Another of mine, in the form of a naïve defence of coffee and poetry in challenging times.
| Coffee at Dusk What road might poetry disclose, away and out from under curdled cloud’s suspense? Not medicine or therapy, but play: the skipping-rope and hop-scotch back and forth of metre, patterned sound, display and rule, a round of kick-the-can to summon back the raucous aimlessness of youth that knew no pleasure but the passing of one day to no end more than honest self-delight. The body’s pleasure in its own bourrée that trips it lightly past all pestilence, unheeding whether fate will wink or pounce. A kind of clarity that knows itself against all horror that might else befall. Let be, let go and dance because this day will end in night’s uncertainty and sleep, its airs aswim with fireflies, new stars and dusk like coffee stirred of black and white. |