The Edited Editions: Coffee Sonnet 10

10

It's the Sabbath, though that makes no difference,
I have no prayers of real significance.
Anyone in my mind would see dullness,
As no other faces held in focus.

These spaces found, I am of and not of
Within myself, the door never far off.
As a limited place, time slows it's pace,
No rush on the second hand of my face.

It's a bitter drug that keeps my company,
Keeps me awake, so daydreaming's easy.
I wander so I can wonder about
All things considered and some not thought out.

And it won't be long until the other
A different place though named as your brother.

Editing

Not entirely sure what I was writing for the original. It tries too hard to mimic great poets, talking about the greater universe and is also quite narcissistic...even though I don't completely understand all of what I was trying to say!
By toning down the the grandiose thoughts I've managed to concentrate on me not really concentrating. That day I  had no plans and I spent my time just flitting around. I was not in a rush, I could stay or go whenever. The edit I think conveys this in a much more understandable way than the original.

Original

'Tis the Sabbath, this day of non-difference,
Yet a bitter drug I keep company.
I am the centre of my own cosmos, me,
To orbit it nought of no significance.

The beholder of my mind would see dullness,
As much I presume from other faces,
A world after a world, it transfixed is
But less than Luna's spell, 'til found is bliss. 

Such spaces I find, am of and not of,
Flitting through the world, time must slow its pace,
No rush on the second hand of my face,
Meander through the lines before you off.

So it is easy to day dream brother,
O' I wonder, Fratello's my lover?

The Edited Editions: Coffee Sonnet 9

9

Today, opaque takes its first meaning,
The morning sun trapped behind dullish cloud,
Wind whipping round our backs, the flowers bowed,
As the wood fire burned, spitting and crackling.

We had wandered to a red wooden shack,
Once a fisherman's cabin; cosy, warm,
Trinkets, curiose, one painted girl mourns.
No end of coffee, refills 5 cents back.

"It's just to make you happy", when asked they say,
Though the walls, all adorned with frames enough,
And the customers with dogs made of fluff,
Or simply respite from an opaque day.

Though there are always times when one must leave,
You can choose the meaning of two to cleave.

The editing

When a place has so much character it's really easy to imagine this cafe again; a place that gave you 5 cents back for every refill you had of their filter coffee.
Normally my sonnets were written when I was alone, maybe the reason this edit is so close to the original is because this time I was with a group of friends - meaning I wasn't left to my own thoughts, which as I have previously written about can be dangerous!
The changes that have been made are generally updating words/phrases (like, 'I decree') and some changes to the rhyming word also seemed wise. My favourite line now " the flowers bowed", such a graceful image and one that is very easy to see in your head when reading.

Original

This day opaque takes its first true meaning,
Stealing the morning sun behind their clouds.
The wind whips round our backs, the dullness shrouds,
Wood smoke surrounds me, the crackling song.

Off to wander to a wooden shack,
Once a fisherman's cabin, cosy, warm,
Trinkets, curiose, a painted girl mourns,
No end of coffee, refills 5 cents back.

When asked they say it's just to make you happy,
My dear your walls adorned with frames enough
And the characters with dogs who're made of fluff,
I could stay here forever I decree.

Alas it is surely time, time to leave,
Sorrow at separation, two to cleave.

The Edited Editions: Coffee Sonnet 8

8

The rattle of trams coming from the sea
On cold air, that with exposed skin collides.
My knuckles raw and walking quietly
Alone, searching for warmth where I can hide.

Candles flickering as the door opens,
But unmoving those with blankets on chairs.
Sat with sounds as company I listen,
To friendships in flow, their hopes and their fears.

The sharp music of the tram's timpany,
Now nearer, it pierces through that cold air,
Forcing the warmth to plead for clemency,
Before being blown out by winter's snare.

The whites of Luther are crumbling now
Like my skin, head down with furrowed brow.

The edit

On reading the original back I really didn't like it. By purposefully making the place a person it warps the actual enjoyment I got from being at the café.
I only wished to keep the tram's rattle and the whites of Luther, a reference to the Lutheran cathedral that when you got up close you could see the cracks in the paint.
I also referenced the Köket by name which I decided early on in these edits I didn't want to do. The poem is geared toward the café closing and me finding it particularly homely, this led to a dramatisation of that fleeting relationship.
The candle has stayed as well, though I wanted to change its purpose, from subjective to objective. Generally the whole sonnet has changed from a rather dark and sad poem to something that is more matter of fact and warm - despite the cold being ever present (the norm in Finland!) their are elements of warmth that you can identify with, namely the blankets and the head down, not only with furrowed brow but wrapped up in scarf and hat.

The original

O' Köket, you are a cute little thing,
And yet you are closing yourself to me.
The rattle of trams coming from the sea,
Outside your window where the choirs sing.

Our candle burns so slowly but so warm,
But you are contained and so out you go.
Joining the cold air, the harbinger crow.
No warning shown that your cold heart is torn.

You leave me not alone, but empty sure,
I can't afford to buy more company,
So soon I too shall leave, my own timpany
Sending me on my way, find your own cure.

The whites of Luther are crumbling now
But sweet Köket you shall leave with a bow.

The Edited Editions: Coffee Sonnet 7

It's been some time again since I posted and this is in part due to my laptop breaking. So this time around I have two sonnets to post.

These proved tricky to adapt to the way I enjoy poetry now and you may think the originals flow a bit better.

7

It is in this place that I often sit,
Longing for many things, hopeless really.
The dreams confined to a bottomless pit,
Though no darkness, with light shining clearly.

Ambiguous abstracts of solar flares
That blaze from the cut glass that drinks are poured,
Off metal machines and the locks of hair
But how heavy are the chains they secure?

I can leave this metropolitan jail,
As the work of my imagination,
Created for the purpose of a tale,
My inward self an inky pollution.

Be warned, that to be alone with your thoughts
Is not safe or warm but where danger courts.

The Edit

There were 3 quite important things that I wanted to keep from the original (below): "ambiguity, abstracts of the sun", we are always attracted to light and when it shines through, and on, so many different surfaces the sun can show all the colours of the spectrum - I thought that was quite beautiful; "locks that fall, how may I see you clearly? And how heavy are the chains they secure", this is important because of the subject, with reference to Goldilocks and shackles showing a dramatised representation of that person; "never leave yourself alone with your thoughts. Safe and warm, these lines show where danger courts", in the original this really becomes the volta which I tried to address in the edit by making you aware that the previous stanzas are highly affected by the very act of me being alone and allowing myself to think about stuff - that bottomless pit.
An important addition, which is linked to that solitary thought, is the line "created for the purpose of a tale". This is because I can often find myself creating stories from the thoughts I have about the real world, not necessarily fantastical but stories that are  possibilities - what if this...? So this line fits in well with both the bottomless pit of the first stanza and Goldilocks in the second but also the ending, having a courtship with danger as your thoughts can become an unknown space.

The original

It is here I decided to have fun,
If that is what you'd call it over there.
I long for many things, hopeless really,
They are all so far from me and so close.

Ambiguity, abstracts of the sun,
How will I be judged? Skin and mind so fair?
Locks that fall, how may I see you clearly?
Or are they in chains? I fear, I suppose.

Hopes and dreams surround my cafe latte,
How metropolitan of me I know.
My inner workings, they can hurt me, so,
Run to my friends or sanity shall pay.

Never leave yourself alone with your thoughts,
Safe and warm, these lines show where danger courts.

The Walker

Tired feet,
Aching legs
And heavy shoulders.
Stiff neck,
Dry lips
And cold ears.
But cheeks flushed,
Eyes keen
And hair swept. 

Walking in The Garden of Ireland

There are an endless string of hellos,
As I walk the Wicklow way.
With the steady thud and crunch of my feet
Across hills and mountains,
I'm not sure which.
Crows gliding with the wind
And the screams of deer riding on it.
A chilling sound, colder than the air,
Though still a sight when near.
A map guides me
And from Laragh to Mullacor I trekked,
Before the Spink brought me to Glendalough
On a blessed day,
The sun shining upon my back
And rain held at bay.
Yet the contours never give up
And for a day, that's enough. 

Sitting somewhere above Lough Dan, Wicklow

Sheltering between knuckled rocks,
Looking across a misty space
Whilst above the mirrored loch.
The only sound, nature's silence;
The unseen win brushing by
And the drizzle pattering my sack.
A distant call from within the gorse,
As I take to my feet
Of course, the wind finds new voice,
Now pushing, rather than brushing past.
For the moment I share the sky with the clouds,
Gathering and flowing on.
But I'll be meeting the ground again,
Not before long,
As I take to my deer
And head on.