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Quote:
Originally Posted by ampoule
There's an empty chair
across the table from me
at my 'synagogue'
and it bears, in avance,
the imprint of your derriere!
'Synagogue' is how I refer to the Arts Cafe, corner Fairmount and Esplanade, should any of you care to drop in for the norning service of espresso and croissant, NOT the very best croissants in Montreal, for which we'd have to go to Le Paltoguet, Van Horne near Outremont
Merci, ma petite ange pas entierement peccable! I know what a hard marker you are!Quote:
Originally Posted by Sweets America
But at the risk of sounding boastful, I suggest you wait for a subsequent one written in the same place more or less at the same time, maybe not so striking as poetry but written with great, great tenderness...
At Tutto Bene part 2
One arm flopped
around his neck,
a young girl sleeps
against her father’s
chest and shoulder
as if painted there
That's how I feel when I'm with a woman/
Sacre bleu! It's all happening North of the border! Maybe if the Expos had read your Snapshots, they never would've moved to D.C.
Certainly they played better in the shadow of the Laurentians rather than in the bright lights of the Potomac!
Beautiful snapshot!Quote:
Originally Posted by PrinceMyshkin
Yes, I adore it.Quote:
Originally Posted by Pendragon
Wow!!! This is wonderful, surprising, and so sweet. And of course, very well written. ;)Quote:
Originally Posted by PrinceMyshkin
Tutto Bene lxxx, poetic genius, so balanced, so many nuances in so few words. Amazing.
Tutto Bene lxxxi, not a snapshot, but a portrait of a most exquisite composition. So beautiful.Quote:
Originally Posted by PrinceMyshkin
Getting to read them in one sitting - Priceless!Quote:
Originally Posted by PrinceMyshkin
Thank you indeed. It must be apparent how much pleasure I get writing these. Not that I always achieve this, but my two aesthetic rules are 1) Do it with the absolute minimum of words; and 2) keep the author's ego - or even the shadow of his ego - out of it.Quote:
Originally Posted by firefangled
A thin, white Rastifari
with one dreadlock
trailing from under his knitted cap
where, he assures me, he’s got
a whole lot more, announces his arrival
before I catch sight of him,
by talking out loud to himself,
pauses at my table, apologizes,
introduces me to his Pit Bull, Akira,
which means “love” in Japanese, he says.
He offers three times to buy me a cup of coffee
though there’s one on the table in front of me.
“Allen,” he says, when I ask for his name,
“but some folk call me ‘Stretch.’”
A sort, dark-bearded khassid
waddles up Van Horne,
like not much more
than legs
attached to a broad-brimmed black hat
From where I sit I can hear
the clack-clack tch-clack
of high heels on the hard pavement,
and I reflect how each of us
has his or her own unique
clack-clack tch-clack clack-clack tch-clack
as we hobble or stride
around the universe.
I liked it very much. :thumbs_upQuote:
Originally Posted by PrinceMyshkin
At the table just ahead of mine
sit a young couple, she
facing me with one of those thin,
cigar-like cigarettes in her hand,
he with his wiry, somehow purposeful
back to me. After a moment or so
he gets up without a wasted motion,
bends his body over her seated one,
gives her a kiss without lingering
then heads briskly across the street
towards the Institute there.
I cannot see her eyes
behind her dark green sun-glasses
but her face immediately drops
a tone, seems to fill with unreleased
tears. She takes a last sip of her coffee,
stubs out her cigarette,
unwinds herself from the table
and walks off in a different direction.