#266: Notes from a coffee estate
“There may be more beautiful times, but this one is ours.” -Jean-Paul Sartre
Dear reader,
I write to you from a coffee estate near Coorg, handpicking poems in bed to beat the overhead sun. Bright orange African tulips dance outside my window, we made zines all morning, and after rasam-rice, a nap is on the agenda.
There is something so necessary and healing about being in nature, a constant reminder to myself to spend more time cloudgazing and watching the katydid (leaf bug) moving across the wall at its own pace.
This unhurried pace of being and consuming birdsong suits me plenty.
More, please.
Poetry Corner
It no longer matters what the names of flowers are.
Some I remember; others forget: ones
I never thought I should. Yes, tell me one.
I like to hear that. I may have forgotten again
next week. There's that yellow one whose name
I used to know. It's blossoming, secure
as ever as I walk by looking at it,
not saying its name or needing to.
I take my compliments
the same way I take
my coffee.
I don’s drink coffee.
The last time I did,
it seared my entire mouth
and I couldn't taste
anything for three days.
I'm still learning how to
let endearment sit until
it’s ready to be consumed,
hold it to my lips
and sip slowly.
I’m in the house.
It’s nice out: warm
sun on cold snow.
First day of spring
or last of winter.
My legs run down
the stairs and out
the door, my top
half here typing
Poppies by Mary Oliver (Excerpt)
There isn’t a place
in this world that doesn’t
sooner or later drown
in the indigos of darkness,
but now, for a while,
the roughage
shines like a miracle
as it floats above everything
with its yellow hair.
Of course nothing stops the cold,
black, curved blade
from hooking forward—
of course
loss is the great lesson.
But I also say this: that light
is an invitation
to happiness,
and that happiness,
when it’s done right,
is a kind of holiness,
palpable and redemptive.
Inside the bright fields,
touched by their rough and spongy gold,
I am washed and washed
in the river
of earthly delight—
and what are you going to do—
what can you do
about it—
deep, blue night?
On Being an Artist by Noelle Kocot
Saturn seems habitual,
The way it rages in the sky
When we're not looking.
On this note, the trees still sing
To me, and I long for this
Mottled world. Patterns
Of the lamplight on this leather,
The sun, listening.
My brother, my sister,
I was born to tell you certain
Things, even if no one
Really listens. Give it back
To me, as the bird takes up
The whole sky, ruined with
Nightfall. If I can remember
The words in the storm,
I will be well enough to sit
Here with you a little while
Links that made me feel seen
Nobody Knows For Certain is available to play! Ahhh! No spoilers. Just download it. (You’re welcome)
Leaving you with this perfectly worded emotion…
“One does not find solitude, one creates it. Solitude is created alone. I have created it. Because I decided that here was where I should be alone, that I would be alone to write books. It happened this way. I was alone in this house. I shut myself in — of course, I was afraid. And then I began to love it. This house became the house of writing. My books come from this house. From this light as well, and from the garden. From the light reflecting off the pond. It has taken me twenty years to write what I just said.”
—Marguerite Duras, from Writing, tr. by Mark Polizzotti
Go for a walk and notice some trees and dragonflies and bumble bees? :)
Sending sunshine,
Rohini
a haiku by Dianne Moritz:
Valentine's Day
canoodling on the couch
with my cat