0012 Ego takes the stage
It’s a lovely old-fashioned tea-room
in one of those rare up-town hotels
that’s still a family concern; well-run,
staff been there for years; prices
reasonable. In fact the whole enterprise
is civilised. Even media types
for whom it stood in angry youth
as all they affected to despise, rather like it now.
It’s full though admirably leisurely
every afternoon – all friendly chatter,
silver-plate and fancy cakes. It stands
for exactly what it is, now rare – a tea-room.
Those who visit regularly wear the faintest sense
of self-congratulation. There was one
at every major London corner not so long ago.
Yesterday, suddenly, an intrusion:
onto the dais where a pianist plays
from four to five of a weekend afternoon,
a studenty-dressed chap launched himself
with a rant, which seemed to take in
everything from coffee and class to human rights.
Conversation dwindled; out-of-towners
up for supper and a show
judged it perhaps as experimental afternoon theatre
put on by an ill-advised management;
(the tea-dances there, long gone) :
some of the younger media types
barracked him; the rest of us
listened politely, before he was removed.
Conversation picked up slowly, then
became more stimulated; some of us
remembered the bombings only
just up the road. On the more senior tables,
his performance was compared unfavourably
with what we used to hear in ’68. More
hot water was called for; it seemed to have
made us thirstier.
It was, altogether
a very English occasion. A pity John Betjeman
or Alan Bennett couldn’t have been there.
When we left, the cloakroom attendants
looked friendlier, as if the tips were a little
larger today. And departing visitors
smiled at one another. We had shared
an occasion in central London,
and lived to tell the tale at home.
poem by Michael Shepherd
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Related quotes
An Afternoon Poem Is Rare
AN AFTERNOON POEM IS RARE
An Afternoon Poem is rare-
Afternoon is long after the first light-
Afternoon is a time of heaviness and quiet
A time of rest-
Afternoon is after the morning work has been done-
Afternoon is the weight of the day-
Afternoon is the time after the day has lost its freshness-
Still there must be afternoon poems-
There must be a beauty that emerges
In its own way,
Perhaps from where lovers meet
Perhaps from ‘ripeness is all’
Perhaps from the anticipation of evening
Perhaps from winter where it is the warmest time of day.
There must be afternoon poems-
Poems that celebrate all that warmth can bring-
Poems of rest poems of sleep-
Poems of waiting to believe
That in the evening
A new day and a new world
Will make life easier again.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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Afternoon Tea
Tea time wont be the same without my donna
At night I lie awake and dream of donna
I think about that small cafe
Thats where we used to meet each day
And then we used to sit a while
And drink our afternoon tea
Ill take afternoon tea (afternoon tea)
If you take it with me (afternoon tea)
You take as long as you like
cause I like you, girl
I take sugar with tea (afternoon tea)
You take milk if you please (afternoon tea)
Like you talking to me
Because you ease my mind
Ba-ba-ba-ba-ba-ba (afternoon tea)
Ba-ba-ba-ba-ba-ba (afternoon tea)
Ba-ba-ba-ba-ba-ba (afternoon tea)
Ba-ba-ba-ba-ba-ba (afternoon tea)
Tea time still aint the same without my donna
At night I lie awake and dream of donna
I went to our cafe one day
They said that donna walked away
Youd think at least she might have stayed
To drink her afternoon tea
Ill take afternoon tea (afternoon tea)
If you take it with me (afternoon tea)
You take as long as you like
cause I like you, girl
I take afternoon tea (afternoon tea)
Every day of the week (afternoon tea)
Please come along if you like
Because I like you, girl
Ba-ba-ba-ba-ba-ba (afternoon tea)
Ba-ba-ba-ba-ba-ba (afternoon tea)
song performed by by Kinks
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Coffee Cigarettes and Time
The late afternoon invites leisurely
to inactivity and rest The best time to sit back
and be waited on like a guest At the corner
coffee shop where the air is thick with smoke
People play pool in the back room placing bets
that provoke The writer who lives alone
on the thirteenth floor is relaxed He smiles
unnoticeably having a completed chapter faxed
The bartender is preparing for the night and
Happy Hour Inventing new fancy drinks
that are potent sweet or sour The old guy
sitting at the bar in no rush to get home on time
Shares opinions over strong coffee about a
forgotten war crime A woman ordered wine
getting cigarettes from the machine Slowly strolls
across the room wearing a stone of aquamarine
Late rush hour traffic encourages to hang out
for a while Two attractive men in the corner sharing
kisses really shy From the speakers on the wall we
can hear a funky jazz tune Sitting in club chairs smoking
stirring coffee with a spoon Time stands still for a
little while when it starts to rain Streaks of water
leave teardrops on the sidewalk as in pain
The streetcar stops and new people join
our convention Accompanied by laughter they
do not pay much attention Rings of smoke take off
being swallowed by the big room Some people order
appetizers but all you smell is perfume The walls
are plastered with old posters of musicians past Here
all you need is coffee cigarettes and time that lasts
poem by Kristina Louisa Carr
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London Town
Walking down the sidewalk one purple afternoon,
I was accosted by a barker playing a simple tune upon his flute.
Toottoottoottoot.
Silver rain was falling down
Upon the dirty ground of london town.
People pass me by on my imaginary street,
Ordinary people its impossible to meet,
Holding conversations that are always incomplete.
Well I dont know.
Oh, where are there places to go?
Someone, somewhere has to know.
Idont know.
Out of work again,the actor entertains his wife
With the same old stories of his ordinary life.
Maybe he exaggerates the trouble and the strife.
Well, I dont know.
Oh, where are there places to go?
Someone, somewhere has to know.
Crawling down the pavement on a sunday afternoon,
I was arrested by a rozzer
Wearing a pink balloon about his foot.
Toot toot toot toot.
Silver rain was falling down
Upon the dirty ground of london town.
Someone, somewhere has to know.
Silver rain was falling down
Upon the dirty ground of london town.
song performed by by Paul McCartney
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Loved Stranger
I remembered I'd promised my Aunt Adele before she died
that I'd get in touch with her family in Oz
just to put matters to rest, since they'd not spoken for years
since she upped and went off with this Pom
and left the family without its clever high-earner...
I wasn't looking forward to it with all that bad blood -
'Enough for a vampire's transfusion' said my uncle, the culprit -
but a promise is a promise. I had Auntie's old phone book;
worked out the time here that would be Sunday afternoon in Oz.
The voice was open, strong, friendly - I guessed I'd hit
that great moment when they'd had the barbie,
the few beers after the few beers,
the guests had just gone off
and the washing-up could wait until after a beer...
He was really glad I'd phoned -
he'd been away from the family most of his life, one reason and another -
so we didn't have much to try to piece together
which was probably a good thing, could've been
a pretty forced, stilted conversation -
so we got chatting about one thing and another,
our different lifestyles, our families -
and you know how it is, strangers on a train and all that,
got quite carried away, about how much we enjoyed life,
loved our wives and families, wouldn't change a thing,
what life had taught us - almost anything, everything really
like we were old friends who hadn't met up for years..
It was quite late on in the conversation, when we were working out
if we couldn't fix up a family visit, and he'd said,
no, they'd never lived in Adelaide (after which city
Aunt was proudly named - 'greatest city on earth' they said,
not having travelled further than Sydney -)
when I realised I'd phoned the wrong number; but
felt good and he too I guess.
So I had to choose the moment
to laugh and say hey this is an expensive call,
talk to the wife and call you back, Jacko...
I've never known my family so bloody merry
as when the story got around.
poem by Michael Shepherd
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The Dangling Conversation
It's a still life water color
Of a now late afternoon
As the sun shines through the curtain lace
And shadows wash the room
And we sit and drink our coffee
Couched in our indifference
Like shells upon the shore
You can hear the ocean roar
In the dangling conversation
And the superficial sighs
The borders of our lives
And you read your Emily Dickinson
And I my Robert Frost
And we note our place with bookmarkers
That measure what we've lost
Like a poem poorly written
We are verses out of rhythm
Couplets out of rhyme
In syncopated time
And the dangling conversation
And the superficial sighs
Are the borders of our lives
Yes, we speak of things that matter
With words that must be said
"Can analysis be worthwhile?"
"Is the theater really dead?"
And how the room is softly faded
And I only kiss your shadow
I cannot feel your hand
You're a stranger now unto me
Lost in the dangling conversation
And the superficial sighs
In the borders of our lives
song performed by by Simon & Garfunkel
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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London Boys
Cow bell strikes another night
Your eyes are heavy and your limbs all ache
You've bought some coffee, butter and bread
You can't make a thing cause the meter's dead
You moved away
Hold your folks you're gonna stay away
Bright lights, Soho, Wardour street
You hope you make friends with the guys that you meet
Somebody shows you round
Now you've met the London boys
Things seem good again, someone cares about you
Oh, the first time that you tried a pill
You feel a little queasy, decidedly ill
You're gonna be sick, but you mustn't lose faith
To let yourself down would be a big disgrace
With the London boys, with the London boys
You're only seventeen, but you think you've grown
In the month you've been away from your parents' home
You take the pills too much
You don't give a damn about that jobs you've got
So long as you're with the London boys
A London boy, oh a London boy
Your flashy clothes are your pride and joy
A London boy, a London boy
You think you've had a lot of fun
But you ain't got nothing, you're on the run
It's too late now, cause you're out there boy
You've got it made with the rest of the toys
Now you wish you'd never left your home
You've got what you wanted but you're on your own
With the London boys
Now you've met the London boys
Now you've met the London boys
Now you've met the London boys
song performed by by David Bowie
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Strangers Room
- at this time.....i just like to sing..
Here in this lonely room,
Late in the afternoon
Dreaming my life away-hey.
Dont answer the telephone,
Im not home receiving you.
Here in the afternoon,
Alone in some strangers room,
What am I doing here at all?
No need to over do it,
Im bleeding now,
Im bleeding now.
Stop the bleeding now,
Stop the bleeding now.
Oozing out
Dripping down
Tables silent shout.
Aghhh!
(scat sing and whistle)
Stop the bleeding now.
song performed by by Yoko Ono
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Strangers Room
- at this time.....i just like to sing..
Here in this lonely room,
Late in the afternoon
Dreaming my life away-hey.
Dont answer the telephone,
Im not home receiving you.
Here in the afternoon,
Alone in some strangers room,
What am I doing here at all?
No need to over do it,
Im bleeding now,
Im bleeding now.
Stop the bleeding now,
Stop the bleeding now.
Oozing out
Dripping down
Tables silent shout.
Aghhh!
(scat sing and whistle)
Stop the bleeding now.
song performed by by Yoko Ono
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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A Room Full Of Arty Types
A room full of arty types
all vying to be heard.
Gathering for an exhibition
of photographs by someone.
The pictures hung on a board,
displaying the work done.
Everyone shares a viewpoint
on how the photos were done.
I sit and smile
as the voices around me chatter
in a mêlées of nice conversation
indistinguishable from where I sat,
but the hands and arm waving
amused me quite a bit..
30 May 2008
poem by David Harris
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A Foggy Day
I was a stranger in the city
Out of town were the people I knew
I had that feeling of self-pity
What to do, what to do, what to do
The outlook was decidedly blue
But as I walked through the foggy streets alone
It turned out to be the luckiest day I've known
A foggy day, in London Town
Had me low, had me down
I viewed the morning, with much alarm
British museum, had lost its charm
How long I wondered,
Could this thing last
But the age of miracles, hadn't past
For suddenly, I saw you there
And through foggy London Town,
The sun was shining everywhere
For suddenly, I saw you there
And through foggy London Town,
The sun was shining everywhere
Everywhere
Everywhere
Everywhere
song performed by by Ella Fitzgerald, music by George Gershwin, lyrics by Ira Gershwin
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Like A Stone
On a cold wet
Afternoon
No room for love and emptiness
By a freeway
I confess I was lost in the pages
Of a book
Full of death
Reading how well die alone
And if a God will lay to rest
Anywhere we want to go
In your house
I long to be
Room by room
Patiently
Ill wait for you there
Like a stone
Ill wait for you there
Alone
And on my death bed
I will prey
To the gods and the angels
Like a pagan
To anyone who will take me to heaven
To a place
I would recall
I was there so long ago
The sky was bruised
The world was black
And there you led me on
In your house
I long to be
Room by room
Patiently
Ill wait for you there
Liek a stone
Ill wait for you there
Alone
In all I read
Till the day was gone
And I sat in regret
In all the things Ive done
For all that Ive blessed
And all that Ive wronged
In dreams till my death
I will wonder on
In your house
I long to be
Room by room
Patiently
Ill wait for you there
Like a stone
Ill wait for you there
Alone
Alone
song performed by by Audioslave
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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All In The Golden Afternoon
All in the golden afternoon full leisurely we glide
For both our oars, with little skill, by little arms are plied
While little hands make vain pretence our wanderings to guide
Ah, cruel three! in such an hour beneath such dreamy wheather
To beg a tale of breath too weak to stir the tiniest feather
And what can one poor voice avail against three tongues together
Anon, to sudden silence won, in fancy they persue
The dream child moving through a land of wonders wild and new
In friendly chat with bird or beast- and half believe it true
And ever as the story drained the wells of fancy dry
And faintly strove that weary one to put the subject by
The next time. it is next time the happy voices cry
Thus grew the tale of wonderland, thus slowly, one by one
Its quaint events were hammered out
And now the tale is done and home we steer
A merry crew
Beneath the setting sun
Lewis carrol
song performed by by Alphaville
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The London Boys
Cow bell strikes another night
Your eyes are heavy and your limbs all ache
Youve bought some coffee, butter and bread
You cant make a thing cause the meters dead
You moved away
Hold your folks youre gonna stay away
Bright lights, soho, wardour street
You hope you make friends with the guys that you meet
Somebody shows you round
Now youve met the london boys
Things seem good again, someone cares about you
Oh, the first time that you tried a pill
You feel a little queasy, decidedly ill
Youre gonna be sick, but you mustnt lose faith
To let yourself down would be a big disgrace
With the london boys, with the london boys
Youre only seventeen, but you think youve grown
In the month youve been away from your parents home
You take the pills too much
You dont give a damn about that jobs youve got
So long as youre with the london boys
A london boy, oh a london boy
Your flashy clothes are your pride and joy
A london boy, a london boy
You think youve had a lot of fun
But you aint got nothing, youre on the run
Its too late now, cause youre out there boy
Youve got it made with the rest of the toys
Now you wish youd never left your home
Youve got what you wanted but youre on your own
With the london boys
Now youve met the london boys
Now youve met the london boys
Now youve met the london boys
song performed by by David Bowie
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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[03] Chocolate Afternoon
That was our moment— your hair on my face
Falling gently as dream— now it is the yesterday
No sun there into room— only a breezy cool framework
Backed our assorted brain— that always I recapitulate
On that ladder of charm— my lips tapped the flower
With spongy soggy kiss— now which I really miss
On that chocolate afternoon— love sweated inside torso
Your tender hands replied— that is today crucial wound
That was our moment— no sun there into room
On that ladder of charm— on that chocolate afternoon
poem by Ashraful Musaddeq
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New Thing From London Town
New thing from london town
Refugees of broken sound
The sound of breathing and crying hearts
This situation tears me apart.
The new police will find me soon
I cant hide inside this room
Im waiting for the boys to come
Then we can move out one by one.
New thing from london town.
New thing from london town
Nothing left to keep us down
We are not responsible
Someone pays and someone falls
We slide into the night
Silhouettes in a cold blue light
Take a look and look away
We need something we need to play.
New thing from london town.
song performed by by Gary Numan
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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In fifth Avenue
In the mornings I see Jane passing
and how she walks away,
in the street
and gets smaller and smaller in the distance
The lingering afternoon hours
slowly past
and the postman
draws the barking dogs,
before he rides leisurely
away with his bicycle.
When the sun gets low in the late afternoon
and I park behind the house,
I hear a gate opening
and she greets while she walks by.
poem by Gert Strydom
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From You Fall.
The two catholic priests sat
in the Breakfast Room
off the refectory
in the abbey.
They looked up
when you entered
then continued
their conversation
about Dante
and you poured
yourself a coffee
and a small bowl
of Cornflakes
with a little milk
and sugar.
You sat down
and sipped the coffee.
There were prints
of Michelangelo
on the walls
and a crucifix above
and between
the two doors
that led to the
refectory
where the monks ate
three times a day.
The priests conversed
but said nothing to you.
Their words were uttered
in posh well bred voices.
One said
Few believe in Hell these days
and even fewer in Paradise
and those that do
have vague ideas
gathered from odd books
you find on airport
bookshop shelves.
You listened half heartedly
as they talked.
You wanted to ask
about the place.
Wanted one of them
to hear confession.
Maybe one
to give absolution
and perhaps offer a solution.
You could hear
the footsteps of monks
in the other room
getting their breakfast
of bread and jam
and black French coffee.
One priest laughed.
You never heard the joke.
The other guffawed loudly
in a girlish voice.
And the woman was seen
leaving by the back door
semi dressed and in great distress
the priest continued
And Father Denton
was never the same.
Then they were silent
and stood and smiled
and went their way.
You sat alone in the room.
The Michelangelo prints
reflected the single bulb
hanging above the table.
The Crucified seemed
above it all.
You would find some other
to hear confession.
To give absolution
from your fall.
poem by Terry Collett
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Coffee
Sometimes life is merely a matter of coffee and whatever intimacy a cup of coffee
affords. I once read something about coffee. The thing said that coffee is good for you;
it stimulates all the organs.
I thought at first this was a strange way to put it, and not altogether pleasant, but
as time goes by I have found out that it makes sense in its own limited way. I'll tell you
what I mean.
Yesterday morning I went over to see a girl. I like her. Whatever we had going for us
is gone now. She does not care for me. I blew it and wish I hadn't.
I rang the door bell and waited on the stairs. I could hear her moving around upstairs.
The way she moved I could tell that she was getting up. I had awakened her.
Then she came down the stairs. I could feel her approach in my stomach. Every step she
took stirred my feelings and lead indirectly to her opening the door. She saw me and it
did not please her.
Once upon a time it pleased her very much, last week. I wonder where it went,
pretending to be naive.
"I feel strange now," she said. "I don't want to talk."
"I want a cup of coffee," I said, because it was the last thing in the world
that I wanted. I said it in such a way that it sounded as if I were reading her a telegram
from somebody else, a person who really wanted a cup of coffee, who cared about nothing
else.
"All right," she said.
I followed her up the stairs. It was ridiculous. She had just put some clothes on. They
had not quite adjusted themselves to her body. I could tell you about her ass. We went
into the kitchen.
She took a jar of instant coffee off the shelf and put it on the table. She placed a
cup next to it, and a spoon. I looked at them. She put a pan full of water on the stove
and turned the gas on under it.
All this time she did not say a word. Her clothes adjusted themselves to her body. I
won't. She left the kitchen.
Then she went down the stairs and outside to see if she had any mail. I didn't remember
seeing any. She came back up the stairs and went into another room. She closed the door
after her. I looked at the pan full of water on the stove.
I knew that it would take a year before the water started to boil. It was now October
and there was too much water in the pan. That was the problem. I threw half of the water
into the sink.
The water would boil faster now. It would take only six months. The house was quiet.
I looked out the back porch. There were sacks of garbage there. I stared at the garbage
and tried to figure out what she had been eating lately by studying the containers and
peelings and stuff. I couldn't tell a thing.
It was now March. The water started to boil. I was pleased by this.
I looked at the table. There was the jar of instant coffee, the empty cup and the spoon
all laid out like a funeral service. These are the things that you need to make a cup of
coffee.
When I left the house ten minutes later, the cup of coffee safely inside me like a
grave, I said, "Thank you for the cup of coffee."
"You're welcome," she said. Her voice came from behind a closed door. Her
voice sounded like another telegram. It was really time for me to leave.
I spent the rest of the day not making coffee. It was a comfort. And evening came, I
had dinner in a restaurant and went to a bar. I had some drinks and talked to some people.
We were bar people and said bar things. None of them remembered, and the bar closed. It
was two o'clock in the morning. I had to go outside. It was foggy and cold in San
Francisco. I wondered about the fog and felt very human and exposed.
I decided to go visit another girl. We had not been friends for over a year. Once we
were very close. I wondered what she was thinking about now.
I went to her house. She didn't have a door bell. That was a small victory. One must
keep track of all the small victories. I do, anyway.
She answered the door. She was holding a robe in front of her. She didn't believe that
she was seeing me. "What do you want?" she said, believing now that she was
seeing me. I walked right into the house.
She turned and closed the door in such a way that I could see her profile. She had not
bothered to wrap the robe completely around herself. She was just holding the robe in
front of herself.
I could see an unbroken line of body running from her head to her feet. It looked kind
of strange. Perhaps because it was so late at night.
"What do you want?" she said.
"I want a cup of coffee," I said. What a funny thing to say, to say again for
a cup of coffee was not what I really wanted.
She looked at me and wheeled slightly on the profile. She was not pleased to see me.
Let the AMA tell us that time heals. I looked at the unbroken line of her body.
"Why don't you have a cup of coffee with me?" I said. "I feel like
talking to you. We haven't talked for a long time."
She looked at me and wheeled slightly on the profile. I stared at the unbroken line of
her body. This was not good.
"It's too late," she said. "I have to get up in the morning. If you want
a cup of coffee, there's instant in the kitchen. I have to go to bed."
The kitchen light was on. I looked down the hall into the kitchen. I didn't feel like
going into the kitchen and having another cup of coffee by myself. I didn't feel like
going to anybody else's house and asking them for a cup of coffee.
I realized that the day had been committed to a very strange pilgrimage, and I had not
planned it that way. At least the jar of instant coffee was not on the table, beside an
empty white cup and a spoon.
They say in the spring a young man's fancy turns to thoughts of love. Perhaps if he has
enough time left over, his fancy can even make room for a cup of coffee.
poem by Richard Brautigan from Revenge of the Lawn (1971)
Submitted by Dan Costinaş
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Gacela of the Dead Child
Each afternoon in Granada,
each afternoon, a child dies.
Each afternoon the water sits down
and chats with its companions.
The dead wear mossy wings.
The cloudy wind and the clear wind
are two pheasants in flight through the towers,
and the day is a wounded boy.
Not a flicker of lark was left in the air
when I met you in the caverns of wine.
Not the crumb of a cloud was left in the ground
when you were drowned in the river.
A giant of water fell down over the hills,
and the valley was tumbling with lilies and dogs.
In my hands' violet shadow, your body,
dead on the bank, was an angel of coldness.
poem by Federico García Lorca
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