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.