danse Macabre. :-)

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  11. @Ruth: Thanks, I'm so glad you enjoyed it, and I'm glad you found something of the same sort floating under the stars. It's always renewing for me when I'm able to find a bit of it out there. (And hopefully this is a good antidote for glugging down embalming fluid.)

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'Poetry is an echo asking a shadow to dance' ~Carl Sandburg