poets practice magic
by scooping our guts out in public
whilst trying to express some triumph of hope
we may occasionally reach
that special place
the collective
where we all plug in to each other
closer than friends
closer than lovers
caught by magic
On Day 12 of NapoWriMo (for which I am writing a poem a day throughout April) I was sitting in a 1940’s themed cafe called Fourteas in Stratford-upon-Avon. Two of us come from the UK and two from Australia. We have known each other online (as avatars only) for quite a long time but had met face to face for the first time only 2 days before.
The Day 12 poetry prompt for of the day was to write a Haibun about your surroundings. I wrote The Rain it Raineth Every Day (my post for April 12th) but suggested we all do one while sitting in the 1940’s cafe.
This is the result ~
from Keith ~
I’m sitting here out of the wind and rain
with the water running down the drain.
Oh, how I wish I was home, in the warmth of the sunshine.
Oh, happy days, happy days
I’m drinking tea
instead of coffee
Oh, happy days, happy days
We’re soon to leave these lovely people
to make a twenty-hour flight.
That will give us a fright.
Oh, happy days, happy days
We are going on a cruise and that’ll be swell
so hopefully all will be well.
Oh, happy days, happy days
We’re still sitting here with sandwiches and tea
and hope to be reunited with thee and thee
Oh, happy days, happy days
From Cath
Rain-soaked streets and drab shops
Bring back dog-eared layers of memory
Dragging dreary days filed in melancholy feeling.
Make do and Mend. Waste Not Want Not.
I remember factory girls clattering past,
Cloths tied around their heads,
Brushing by laughing and gossiping.
It was austere, all right.
They never had brie. Or grapes. Back then.
Only bomb-sites. And empty buildings.
Slipping realities. Sitting in a 1940s café with
A good friend I’ve only just met.
Are pixels more real than flesh?
Or prims less fake than war-time décor?
And what about that waitress with a German accent?
In the street, we dance Swan Lake in boots and coats,
With a real swan.
Who hisses. Pissed off.
It still rains.
from Barbara
Four fabulous friends, who met on the internet, find each other in real life, laughing and having a fun and living the moment, enjoying each others company and hoping the day will never end. Amid spiced tea and sandwiches, precious memories are made, never to be forgotten.
Passing food amongst us all
Amid many smiles
Happiness is tangible
and from me
Churchill yells from the wall, ”Let’s go forward together!”
I look across the table. The Victoria Sponge is behind us. On closer inspection it’s dry and too heavy, rather like the days that are memorised here, in glamourised nostalgia.
I was born a little after the war and all I recall is the sweets still rationed and the bombsites; the sad, damp wall-paper flapping from shattered bedroom walls in the wind.
My newsfeed bleeps from my phone. Missiles aimed at Syria.
Back then Pearl Harbour was bombed.
The Chattanooga Choo Choo just keeps choo-chooing on.
Let’s stay at the tea table and just keep moving around. I’ll be the Hatter. You pour the tea. Be ‘mother’.
People have got to stop killing each other.
We’ll meet again.
Don’t know where.
Don’t know when.
Footnote: The word ‘prim’ is an abbreviation of ‘primative‘ – a word to denote a building block in alternative reality
Time passes,
time drags,
time repeats,
time snags,
Time ticks by.
There he lays.
The room is dark.
The room is cold.
Childrens’ voices pierce the veil.
Here is the killing of a King.
Lady Macbeth reaches out.
No-one grasps her bloodied hand.
Time rolls round
and time rolls round.
The end is set
by moments marked on a digital clock.
Death marks the walls with fast drawn chalk.
This is the circle ambition brings.
Generations repeat the sin.
In the street outside,
with early signs of April rain,
the swan bends down and folds its wings.
In the cafe down the road,
by the window where light falls
on polished wood, the books are glued,
their pages shut, their words unknown.
An old man shuffles by alone.
On every table in the room,
the yellow rose is in full bloom.
Shakespeare’s lips are butterflies wings.
Four friends meet and seal a bond.
They all know the plays the thing.
What i miss most are the voices;
the sleepy mutter at breakfast,
the shouting,
from one end of the house to the other,
and the slamming of doors,
see you later.
Those serious talks while washing up,
the flood of sound as friends burst in
welcome but unexpected,
the laughter and tales over dinner,
the distant voices out on the beach,
as the sun sinks in purples and pinks,
their words just out of reach,
then the quiet,
when all grows tender and hushed,
bringing the whispers of nightfall.
I wish you all a Merry Yule
Leave the office, field and school
And gather round the winter fire
Enjoy the pleasures you desire
Remember though the golden rule
And the purpose of the Yule
Bring your hearts to share with friends
This is the gift that never ends
after the party
later on
the lovely part was
when there were only six of us left
we had to sleep in one room
by the fire we sat and talked until dawn
and when we woke again at mid day
these strangers were all close friends
we never met again
The Dreaming Path 