The Table Where They Write Like PoeA Poem by N.SevillaA common person with dreams of become a poet in order to enter a certain cafe and get closer to a certain female poet.
The streets, never empty,
the blood of the city pumping in its veins. The sounds of life let us reminisce in our small corners of quiet. In one such quiet corner, a small cafe where they gather at the table where they write like Poe. Where the ladies and the gentleman go. Through the lazy haze of the afternoon heat, the clear cut windows let us see the watering hole of the creative minds where they loosen their mouths and tight fitting binds. Her swift strokes of a composer, gentle dips and sudden twists. The ballet of hands makes me wonder why there are words where art should plunder. Callused fingers touch the glass, leaving there a hopeless print. My poor hands hold a worker's mark from labor rather than sharp tongue. Could I endure the fraud and walk ahead, but, the red seas do not part for me nor the quiet door to Inside. She sits there precisely at one with a pen (not pencil) in hand and a twinkle in her eye and smile full of divinity at the table where they write like Poe where the ladies and gentlemen go. If I could keep a steady rhythm, and my heart should do the same-- could I take one look through artists' eyes and capture sunsets on my lips-- could I mark my hands with cuts and ink-- could I dare take that step inside, then she would sit at the table where they write like Poe, where the ladies and the gentlemen go, and look at her side, her eyes widening in surprise. Me, at the table, where they write like Poe, another lady at the right place to go, with a steady hand, wild heart, flowing rhythm, luring art.
© 2013 N.SevillaAuthor's Note
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1 Review Added on July 11, 2013 Last Updated on July 11, 2013 AuthorN.SevillaCAAboutI've had this account for several years and I am finally coming back to my writing roots. It's been a joy to write again and look back on my poetry from 10 years ago and see the changes in my life. .. more..Writing
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