The Best Cigarette
There are many that I miss
having sent my last one out a car window
sparking along the road one night, years ago.
The heralded one, of course:
after sex, the two glowing tips
now the lights of a single ship;
at the end of a long dinner
with more wine to come
and a smoke ring coasting into the chandelier;
or on a white beach,
holding one with fingers still wet from a swim.
How bittersweet these punctuations
of flame and gesture;
but the best were on those mornings
when I would have a little something going
in the typewriter,
the sun bright in the windows,
maybe some Berlioz on in the background.
I would go into the kitchen for coffee
and on the way back to the page,
curled in its roller,
I would light one up and feel
its dry rush mix with the dark taste of coffee.
Then I would be my own locomotive,
trailing behind me as I returned to work
little puffs of smoke,
indicators of progress,
signs of industry and thought,
the signal that told the nineteenth century
it was moving forward.
That was the best cigarette,
when I would steam into the study
full of vaporous hope
and stand there,
the big headlamp of my face
pointed down at all the words in parallel lines.
poem by Billy Collins
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Related quotes
Coffee!
Coffee beans all ground up,
Coffee in my favourite cup,
Coffee black, coffee white,
Coffee dark, coffee light,
Coffee right, to start the day,
Coffee at work, coffee at play,
Coffee midday, coffee at night,
Coffee to sober, coffee to excite,
Coffee weak, coffee strong,
But maybe instead some Lapsang Souchong! ! ! !
TEA! ! ! ! !
poem by Ernestine Northover
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One Cigarette
No smoke without you, my fire.
After you left,
your cigarette glowed on in my ashtray
and sent up a long thread of such quiet grey
I smiled to wonder who would believe its signal
of so much love. One cigarette
in the non-smoker's tray.
As the last spire
trembles up, a sudden draught
blows it winding into my face.
Is it smell, is it taste?
You are here again, and I am drunk on your tobacco lips.
Out with the light.
Let the smoke lie back in the dark.
Till I hear the very ash
sigh down among the flowers of brass
I'll breathe, and long past midnight, your last kiss.
poem by Edwin Morgan
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Without You
Gazing at our sunrise
Reflected in your clear eyes
Misty morning forest smoke fires
Make our way through the broken day
I couldnt stand to stay
Without you
We must keep moving
While the light is clearing
Leaving your dark world behind you
You have to run
Life is just begun
Ill never be alone
Without you
One chilling thought
Come screaming through the dark
I saw a yellow moon at midnight
And now you woke
Glowing in the smoke
Im suddenly alone
Without you
Wanting things the way they used to be
You dont know what that can do to me
One more day, maybe never
Might as well be forever
Outside the light,fading as I write
And another night reminds me
As I sleep, memory that I keep
Its just another night
Without you
It seems so long
Ive been holding on
Since I felt my arms around you
Time will go, both of us will know
Never be a day
Without you
song performed by by Asia
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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When I Am Alone
now i learned
what they want me to understand
when i am alone
at least i need someone to talk to
someone who listens
and when i am as silent as cigarette stick
lighted
at least something knows
where the smoke may go
i smoke now
but not because i like it
it is a necessity
the smoke at least talks to me
and the light in the cigarette
gives me the eye of the
cinder
a word of light
a comfort of flame
in the dark
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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A Cup of Coffee
I start my day with coffee as my friend
The beans so fresh, as it blends
Giving out an aroma, that wakes me up
I stumble to the kitchen and look for the cup
I pour some black liquid and sip right away
I just want coffee, to start my day
Then on the road I'm on my way
Coffee is my friend to make my day
Stuck in traffic, I loose my mind
I then sip my coffee and just rewind
I get to work with a cup in hand
Juggling with papers I can't withstand
The coffee at work tastes bitter and cheap
But it's better than getting caught counting sheep
All day long, I make pot after pot
Of black steaming mugs of liquid gut-rot
Tanked up on coffee, I face the day
Taking anything that comes my way.
poem by Meena Mustafa
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If We Cant Have You
Hang a picture up on your wall
Tighten all the nails so it dont fall
In this picture, could have been a picture of my face
Something painful, went and took its place
If he cant have you, guess that no one else will
Watch him think a while, smoke a cigarette and smile as I frown
If he cant have you, guess that no one else will
Watch him think a while, smoke a cigarette and smile as I frown
Drink your coffee in the morning,
And at night, go and drink your beer
All along you dont feel so welcome here
And I walk by, and you steer clear
You always said, itd come passionate here
Dont like what you see, you dont like what you hear
If he cant have you, guess that no one else will
Watch him think a while, smoke a cigarette and smile as I frown
If he cant have you, guess that no one else will
Watch him think a while, smoke a cigarette and smile as I frown
song performed by by Whiskeytown
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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9 Miles On A Dirty Futon
I spent nine miles with her.
in a cheap apartment.
Boxed wine and cheeses with exotic sounding names.
Eaten on a blanket on the floor as we had no table.
we had no couch,
we had no television.
But we had music.
At night we would lay on a futon matress
that layed on the floor.
The streetlight outside the bedroom window playing shadows across sections of her.
First her eyes were lit, the rest of her awash in shadows,
then,
when she turned,
her mouth was visible,
but her eyes were shadowed.
A breast, a thigh, her hair all illuminated
then darkened
according to her movments.
Sometimes she would lie on her back and light a cigarette.
Her whole face would light with the flash of the lighter,
like hand held lightining,
then darken again.
We would talk for hours on that futon,
I don't remember what was said...
I remember her in pieces of light and shadow.
When she smoked the light would turn the smoke in to a slow
languid serpent
escaping from her body through her mouth and nose.
I have never seen anyone smoke like that before or since.
Her face half lit by the streetlight.
She would speak and the words would drift out of her
entwined with the smoke.
She smoked like Garbo.
slow and seductive.
9 years with her and all my memories are of shadows, soft sodium streetlights, and orange cigarette glow.
9 years with her and all I remember are the lights and shadows
across her body.
On that futon matress
on the floor.
poem by Brevet Wilson
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Life Is As Simple And Enjoyable As Sipping Coffee Early Morning And Enjoying The Scenery Of A Rustic Place
alright,
we simplify this
it is early morning
they have not awakened yet
the house is very peaceful
the windows are closed still
and the doors too
alright
stand, walk towards the window
open all of them
let the cold air come in
then walk towards the door
unlock it
and open it too and then
let the cold air
come in
you want coffee?
go to the kitchen
take a spoon a cup and saucer and
take sugar and coffee and
hot water
you know what to do, right?
feel at home
this is your home
now take your time
sit on a chair
face the trees
stir your coffee
feel it hot
and then sip
enjoy, savor the scenery of
this rustic place
feel the wind on your cheeks
take the warm side of the cup
alright,
is not life as simple as this?
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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I Accept
I decline, to take your wine
But of your hospitality I will partake
As your gesture is true and very kind
So of your joy, I will not forsake.
I will sit with you, the whole night though
As you drink your glass of wine
I can be the student and you the guru
And from that happiness I will not decline.
As I had spoke, I will not smoke
But of your habit you should enjoy
And those words I will not revoke
Though myself smoking it does annoy.
Smoke your smokes, I hope I don't choke
As you puff on your cigarette or cigar
Enjoy that taste with pleasure's awoke
As for your smoking habit I will never debar.
I refuse to eat, any of your foods or meat
But thank you for asking about my appetite
And with that one question to you, I must conclude
That without eating today, I will not die.
So please enjoy your food, as any man would
We can still chat while you are eating
And when you are finished I hope it's understood
That you and I can then start our preaching.
I do agree, that you and I both are free
As we lived our lives the best we could
But then I think as I drink my coffee
Was there other places that we should of stood.
Let's look through the bible, and see what is vital
For man to live and love on this Earth
But then I understand life is but a vicious cycle
It ends and begins with death and birth.
I now say goodbye, please don't sigh
Hopefully someday soon we will chat again
When the sun is out and blue is the sky
And again you my friend I will commend.
I will knock on your door, as I have done before
As I arrive there hopefully as your guest
Then our memories again we will restore
And I will accept, at your own request.
Randy L. McClave
poem by Randy McClave
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Being in Love in 1974.(poem)
Being in love
was like being ill
and that day
after Judy'd left
to go to Florence
for a week
you went to the big city
to take your mind off her
but she lingered there
wherever you went
every brunette
with long hair
was her
and when you sat
in the Royal Opera House
to watch a ballet
she was there
down in the front
at least it seemed so
until the girl looked around
and had a different
face and eyes
and sitting
in that coffee house
by Piccadilly Circus
you sensed her absence
and drank coffee
after coffee
the blues eating
at you
wanting her there
beside you
imagining maybe
she'd not gone off
after all and that
at any minute
she'd seek you out
by some kind of
lover's radar
but she never showed
and no other girl passing
was her
and you thought
of the time
a few weeks back
when after she'd
gone off home
from work
you had taken
a single hair
from her white
work coat
and twisted it
between fingers
and kept it
between pages
of Solzhenitsyn's
Gulag Archipelago
seeing it
and moving it
each time
you read more
of the labour camps
and death and snow
and tundra
and she off in Florence
with friends
and you left behind
depressed
and love blind.
poem by Terry Collett
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Being In Love In 1974.
Being in love
was like being ill
and that day
after Judy'd left
to go to Florence
for a week
you went to the big city
to take your mind off her
but she lingered there
wherever you went
every brunette
with long hair
was her
and when you sat
in the Royal Opera House
to watch a ballet
she was there
down in the front
at least it seemed so
until the girl looked around
and had a different
face and eyes
and sitting
in that coffee house
by Piccadilly Circus
you sensed her absence
and drank coffee
after coffee
the blues eating
at you
wanting her there
beside you
imagining maybe
she'd not gone off
after all and that
at any minute
she'd seek you out
by some kind of
lover's radar
but she never showed
and no other girl passing
was her
and you thought
of the time
a few weeks back
when after she'd
gone off home
from work
you had taken
a single hair
from her white
work coat
and twisted it
between fingers
and kept it
between pages
of Solzhenitsyn's
Gulag Archipelago
seeing it
and moving it
each time
you read more
of the labour camps
and death and snow
and tundra
and she off in Florence
with friends
and you left behind
depressed
and love blind.
poem by Terry Collett
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Dubrovnik 1972.
Dubrovnik seemed
a second home,
and you, in a street
cafe, sat drinking coffee,
with that book on
Schopenhauer open
on the table, a cigarette
smoking in an ashtray
unattended, thinking
of the girl in the hotel
restaurant the night
before, the waitress
who smiled at you as
she served and went
by your table, and your
brother said, I don't
fancy yours much,
indicating with a nod
of head, another
waitress over by a
nearby table, plump
and spotted, wearing
a scowl instead of a
smile, and all the while,
he eyeing, as young
men do the beauty
that had caught your
eye going by, but all is
fair in love, so men
have said, so picking
up the book on
Schopenhauer, and
further reading,
holding the cigarette
between the fingers
of the hand not
turning pages, you
inhaled with deep
concentration the
smoke and words
spread across the
page, written by a
philosopher of a
foreign tongue
and different age.
poem by Terry Collett
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One Side Of My Face
One side of my face what the world
looks like on the inside,
a mindscape I’m walking through
that changes shape whenever I do.
And the other just a clay bust of the moon
that somebody keeps working on
like erosion in Death Valley.
But tonight I’m tired
of looking for signs of life
where there are none.
The air is as smudged with cigarette smoke
as the dirty winter windows
I’m staring numbly through are.
Infra red aura of the town lights
reflected off the big-bellied clouds
as if something were burning
across the highway as those
who are awake yet listen
to the Doppler Effect of the sirens
to know if they’re still safe or not.
A pastel green wall
through an open window
across the street from here.
But I haven’t seen anybody in it
for nearly a year since I moved in here
where every second thought
ends in so what?
Like a cynical kind of cowboy zen
that’s had it up to the proverbial
with koans and haikus
that provide you with spurs to enlightenment
but no winged horse
that isn’t already a corpse
lying by the side of the road like roadkill.
My mind soars like a turkey-vulture
when my heart
wants to swim like a swan
down river with the stars of the Milky Way
as I did one suicidal May in a six man raft
with no rudder or guide
in the spring run off of the Ottawa River
to raise money for
the Children’s Hospital of Eastern Ontario.
But the cheap thrill
of risking my life for virtue
has worn off like chalk on a pool cue
and if light is the function
of the body of the lamp
right now I feel like
a blackhole with a bad complexion
that’s gone snowblind
in the glare of a computer screen.
I figure if I stare back long enough
sooner or later
one of us is going to blink
and discover what’s on the other side
of what the other one thinks
it’s looking at
when it puts an hourglass
up to its eye like a telescope
to know what time it is
and how many light years there are
between solitude and exile.
Between staying in and going out.
The tin gas pipes crackle
like ice breaking underfoot
or a bird in the chimney
trying to peck its way out
of a black cosmic eggshell
that’s as starless as hell on the inside
and tarred and feathered on the other,
assuming, of course,
it ever does crack the koan
in the liberty bell of enlightenment
and emerge with the wingspan of a dragon
into a room full of cigarette smoke
and patchouli incense
rising like the ghost of a white horse
as if someone who just fell off
the cutting edge of the flat earth
were trying to get on again like Icarus
waning in a wax museum on the moon.
poem by Patrick White
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Mailbox!
frost on the hawk's wings,
small face against the glass;
or perhaps just a memory,
black coffee and cigarette smoke.
bare limbed trees walk beside me,
down the path to the road....
mailbox hanging open,
only cobwebs in the damp.
the porch light still on,
like a ghostly lighthouse,
calling back things you've forgotten,
that i go through every day!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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The Elevator
Doors open
Doors close
The relieving sound dings
The bell rings
Button pressed
Emotion expressed
Innocence left on the top
Common sense? We think we got a lot
Suddenly it starts
Scary at first
Then it becomes normal you don't even know
Evil everywhere
Keep on moving
Ding
Ring
Ding
It keeps ringing
Going down
Can't feel it anymore
Motion becomes one with soul
Soul becomes one with environment
You're different
Ding
Ring
It keeps ringing
Going down
Just keep moving
You won't feel it
Just keep moving, you won't feel a thing
Ding
Ring
It keeps ringing
Going down
Constant motion
Becomes a constant life
Ding
Ring
It keeps ringing
Going down
Stopping
Ding
Ring
You've gotten a rush
Nothing to say a sensation in your legs and then hush
How did you get here?
It didn't seem like you were moving until you stopped
Didn't seem like anything was wrong
Constant
Motion
Darkness
This isn't what you were made for
Blinding light
Who's that?
Nowhere to hide from the light
Can't find anymore darkness
My legs
I've moved so far
I can't go back
I didn't feel it
Blinding light
You'll be accepted
Come
I can't face my fears
I can't do this.... tears
Blinding light
...
The sensation is back
Ding
Ring
Moving again
Same rush
Maybe different
Ding
Ring
Moving again
Don't feel the motion anymore
Getting used to this
This is what I'm made for
Ding
Ring
Moving again
Just keep on going
Closer to the light
Blinding light
You are loved
Ding
Ring
Moving again
Too much is happening in life
Blinding light
Share the love
Share the light
Save them from the elevator
Ding
Ring
Moving again
Blinding light
I will give you strength
I will give you words
I will give you love
I will give you life
I will give you hope
Ding
Ring
It's time to go back down
Sensation in my legs
Rush
such a rush
But getting used to it
This time can feel the movement
This time I'm empowered
Ding
Ring
Going down
Can't get jaded to the movement
Gotta go all the way down without losing you
Blinding light
I'm with you
Even to the ends of the earth
Ding
Ring
Going down
Was it always this dark here?
How do these people not feel this motion
Was I chosen?
Can I do this?
Ding
Ring
Going down
Blinding light
I will give you all that you need, simply seek me
Now go forth and share what you know of the movement
Ding
Ring
Going down
They don't believe they're moving
But look I can see their destruction
Ding
Ring
Going down
You are the light down
Ding
Ring
This is where you've been sent
Ding
Ring
Doors open
Doors close
It's a new world because you've got new eyes
I'll tell them all that we're moving
Because it's the scary paradox
That within the motion itself
It is not felt but afterwards in a sudden rush
We all become conscious of how far we've fallen
That's the rush in your legs
That's
The blinding light
poem by David Knox
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Friendship
The Friendship
Sven and I were best friends sailed on the same ship together.
he as a third officer and I as a cook. We were both interested
in reading, cinema and politics, and we liked go dancing when
our ship docked. One night in Kingston, Jamaica, we met two
girls at a beach cafe, I liked my girl there was an easy repartee
between us and we laughed a lot. Back onboard Sven said my
the girl was not suitable for me, I smiled, thought it a joke.
Next day was Sunday Sven went ashore after breakfast, going
to the beach, he said, I had to stay onboard and cook dinner.
He came back in the evening, when I was ready to go ashore
and meet my new girlfriend; Sven said he was very tired and
wanted to stay onboard for the night. When I met my girl at
the cafe, she appeared startled looked around and behind me
but said nothing; told she had been to the beach all day and
was quite exhausted, the easy talk between us was gone and
the silence was awkward, so I wordlessly just got up and left.
Back onboard, Sven sat in the mess-hall drinking coffee and
reading, he looked up said halloo but continued to read;
In my darkened room I looked out, full moon and the lights
of Jamaica looked alluring; I also saw Sven go ashore again and
it was well after midnight.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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Drug Ballad
Back of the building, we're with your friends
Back of the mind, smoke in the air then
Let's clear that up, even if we felt ends
Something these withdrawal pills won't mend
The numb tips when my hands on your hips
The nasty taste on lips, oh how they miss
Your dirty kiss, drugs, love, must mix up rough.
Oh princess, you can keep all that stuff
Smell of the haze, reminds me of my dad
Slowly no haste, do it till I don't feel my hands
I can't feel my face, don't stop till I can't stand
Give me that slutty taste, show your friends...that I'm a man
Snow the white, burn the smoke, just to start, dropp the spheres
It isn't right, down the throat, cut the heart with your spears
Bite my lips, I just might back
We're so lit, let's come back
Numb those hips, break that back
Drug ballad, dancing with you
Drug ballad, even though it's threw
Drug ballad, dream of it, oh yes I do
Drug ballad, I know you do too
poem by Freddy Ibarra
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Knew The Smoke (To Be A Prayer)
he said:
'i went four years
without a lover,
trying to do the right thing...
then one day i stood up,
packed my few belongings,
and walked off...
in search of...'
i watched him as he rolled
a cigarette, his gnarled hands
sure and steady...
stared at the light in his eyes,
and the doors...
only he knew what
was behind them.
bought him a cup of coffee,
and shook his hand,
no need for words...
wondered if i'd met Jesus,
or the devil,
or if i was looking
into a mirror!
each path, each call,
is different... each heart,
pretty much the same.
i watched him light his cigarette,
and knew the smoke
to be a prayer!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Is it Tea or Coffee?
Is it Tea or Coffee?
Tell me!
My instant early morning dream
I like it black, white with sugar or cream!
The choice is free
Yet the mind cannot agree
With Tea is a Yippee!
With Coffee it is a Whoopee!
The thought of a little caffeine
The smell of fresh roasted beans
Will once again set off my adrenalin
While my exhausted brain is waiting
That stirring cup of sizzling black
Put on the kettle; spill the beans out of the sack
I will pay the fee; I will pay the levee
I will beg on one knee for a little bit of Coffee
Take a sip of the early morning coffee
Close your eyes and try to see
As you smell the airy aroma like a bee
Tea or Coffee! Perhaps you now understand me
Those swarms of dark brown seeds
They feed my vicious needs indeed
I don’t care how much I pee or how much I wee
For that sparking liquid of hot black called coffee
Copyright 2008 - Sylvia Chidi
poem by Sylvia Chidi
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Julie and You and Christ
Julie was walking
down Oxford Street
with you
one of her hands
was in yours
the other was holding
a cigarette which she put
to her lips and drew on
and exhaled the smoke
and said
pushing smoke
into the world
do you think Christ
ever came?
of course
you replied
the whole calendar
of the Western world
is spilt before and after
his coming
she inhaled deeply
and stopped to peer
in a shop window
don't like that dress
it's too darn middle class
too safe
you looked at the dress
in the window
at the colours and style
would your mother where it?
you asked
she'd wear it
but I wouldn't
be seen dead in it
she said
moving you on
squeezing your hand
reminding you
of the quick grope
and sex in the small cupboard
off the ward
where she was staying
while trying to kick
the drug habit
she spread out
amongst brooms and boxes
and you there gazing at her
wondering if some domestic
would find you there
well? do you think
Christ really came?
she asked
yes
you said
he split history in two
he made people
either love him
or hate him
and want to destroy him
and what he stood for
she laughed and said
you certainly got him
under your skin
I don't think he came at all
she said
before inhaling
her cigarette smoke
I think it was all
a big joke played out
on the Jews
to get them riled
she inhaled
her cigarette smoke
and was silent
as you walked on
down the Street
it was no joke
being crucified
no joke hanging there
on that cross
you said
she pulled you
into a shop doorway
and kissed you
and said
oh forget about him
and his crucifixion
I've had enough
of the parents
ramming him
into my brain
over the years
and she kissed you again
and you looked
into her dark eyes
where you thought
many a dream comes
and drowns
and dies.
poem by Terry Collett
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