Time was, I never forgot when it was April, National Poetry Month. Now it’s almost over. I thought I should honor it with some Berryman, in honor of the site’s title: but instead of merely pasting his hilarious Dream Song 14, “Life is boring,” I found some sound.
If you’d rather just read, go peek at my sweetheart’s ghazals:
My eyes entombed with sleep, I need some coffee.
I can’t yet see the bathroom. Where’s the coffee?
She takes the can out of the freezer and the water from the tap.
And when I smell the air has changed I know I’m loved, for she made coffee.
A bag of beans, organic but uncertain.
How much of what I paid was paid to those who picked the coffee?
The line’s too long; I take the train. No cup in hand, I read.
I’m late for class. Be later. Be contrite. Just get some coffee.
This runs in my family. From a Chinese banquet hall on his daughter’s first
birthday, my brother rushes out to find a cup of take-out coffee.
Summer’s coming. When it ends, I will have ridden in its heat
obsessed with shedding winter pounds and gaining coffee
shaded skin (albeit three parts milk to two with some red syrup).
As the summer sweat pours down my arms, I will seep coffee,
eggs, bananas, meat. Along the hills of Brooklyn, dodging dogs
and children, dodging cars, smiling at everyone, I’m seeking coffee.
The Germans say “Not addict. Morphine-seeky.”
When I stop to rest my muscles in Park Slope or Coney Island I’ll get coffee.
On the boardwalk, watch the waves. They sound like steam
and final, gurgling drips; to Rachel’s ear no longer H2O, a pot of coffee.
— Rachel Rawlings, 2005