Stopping by a Café to Drink a Poem
Stopping by a Café to Drink a Poem.
How do you choose a poem to write? she asked.
How do you find the pulse of that vein,
that something precious which is nowhere?
I thought I'd be clever and say -
Love, the poem chooses me,
but she preempted me and said -
now don't say - the poem chooses you
'cause it doesn't mean a thing.
.
I thought a while,
letting the sound of coffee machine
and the aroma of fresh bread fill the space,
the pleasure of a girl laughing at the table next to ours,
the beauty of hearing "One peppermint mocha with extra crème".
I smiled at her, and still said nothing,
her quizzical eyebrows asking her question again.
I silently beseeched her to wait a while
as the answers were there to come.
The door tinkled as customers walked in
to a cheery good evening from the front,
an infant broke into a cry so loud,
probably to hear her mother coo and sing.
I put my hand in front of her
pushing the demerara & cream aside,
her eyes then said she knew what I meant
and she interlinked her fingers to mine.
.
There was poetry all around for us
in this city which we loved ever so much,
I felt my way through the evening,
I'm glad she felt the same as me.
She smiled and said - I can be a poet too
by just being in the things around -
a poet is anyone who rides life's wave,
and let's the ebb find the words which flow.
Musings
Where does a poem come from? Where is its birth place? What is its ancestry?
I have found poetry as a wound finds its scar, or a plucked flower finds an altar.
The process is organic like breathing and unstructured as a heart plunging. It often starts as a curiosity to know deeply about something, a desire to unravel, to understand. But quickly it becomes an investigation, an overwhelming desire to unravel light. Fingers become a conduit, ink is the blood which starts flowing from the wounds which burst to reveal truths.
And I see myself clearer, and I see myself uglier. I might not realize that deep inside this ugliness lies the ultimate secret. Because till then I have not realized that all truths are beautiful, however hideous they might seem. And that's when poetry enters it's most tremulous state - that of healing. For a poem, finally, is a true friend. It is both a mirror and a hand. It jolts you at the same time as it holds you. A good poem is a hard fall which also holds you as you tumble through the air.
You will know whether you've encountered a great poem when you emerge from it fully drenched, lacerated, scarred - but strangely, strangely, alive.
Prompt
Have you read a poem which has left you breathless, because you found it so close to your skin - almost as if it was written for you.
Why not share the poem?
And maybe, write in a few lines talking about why it is so precious to you.
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