I remember stacking cigarettes in ashtrays,
Sprouting haphazard mushroom colonies around the base of
Sticky-rimmed glasses and red wine stains,
The discarded coin of golden bottle tops,
The loose-curled hands,
And the beat of piercing, sincere eyes
Stating profound truth from mouths
Too full of liquor to say it well
Against ears too sodden to understand.
I remember the low-key buzz of the lights under a steady hum of words,
And the proud embarrassment of sharing the cheese you were saving,
For a long forgotten meal, a girl not coming,
A vintage unbecoming on the likes of us.
I remember the way we talked,
Righteous and loud and swilled up in the smoke of lungs,
Words right out of fiction, and near-sung in lilting passion,
The drum of hands on the table, the kick of heels by the boards,
The slick feel of drawing out what you meant,
In all that romantic hoard.
We were a mess of talent, slanted in laid-back chairs,
With our messy hair and unwashed beds
Where lovers slept in the hours between sanity and light,
All through the night we were out there, feet bare, undeclared insane,
But brave to face the day with the smeared paint of
What clowns, caricatures of bohemian bedfellows obsessed with our own voices,
Retelling past choices with fervour more grand than our years.
The tragedy, the depravity, the gravity of it all,
When the world slept we examined it piece-by-piece, judged it wanting,
And still wanting more,
Such young poets, with mounds of coffee tar by our chairs,
Pure gin in our veins and the grease of nights just like these in our hairs,
I was too young to get the worth of giving up on trying to keep it together,
Too young to challenge my life with unresolved morals.
I was too fresh minted to get that what this night hinted at, was the dark soul
Of humans existence,
We challenged the dawn with our insistence on meeting it,
Awake and undaunted, three sets of eyes blinking at the sun,
Too young to see that what we were was rich,
Too young to see that what were was young.
Danielle K Day
I really enjoyed last night’s beat poem, but I wanted to bring the theme up a notch. This poem is a lot slower, and less rhyme crazy, but it still demonstrates some of the fun word play, assonance and rhyme. I’ve borrowed a more intensely passionate style than my quiet sunsets and meditations of the past week.
The topic is set around the better nights of my first share-house. I learned more from the friends that kept me awake with really real conversation in that year than I ever did in my degree- the liberty to explore ideas beyond the basics and elaborate on our own concepts made me a far better writer. Of course, we also got really, really drunk. 😉
😉 – Danni