Best Terrace Poems
from beyond his
vibrant palette
that bore all his
lifelong scars
is what I see
beneath his sky
and myriad
of stars
a scene of shades
and silhouettes
formed by the
yellow light
that hints at
The Last Supper
at that café
in the night?
Stir my moonlight coffee
with your freshly dipped brush
in bright yellow ochre ~
I will not complain.
Sprinkle pigments from
from your pallets
on my unflavoured coffee~
I will not complain.
Even when
your indigo eyes
spill Prussian blue
to veil my night sky~
I will not complain.
Come sit with me
share this coloured coffee
on this café terrace
where unfinished canvases
lean on metaphoric walls,
where unwritten poems
bathe beneath starry nights.
the sky resonates
with what’s written in the silk of stars,
in pulse-burned pensiveness,
penned in poignancy,
personifying pain
with yellow-gold dust,
where lament liquefies and softens
into an ethereal lake,
chronicling it with surging blue sparks ~
an evening elixir, enveloped
in confetti cravings…
this l o v e knows not
the ingredients of
ephemeral effervescence,
as the thriving tip of twilight
manifests the magic of want,
whilst I tremble,
engrossed in the thought
of moon-flame touch,
brimming,
brewing,
breathing
across cups of catharsis,
concocted with caffeinated calmness ~
aligning the inner innocence
still longing in loneliness,
amidst seated strangers
lost in their own appetizing lyrics,
clothed in cold cobalt colors,
unaware of the emptiness
they feed their mindless muse
from superficial spoons
filled with smoke and silence ~
like scattered illusions,
illustrated with surreal ink…
what if I hold onto forever fallacies
hiding within?
would I be promised
a peaceful plate of patience
beneath ineffable iridescence ~
for I’ve feverishly struggled
to rephrase the verdicts behind
faces phasing in the haze of life,
sipping sorrow
as if it were mocha ~
balmy, bittersweet,
burning in sync with my
Swarovski crescent crooning
lullabies to diamonds dancing
in infinite nebulae,
carrying secrets the table holds,
served in sincere oblivion…
and I am still learning and healing
the soul’s breaking lines,
to leave lovelorn reveries
without losing the light of lucidity,
letting go of their narrow narrative
of me and my ache ~
of us and our heat,
as even the routined routes
could not erase what’s
handwritten in a heart made heavy…
so wait not for the
rise of supernova sanguinity ~
I am not the warmth of woven woes.
I am a charismatic chameleon,
~ c o m p l e x ~ cautious ~
catching comet-notes,
camouflaged in melancholic versions
of humankind,
hiding vulnerability
within firm flares of vivid vibrations…
O beloved night,
on this terrace, I devour, not alone,
but evermore lonely,
i m m e r s e d
in the forlorn frequency
of stellar fire…
Huge red-orange sun slowly recede,
Upon the sky seem to bleed;
Whispers of night, calling home,
Such sunset days rarely spent alone.
Look ahead to starry skies;
Not time for early goodbyes.
Without love cannot the heart grow-
A new day comes beyond the rainbow!
Warm Paris breeeze gently blow-
Roses atop the bureau;
Music with a certain ease;
Smooth jazz, if you please.
In darkness of shadows, waits he!
The night is young-for me!
Stars appear, quiet avenue.
Farewell dawn skies of baby blue.
When from misty dreams awakes,
When tomorrow sunrise overtakes,
Come listen music play,
On gold terrace of the sunny day!
Tonight, her footsteps crack and moan —
She's useless when her tears frost over,
The gutter running without her, alone
There's another ghost inside porchlight silver,
A foot melting on the banister —
She's dark as the wind that picks her up,
This twisting whirl of white clumps
Against wind now seeming touchable —
Outside, the snow jumps
With the draft...and then the window's wail,
Being broken apart like snowflakes assails,
She touches the real parts in foggy glass —
The cold that blasts through a girl's face,
Years after, the woman outside this table —
So the terrace is her cup, white laughter, dark tastes.
CAFE TERRACE AT NIGHT (Van Gogh)
Orbital focus of assured kindness and hospitality
From the waitress in long white apron
Where time stands still for a moment,
Where the golden interior glow of the shelter
Gravitates under the canvas roof and
Permits a little topaz flavor to anoint the cobbled street,
Its dark forbidding geometry of the night,
Its silhouetted shapes of blackened houses
Whose dead windows suggest only a half life,
Whose clock tower suggests the running sands of time,
While dizzying stars, circular orbs of cold white,
Stare unblinking at the colors uncertain
In a neighbourhood of crumbling age,
On the pavement of uncertain difficult cobbles.
The café is not crowded but it is the sun
For the people orbiting its warmth.
Café Terrace in Arles, France
Beneath stars of heavenly grandeur,
In a café, romance prospects dwell brighter.
Patrons’ entertaining escapades of camaraderie
Charismatically whisper away the evening.
Visible under the illuminating gas lantern
Of sulphurous yellow, revealing customers
Who say, “S'il vous plaît” to the French waiter
As passersby stare at empty tables.
At the street’s end is seen a church spiral rise,
And in-between the buildings’ windows of light,
Over the cobblestones, the calèche chatters
As people yield to the horse-drawn carriage.
Une nuit d'été de bonjours et d'au revoirs
(A summer night of hellos and goodbyes)
On Place du Forum in Arles, France.
***
Note:
“Café Terrace in Arles, France” is an ekphrastic poem describing the painting “Café Terrace at Night” (1888) by Vincent van Gogh (1853–1890).
Sea in cool of evening;
course-wind and surf stirs me.
Stars open the heavens;
invited to high tea
with the Lord’s harmonics.
No better place to be.
He remembers times with her.
Sharing moments alone in,
the cafe terrace at night.
Not too long ago.
The Cafe Terrace At Night.
Vincent Van Gogh
For the "Famous Art" contest.
http://artsunlight.com/artist-NV/N-V0002-Vincent-Van-Gogh/N-V0002-0019-cafe-terrace-on-the-place-du-forum-cafe-terrace-at-night.html
(An Addingham Poem)
With the strength of
gentleness, sparrows make love
upon the windowsill,
frigid glass pane pulsates
within the pageant of nature,
numerous battle scared plumage
float wanting, towards earthly cracks
that conceals another world, where
rain and sleet beat down a
forest of subversive weeds,
if only to perjure
hope and fortitude.
The wind! Screams imperfections,
orchestrates the misery of the
telegraph wire, summons
the hardy, those across the
sawmill dam, there where the
village sons live on, as faceless
images upon the park epitaph.
The moon abandons the paperboy
hides behind a turbulent haze,
the greyness segregating
the dawn from the night,
as a hundred kettles sing
behind dimly lit backyard windows,
and a hundred harmonies
perfume, the bowel of the tippler.
Row upon row of decrepit
doorsteps host resident jugs, those
that waits in anticipation of the ladle,
whose wholesome contents still
encompass the warmth of the beast.
Through the mist, a stony siren
executes the industrial anthem,
a musical excursion into pain
and manipulation, a weaving shed
that creates a spinneret
of dreams, a threshold to one’s hopes.
“Yet! Given nothing more, than a
wry sense of insecurity.”
© Harry J Horsman 1999
Terrace of crops
Down under the sky
Down under the terrace
Terrace of neighbour
Terrace garden
Garden of Eden
Garden of tulips
Tulips for bouquet
Tulips for wedding
Wedding so opulent
Wedding is bliss
Bliss of union
Bliss for life
Life is wonderful
Life is short
Short film
Short dress
Dress of satin
Dress of queen
Queen of music
Queen of palace
Palace of pearls
Palace so royal
Royal cuisine
Royal chariot
Chariot of horses
Chariot of love
Love is eternal
Love is sweet
Sweet children
Sweet smile
Smile of content
Smile so cute
Cute teddy bear
Cute little face
Face the challenge
Face the race
Race of cars
Race of power
Power of friendship
Power of words
Words of sympathy
Words of relief
Relief from cold
Relief from rains
Rains of blessings
Rains for crops
Crops of glory
Crops plenty
Plenty....
Glory!
©Anulaxmi Nayak,2015
For contest:Down under
sponsored by: Debbie Guzzi
date:4th September 2015
soft voices splintered by thunderous laughter
float
in the cool September night air.
serving savoury tastes
of garlic, thyme and wine
le garcon de cafe shivers, eager to be cocooned
like a butterfly in radiating warmth from the cafe’s heart
under a paled lemon awning,
statuesque lanterns extend towering candlelit arms
to paint the terrace and its patrons below amber,
while illuminating dancing shadows on scarred tables
imperfect light from windows of darkened houses
splash the nearby cobblestone street
creating an illusion of blue black and
aubergine paves
under starry lit inky skies
evening amblers footsteps echo in quiet conversation
unaware the solitary pine tree in the Place
became a shadow.
Oh! No. I won’t wait until you’re seriously terminally sick
Or to expire in order to send you bouquets of ritzy flowers
Today is indeed the time, the hour to stand above the big brick
To show my love amidst the hubbub of seasoneless showers.
You are profoundly loved, dear colorful and calm princess
You are always on my mind, in my guts, my heart and my soul
You are always on top of the unbiased poll, on my pole
And I love you with an incredible passion since you are the best.
I want to give you a garden jammed full of exotic flowers
And invite gobs of colorful rainbows to dazzle you daily
While exposing my love despite of a series of uneventful hours.
Oh! It’s rewarding, classy and marvelous to celebrate joyfully
Under the pristine blue sky. It’s our anniversary, let’s enjoy life
To the fullest. Let’s move on, forget the sad past and the vile rife.
Copyright © August 2023, Hébert Logerie, All rights reserved.
Hébert Logerie is the author of several collections of poems.
My
tranquil
oasis,
terrace garden,
by July- serene
hues of green foliage,
and sweet scents of rose drifting.
A repose from the humid heat,
and oppressive sun- where the murmurs
of bird twitters bring a divine stillness.
Poverty sneaks
through her wet garment
on the terrace
she talks to herself cursing
the day she was born and left
to negotiate truths
of gender, sex and adulthood
in the middle class
one-room apartment
physical rigmarole
buries sick delight
hope of wellness
fast and Sunday mass
sink into dusk
and darkness eats
into her silence
--R K Singh