"This is your sea to be / lost at!" What haunting lines and what a beautiful, richly imagistic poem. I'm so glad a certain someone is gone from your life and we have this poem in his place!
Rebekah! This is exceptional! Funny and sad, bitter and semi-sweet. The line “. dinghy of a date” had me laughing out loud in the global eatery cafe I am having lunch in. I had a few of those long ago before my partner and I paddled toward each other. Thank you for your irrepressible spirit!
Oh thank you Larry! I made some changes at the end -- I had forgotten to drive home the fact that we had absolutely nothing to say to each other. Ugh, those dates were the worst! I'm so glad you and your partner found solid ground together.
I hear you! One of my partner’s old boyfriends from 44 years ago came to visit two weeks ago. It was terribly awkward and weird, and as they left, Dea said “ well, that was a bad idea.” Amen.
Oh my, this is such a rich poem and the story that follows is another poem. I could just feel her energy soaring and then so disappointedly coming back to earth again.
you are one of the most remarkable people that I know. I love this Panera poem, and the story you craft from your keen observation skills. I have an appiointemnt downtown tomorrow, and you have inspired me to go early to lunch to a local cafe, and observe, reflect and write!
I like nothing more than to create stories for the people I see in this wonderful world. I never assume my mental stories are true, but they are so much fun to imagine and refine. You've done a bit of that here.
I commented on another post about Simone de Beauvoir’s idea that women are not born but become. They become by throwing off the shackles of feminine identity imposed upon them by society. It seems many have not become nor attempted to become.
It seems to me you are becoming or have become and your writings are your journal along this path.
I was struggling to find the words, and looked up this poem written in another cafe 20 years ago, inspired by my observations that day, watching relationships end for many frends, ,and my own experienceses over the years to that point..
And of course, as soon as I found this poem again, the second one came to me! Clearly a work in progress, and humbly offered here.
Paradise, lost...
^
Now it comes to this...
your long, dark back
sliding away across
the broken pavement;
tears like mist in autumn raw wind
bite straight to my heart,
clenched fist wrapped around
the pulse of my love.
There is no beginning
nor end;
Alpha and Omega,
first and last,
the promise of paradise
lost, again.
^
The Global Eatery
*
The doors open and twenty college students swarm in,
happy for any holiday that comes;
their laughter and excited smiles an opening
to a bitter world closing in.
*
Across the room middle aged couple
converses with deep intensity and pleading eyes;
Two tables down an elder couple
look down at their phones,
tender words lost to the years.
*
Solitary figure, like me,
glances across the room
catches my eyes
and the unspoken words are clear;
there is nothing for you here.
*
Outside this bright cafe we are sojourners,
MAGA movers, lefty leaners, middling muggles
and all the terrain in between.
Taught to fear and attack,
label and segregate into the teams
we were picked for, or born into, or captured one dark night.
*
Bespectacled barista and I find a rhythm;
cinnamon is a super food and oat milk a wisdom choice;
plantains deeply underrated and ice tea is appropriate in any season...
then she asks--"do you think we'll be okay?'
I softly say "I don't know"
my customary hope has taken its own holiday,
a bright future grown temporarily dim.
*
Except in these small moments,
these third places that hint at resurrection,
these rickety bridges that still stand
after all the insults have flown,
and all tears have been shed.
where sunlight fragments into rainbows
splintered through the prisms we call our lives.
and beauty raises a broken heart to a whole night sky.
I love the contrast of these two poems - each one holding a different kind of ache. “Middling muggles” made me smile, and the lines “these third places that hint resurrection, these rickety bridges that still stand - after all the insults have flown” made me want to stand, always, in the third places. ❤️
I love the poem. I love Panera's too. It is a great place to people watch and dream up stories about them. And the parking lot. The parking lot is an entertainment center. Old people driving up on curbs, trying to back out blind, driving against the arrows, taking up two parking spaces, banging the car next to them when they kick their car door with stiff limbs. It is hard to have a conversation with the person sitting across from me without scanning the parking lot over their shoulder and cringing at each near miss. At least everything is in slow motion.
Here's a recollection of what it was like to go out to eat with my one "bad" ex-boyfriend. I'm calling it "Why We Never Went Out."
.
How you know you’re cooked
is if you can’t sit across the
table from one another.
Your clothes pinch
and your face burns
in a room too bright for steak.
Unbuffered by a ballcap,
his eyes are more serious
than you ever bargained for,
and you wish you could pull
someone else into this
dinghy of a date -- any old
third party – but you know, too,
that this is your sea to be
lost at. The server brings
fresh air when she trawls past,
but she is no savior,
clearly in league with the host
who planted you here on stage,
tidal sweep of hardwood
all around. The others dine
dimly on the horizon, chuckling,
clinking glasses. They paid
extra for the show, and
are finding it richly comedic:
the couple whose voices rattled
every plate in the house last night
today have no lines,
all words having sunk
to the very bottom.
"This is your sea to be / lost at!" What haunting lines and what a beautiful, richly imagistic poem. I'm so glad a certain someone is gone from your life and we have this poem in his place!
What a poem! Oh, wow. I kind of held my breath throughout reading it. I love
"Your clothes pinch
and your face burns
in a room too bright for steak"
and
"The server brings
fresh air when she trawls past,
but she is no savior"
Those ending lines are painfully perfect.
Rebekah! This is exceptional! Funny and sad, bitter and semi-sweet. The line “. dinghy of a date” had me laughing out loud in the global eatery cafe I am having lunch in. I had a few of those long ago before my partner and I paddled toward each other. Thank you for your irrepressible spirit!
Oh thank you Larry! I made some changes at the end -- I had forgotten to drive home the fact that we had absolutely nothing to say to each other. Ugh, those dates were the worst! I'm so glad you and your partner found solid ground together.
I hear you! One of my partner’s old boyfriends from 44 years ago came to visit two weeks ago. It was terribly awkward and weird, and as they left, Dea said “ well, that was a bad idea.” Amen.
Oh my, this is such a rich poem and the story that follows is another poem. I could just feel her energy soaring and then so disappointedly coming back to earth again.
Thank you, LeeAnn! I still need to write that second poem at some point.
Can’t wait to read it.
Metaphor for the week, hey?
Indeed it is.
LIsa,
you are one of the most remarkable people that I know. I love this Panera poem, and the story you craft from your keen observation skills. I have an appiointemnt downtown tomorrow, and you have inspired me to go early to lunch to a local cafe, and observe, reflect and write!
Thank you, Larry! I wish you a lovely time lunching and reflecting.
I told folks about the prompt! Sadly,no poem has come rushing forth yet!
I love this prompt. I'm hoping for a quiet moment tomorrow to work on it.
I look forward to reading whatever emerges for you if that quiet moment comes!
I like nothing more than to create stories for the people I see in this wonderful world. I never assume my mental stories are true, but they are so much fun to imagine and refine. You've done a bit of that here.
I have a lot of fun with that, too, Kim!
I commented on another post about Simone de Beauvoir’s idea that women are not born but become. They become by throwing off the shackles of feminine identity imposed upon them by society. It seems many have not become nor attempted to become.
It seems to me you are becoming or have become and your writings are your journal along this path.
Thank you, Jim. I feel like I'm becoming and hope I never stop!
Very nice. I’m 70, and looking forward to the day! 😊
I'm wishing you many exciting restaurant encounters, then, Mark!
Right with you Mark! 😀
I was struggling to find the words, and looked up this poem written in another cafe 20 years ago, inspired by my observations that day, watching relationships end for many frends, ,and my own experienceses over the years to that point..
And of course, as soon as I found this poem again, the second one came to me! Clearly a work in progress, and humbly offered here.
Paradise, lost...
^
Now it comes to this...
your long, dark back
sliding away across
the broken pavement;
tears like mist in autumn raw wind
bite straight to my heart,
clenched fist wrapped around
the pulse of my love.
There is no beginning
nor end;
Alpha and Omega,
first and last,
the promise of paradise
lost, again.
^
The Global Eatery
*
The doors open and twenty college students swarm in,
happy for any holiday that comes;
their laughter and excited smiles an opening
to a bitter world closing in.
*
Across the room middle aged couple
converses with deep intensity and pleading eyes;
Two tables down an elder couple
look down at their phones,
tender words lost to the years.
*
Solitary figure, like me,
glances across the room
catches my eyes
and the unspoken words are clear;
there is nothing for you here.
*
Outside this bright cafe we are sojourners,
MAGA movers, lefty leaners, middling muggles
and all the terrain in between.
Taught to fear and attack,
label and segregate into the teams
we were picked for, or born into, or captured one dark night.
*
Bespectacled barista and I find a rhythm;
cinnamon is a super food and oat milk a wisdom choice;
plantains deeply underrated and ice tea is appropriate in any season...
then she asks--"do you think we'll be okay?'
I softly say "I don't know"
my customary hope has taken its own holiday,
a bright future grown temporarily dim.
*
Except in these small moments,
these third places that hint at resurrection,
these rickety bridges that still stand
after all the insults have flown,
and all tears have been shed.
where sunlight fragments into rainbows
splintered through the prisms we call our lives.
and beauty raises a broken heart to a whole night sky.
I love the contrast of these two poems - each one holding a different kind of ache. “Middling muggles” made me smile, and the lines “these third places that hint resurrection, these rickety bridges that still stand - after all the insults have flown” made me want to stand, always, in the third places. ❤️
I'll see you there, Lisa--paraphrasing a Rumi quartrain. Thank you for your comment and leadership!
I love the poem. I love Panera's too. It is a great place to people watch and dream up stories about them. And the parking lot. The parking lot is an entertainment center. Old people driving up on curbs, trying to back out blind, driving against the arrows, taking up two parking spaces, banging the car next to them when they kick their car door with stiff limbs. It is hard to have a conversation with the person sitting across from me without scanning the parking lot over their shoulder and cringing at each near miss. At least everything is in slow motion.