Below is the poem entitled A Real Fine Thing which was written by poet
Beckett. Please feel free to comment on this poem. However, please remember, PoetrySoup is a place of encouragement and growth.
Read Poems by
It’s morning… slowly.
A real fine thing.
(Small miracle, luck, whatever)
A hard night costs, we know
The hours that lengthen forever between dreams
We don’t remember, but we know.
See I'm better though-
The sun is wrapping warmth around me,
(Old hands know where to touch)
Chasing my nightmares, working out kinks
Just like a river, a lover’s voice.
I’m getting better.
Can’t get worse.
Coffee’s brewing, filling
Air with scents of optimism. Kitchen’s nice,
Smell's good, hand's busy… I’m repenting
For sins committed in the dark, something
I lost… that I let lose me.
I should’ve held it loosely, but you know
How large things can look.
When they’re distorted by us.
Beauty becomes many things..
Forms we wouldn't have guessed.
I’m seeing it now-
That I gave wings to dragons,
A wizard without knowing.
Patterns we know well,
And well we are at hiding
The evidence from ourselves,
To materialize later, as though in broad daylight
We’d been dreaming.
Dazed and confused,
Stupid, young, whatever.
Then we find out.
I’m getting quicker.
And I’m better, through hands shaking,
Questions lingering big and small,
Through knowledge incorporated,
Or relentless stupidity, stupidly grinning…
Whichever. ‘Cause I can pour this cup of coffee,
Lift it to my lips and savor something
Simple… simplicity can’t be taken.
(Most wouldn’t think it worth stealing)
I can open the kitchen window,
Stare into bright blue skies,
Open the door and walk out
Into another beautifully indifferent world…
And I’m fine.