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.

Originals IV

In the past 3 Originals we have given a brief explanation of the poems featured, however this time I want to provide a collection of festive or seasonal poetry that should just be enjoyed and perused at your leisure.

Wishing you a Merry Christmas and Happy New Year!

Wilfred Owen, Winter Song

The browns, the olives, and the yellows died,
And were swept up to heaven; where they glowed
Each dawn and set of sun till Christmastide,
And when the land lay pale for them, pale-snowed,
Fell back, and down the snow-drifts flamed and flowed.

From off your face, into the winds of winter,
The sun-brown and the summer-gold are blowing;
But they shall gleam with spiritual glinter,
When paler beauty on your brows falls snowing,
And through those snows my looks shall be soft-going.

Peter Rylands, Untitled

The cold outside // The warmth within

Brushing my cheeks // Drowsing my eyes

My scarf’s knot tied // I am comfortable,

Though wind may blow // Sheltered and dry

And other elements try // I sit and carelessly stare

As people pass // Those who walk unknowingly by

In them I confide // What do you think?

My want of warmth inside // Whilst it is cold outside.

Thea Gilmore, Book Of Chrismas Lyrics (As chosen by Dr. Peter Kirwan of the English Dept)

A week to Christmas
Cards of snow and holly
Gimcracks in the shops
Wishes and memories wrapped in tissue paper
Trinkets, gadgets and lollipops
As is through coloured glasses we remember the childhood thrill
Waking in the morning to the rustling of paper
The eiderdown heaped in a hill
Of dogs and bears and bricks and apples
The feeling that Christmas Day was a coral island in time
Where we land and eat our lotus
But where we can never stay

There was a star in the east
The Magi in their turbans brought their luxury toys
In homage to the child born to capsize their values
Wreck their equipoise
A smell of hay, like peace in the dark stable
Not peace, however, but a sword
To cut the Gordian Knot of logical self-interest
The fool-proof golden cord
For Christ walked in where philosophers tread
But armed with more than folly
Making the smooth place rough
And knocking the heads of church and state together

In honour of Him we have taken over the pagan Saturnalia for our annual treat
Letting the belly have its say
Ignoring the spirit while we eat
And conscience still goes crying through the desert with sackcloth round his loins 
A week to Christmas
Hark the Herald Angels beg for copper coins

Peter Rylands, The time to wake

The time to wake,

After rooftop feet,

Childish excitement,

And thanks for what we are about to eat.

Piled up presents,

With the tree lit,

And adorned,

The fire roaring,

And tired eyes caught.

Wallace Stevens, The Snowman (As chosen by Jem Bloomfield of the UoN English Dept)

One must have a mind of winter

To regard the frost and the boughs

Of the pine-trees crusted with snow;

And have been cold a long time

To behold the junipers shagged with ice,

The spruces rough in the distant glitter

Of the January sun; and not to think

Of any misery in the sound of the wind,

In the sound of a few leaves,

Which is the sound of the land

Full of the same wind

That is blowing in the same bare place

For the listener, who listens in the snow,

And, nothing himself, beholds

Nothing that is not there and the nothing that is.

Seasons

Maybe Fall some day,
Will Spring from an icy cloak,
And Summer burn it.

Haiku 6

Winter surrounds me, 

Its cold breath runs down my spine.

Spring, Fall, Summer lie.

Haiku 1

As winter passes,
Nature's fellow offspring flows.
Split, so it can grow.

The Sun

The Sun.
Burning low against the horizon.
Twelve o'clock
Twelve degrees.
What warmth!
What warmth?
Negative is the air,
Clear the skies,
For the Sun to make way,
For the moon.
As night begins as the day starts.
In the city that I am calling,
My home.