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 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 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. 

Moisturising Ain't Enough

Skin hardening.
Cracking to the extent that    
'Hey man I like your style...
Can I show you something for under your eyes?'
Frowns and stares,
More than laughter and care
Free attitude to the highest bidder who pissed me off today.
For no real reason than I've lost that cliché,
The spark in my eye,
The apple
And no butterfly.  

Your heart doesn't harden,
Nor does the blood run thick.
There's a reason though
and the rhyme will be found,
That maybe I'm just wanting
A three worded sound.

The Edited Editions: Coffee Sonnet 6

Well it's been a while. University took over and I have made excuses of being busy ever since, so it is only now that I've given myself the time to sit down with my sonnets again. This is number 6.

6. 

It was my first feeling of being at home,

A familiarity with the room, 

Enough to have felt comfort on my own, 

With the china clinks providing the tune. 

It could have been the weather that took me, 

The global mist fading what was in front. 

Leaving the grey walkers of Esplanadi

As the shaded focus of the pavement. 

So I watched the mono-saturated:

The white faces, black ties and overcoats, 

Unaware of my blue eyes fixated,

Playing the game of cafes, taking notes. 

Before leaving the colour behind too

And joining the ashen catwalk's few.

The original of this is full of awfully forced rhymes and generally when I re-read it felt that it needed wholesale change. 

As I've taken a turn toward observation with my poetry I decided that the act of observation within the sonnet was a nice frame to keep; that's also a reason for pushing it into the past tense, as a reflected observation on me observing. 

It jumped out that colour was really what I wanted to put across here - though I did it in a pathetic fallacy kind of way; the link of the cliched British weather with what I assume was a current mood, though this time I found it difficult to remember the moment - something I haven't struggled with as yet. 

I've copied a technique observed in the past semester in the edit: by leaving colour out, and deliberately noting the black and white shades, it focuses the blue of the watching eyes, which is then only placed to set up the eventual joining to colourless life outside. This is as the cafes were moments of reflection and a time-out from the rush of Erasmus life, it can come across negatively with this description - that it was when away from it that I regained the colour in my eyes but at this moment the weather and amount of work I had becomes synonymous with a dulled eye. 

In the original I say "Watching fashion", this is why I observe the ties and overcoats, simple garments that can influence a look and though black and white the "catwalk" of the edit brings the potential juxtaposition of weathered against new. 

Though I am still unsure of the "china clinks" line it is the only real connotation of why the room is familiar, implying a tea room, whilst also being an over arching comment on separation from Erasmus in Helsinki. 

It's also a point to note that some of the original doesn't even really make sense, hopefully the improvements are substantial. 

Original.

The First time I have felt like I'm at home, 

All because of a familiar clink. 

More like a tearoom, no need for my phone, 

Cakes and pastries awaiting my lips, think

This is the place I was recommended.

I sit here, gazing at those who go past. 

My place at the front should be commended,

Watching fashion, no questions do I ask. 

The grim outside mocks me, return I'm waiting

The low mist pathetic, damp, insipid.

I must leave but not yet, work is berating

Me, I'll watch: but who am I to kid? 

People watching is a game for cafes, 

But the warmth shall turn my day to a haze. 

The Edited Editions: Coffee Sonnet 5

5. 

Rosemary and cardamom on my tongue:

Infused in the air and the cold white ice

In my mouth, with undecided thoughts hung

Like my pen, waiting for an inky voice.

Looking for words to fill my empty lips,

As my fingers tread the page for the beat

Matching my heart, and the feet as they skip

Over the distant chatter in the street.

Peter! Time directs its hand to my face;

At least, my friends tell me its time to leave. 

Darkness rising and day ending at pace.

So them to me, and I to my pen cleave.

A napkin with blurred lines held in my hand

The noise of my unheard thoughts, as I stand. 

This poem has been the most difficult to edit so far; I think this is because I am starting to be much more confident and consistent with, I guess, a bastardised form of imagism and so I'm becoming much more aware of devices I'm using. 

Poetically there are some very obvious ones, "hung" being left at the end of the line with no punctuation and "skip/ Over" using the same device and paralleling the image. The volta is probably the strongest I have formed; by taking what originally started the poem and developing it with the imagery of time that I had thrown about the original copy there is a much more emphatic (thanks to the nominalisational exclamative "Peter!") snap into an awareness of the surroundings rather than the self and specifically the mouth. The dual meaning available to the verb "cleave" is very important as I aim to confuse the reader as to who takes either one - to part or to adhere to. 

I am still unsure of the final couplet though it  does tie in with the first two stanzas as well as positioning the persona in a stance to leave; this image I do like as it is as if the persona is leaving the poem as the reader ends this sonnet. It is certainly better than the original ending which at the time obviously shows my inability to understand the word kitsch and also passes a judgement which I don't particularly like. "Alter ego" is a reference to the name of the place we were at ("artelier ego") and is far too removed from the casual reader to make any sense of. 

The "Czech, Polish, Swiss and Dutch my friends, I think/ Wish to leave..." is a fun line and clearly the "I think" begins to question whether the persona fully agrees with the initial statement "my friends" but to why is left unknown. 

In an earlier edit I tried to keep the empty glass line too, especially due to the "empty on my lips" which is an image I have obviously kept for the final edit - but with a much stronger focus, as a persona that is trying to write words that are available to them but not articulated.

Original

Come on, food is your interest Peter!

So here I am in someone's home, loving

The dark, earthy colours. As I'm sat here

We are artists and we are coveting. 

Feet shall tread throughout the day in this place.

Rosemary and cardamom infuse their tastes, 

Harried am I, time staring me in the face

Second hands, arriving filling up plates.

This napkin that I write bleeds out the ink

The glass that I drink empty on my lips

Czech, Polish, Swiss, and Dutch my friends, I think

Wish to leave this place, kind words we go, tips.

Alter ego, taken with a twist, it's

Restaurant day in Helsinki, how kitsch.

The Edited Editions: Coffee Sonnet 4

4.

A cafetiere stands on the table. 

Loose leaf tea drifting in ever-greening

Water - as time drifts with it in a lull

For us, sat apart from our surrounding.

Sunk into the two sofas by the window,

Eyes closed but I see from constant voices.

Korvapuusti's cinnamon smell thrown

Across to nostrils, which begin to rejoice.

The air scolded and split like paper torn,

As the beans, ground and tampered compactly

Wait to line my tulip cup. Clasped to warm

Cold hands; steam rising, curling toward me.

And, in that, return to our window seat.

The moment where back to life I retreat.

The Edit

I found this week's edit quite difficult; again on reading back the original I thought it was disjointed and quite specific on either surroundings which couldn't be imagine...but that didn't add anything ("T is flipped here, made in cafetieres" for example) or on themes I'd already looked at (the kinds of people who frequent the cafe). 

  There were however lines that I liked and certainly ideas that I wished to keep - most specifically the sounds of coffee being made, which in the edit are used at the volta to snap back into the reality of life (noted by the cold hands, as before everything is homely and a sense of warmth is attempted). I like this volta largely because it is a definite parallel to the reasons I go to cafes and also works more effectively than the original's attempt at degrading the status of another cafe. This is something I have and will continue in my edits, the omittance of names, as it limits the availability of the poem to a reader; I would like to ensure a liminality to the cafes in these sonnets so that the experiences within them can be shared, rather than confined to the specific space I was in a year ago. Furthermore the constant voices in the second stanza allude to the fullness of the cafe and thus embodies all the people in the original that are omitted in the edit (families, students and lovers). 

  I think, on the whole, I manage to keep the essence of my original poem but create imagery that flows and is accessible - which is where I think the original fails: 'the dark bodies of other nations dear' was clearly something poignant at the time but the inability of my other lines to coalesce around this idea means it is empty of any real meaning. This is also why 'young tyke', something originally associated with the first line 'American retro writing', are both cut from the sonnet as they do not immediately provide that link.

  I am aware that talking of time and it slowing can be quite cliche and to attempt to lessen that I have linked it to the tea leaves, a moment in time that can be fixed upon - something similar to staring into a fire, I guess. 

  There are also reductions in obvious rhyme, something again I will probably continue as I think it can sometimes feel too forced and in some cases has pushed me (at the time) to create a line that doesn't necessarily work. 

  

Original.

American retro writing adorns

Your windows, two, sofas we sit upon.

I can hear your namesake, like paper torn

The sound of constant voices never gone.

T is flipped here, made in cafetiers;

But that is not the smell that pervades here. 

Ground and beaten, scolded, poorly it fairs

The dark bodies of other nations fear.

Beside Roberts' you are beside yourself

Serving better coffee that that top scum.

Bringing in youth let us drink to our health.

Like saunas, steam, lures our bodies to come. 

Families, students and lovers alike

Yet probably treated as the young tyke.

The Edited Editions: Coffee Sonnet 3

Due to the long explanation (which I can't always promise won't happen) I've put the sonnet first, so if you want you can ignore the editing process completely!

3.

Sat with a boy of the white fern, with black

Walls rising on all sides, and at our back

The ever present white seat of Luther.

Though it's here that I'll listen to my preacher

That bitter sable drink; harbouring me

From the blank sky and winds of Baltic sea.

And those who enter speak with low murmur

As we sedately relish in fervour.

From the cavernous street echo the screams

Of the graduates parading - in teems

Candy thrown from the hands of skin so fair,

Though demonic shrieks throttle the whiplashed air.

Interrupting the cramped space of inside,

So too the man with which I confide.

This weeks Coffee Sonnet caused a few issues; this is because when I read it through I thought it was terrible, there was no real focus and the imagery seemed to grasping at...well, not even strings.
  There were aspects that I enjoyed, a saving grace if ever there was one, and so this allowed me to concentrate on these parts and manipulate imagery to fit a different purpose.
  One of the main parts of this sonnet was actually that it was the first time I'd gone to a cafe with someone, I generally like to go alone and watch the world go by from a comfy seat. Whereas my friend Jeremy (a New Zealander, of importance later) in the original is introduced in the second stanza I immediately shifted him to the beginning - what this position allowed me to do was also introduce the consistent theme of black and white.
  To pick out the important parts of this theme also allows me to explain a few other choices made: firstly the little cafe we were in was predominantly black and white in design (HKI+), it also sits very close to the Senate Sq. where the Lutheran Cathedral dominates the skyline. The white cathedral also allows me to bring in a religious aspect to the black and white, though my intention is not to create HKI+ as an evil in comparison it is instead related to the warmth of both coffee and the cafe itself.
  We also seemed to pick a good spot for the end of school parade where students got in the back of trucks and were taken through the streets as they threw sweets. The reason hair is noted in the original is that this truck going by was all female and the stereotypical flowing blonde hair of Scandinavia was present - on reading this back I hated it, it is out of place and seems a bit too absorbed and so their character in the sonnet changes to the volta and they straddle both good/white (high up, fair skin etc) and evil/black (demonic shrieks).

  The third stanza is just s*** so I scrapped it.

Original

Cramped inside but with so much space to spare.

Black and white, screams echoing in the street.

Candy thrown by girls with beautiful hair,

The end of school paraded in a fleet. 

Sitting with a kiwi, men of the black

And white. The colour of HKI+.

The bitter sweet scent is taking me back:

Your soft touch, my senses lost to your musk

I cannot guess your usual clientele

But I am likely to frequent you oft'.

I imagine your summer, pray don't tell,

Under a parasol, loving and soft.

Next to politicians you stand astute,

But your modesty is beyond repute.

The Edited Editions: Coffee Sonnet 2

The second installment of my (hopefully) year long venture continues. I particularly struggled with the 3rd stanza and also what the volta would try and show. I think it is nicely summed up in the final couplet but I would right?
I still have issues with the final line of the second stanza though I like the imagery I'm trying to invoke, it may get reworked if a better line comes to pass. I also quite like the original end line in the second stanza but the perspective change from unreliable first to omniscient third required me to delete it. I also omitted the nominalisation of the brands for two reasons; first, so that all corporations can be seen in this and secondly, so as not to inadvertently mention them and therefore promote them subliminally.

Enjoy!

2.

Whore yourself to all and everyone else.

The cravings of a middle class custom, 

With faux leather seats and mass produced art

Across the city - but lacking in heart.

Chain corporations are one and the same,

Purveyors; of our materialism

Our addiction to their corporate crest.

We're never more than ten feet from this pest.

But even those with a discerning eye,

Who can taste the origins of Jamaica

Need the hit of the bitter morning start,

Even if from independence they depart.

Though soon again they realise their regret,

And the change in their pockets means much less. 

Original.

Whore yourself to all and everyone else.

Your prices seek a middle class custom,

Your abode with leather and song compels,

All over the city they'll err and um.

Do I enter at the door of low lights?

Watch out of your window, let life go past?

Let your thick warmth slip down my throat, tonight's

Not going to let me sleep, not so fast. 

A chain corporation you are to me,

Nothing special, you are far from the best.

People call you Robert's, but don't you see?

You're all the same a necessary pest.

Coffee, from Finland's own Starbucks like vein.

We will always need you, part of the grain. 

A Thank You

If all you need is a day to see you through a year,
Then it'll only take a minute to thank those you hold dear. 
So to my friends who celebrated the night
And those that wished well my day,
I look forward to joining you
In this my 21st year fray.

The Fishmonger

What would you like duck?
This one?
You sure?
Cleaned and gutted?
That'll be a tenner, aha!
Scales for price
And scraped to the floor.
Cut up?
3 or 4?
The hammer lifted to the knife,
Smack.
Crack.
Is that all?
And onto the next
And what for you?
An ongoing play
A holla and call.

Untitled

You are not some star, a mere twinkle in the sky.
A light amongst uncountable others.
You are the sun, the centre of our world.
The light like no other.
You give life and warmth,
And so the odds we defy.

Central Heating

Goosebumps under my clothes
The penetrating cold of a student home
Maintenance doesn't cover rent
So what warmth can we afford?

Untitled

Curtains drawn for darkness
But the flashing blue lights - the staple of the night - address the emergencies
As they play out on my wall.
Whilst I wrap myself tightly amongst the sheets,
Until into sleep I fall.

Cumbrian Nights

Sleeping in a barn with one light.
Mirrors of the car used for vanity
Or merely presentation.
Pay for your shower
And for the kettle.
Everything measured.

I'd call for help
But there's no signal.

Pillow Talk

A morning headache
Dulled senses, stiff neck
Your pain visibly shown.
All down to the way you slept,
So no real fault of your own.

A Poem of Wales

Swathes of green,
The dominant colour.
Grass, trees and under water.
Highlights of the sun
As clouds chase up the valleys.

Here we spoil our surroundings
Unnatural sounds
Synthetic colours.

On Coming Home

A home from home
But home all the same.
Nothing has changed
But the season.
Looking on from a familiar seat,
Absent for months,
Though I was here yesterday.