Brazilian Cafe
Grey Hospital and a Brazilian Café.
The hotel where I stayed served lousy coffee, insipid and milky.
I knew there was a Brazilian café nearby, on my way there walked
past the closed down city hospital. Grey walls dripping of uncured
diseases, graffiti and dead windows. Convert it into an office block,
but who wants to work there, a place haunted by cynical doctors and
indifferent nurses who stalk the halls at night waiting for their shift
to end so they can get out from this place of horror, and patients
they have lost interest in and can do nothing for. Tear it down and
throw the debris down a gully. At the Brazilian café the coffee was
strong and healthy; the staff, young, moved as dancers to the music
in the background. There is much of Africa in the Brazilian soul,
passionate, courageous; yet, sometimes, viciously moody.
The girl who served me coffee, smiled with lips and eyes, her skin
dark, glowing… fit. And the sad hospital faded into oblivion.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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Related quotes
Real Art
Real Art
I woke up a blue neon light, outside my hotel room,
kept lightning up my space, I looked out and saw
a man in a cafe sitting by the counter eating a burger,
he had hat on and looked ca 1948.
Knew I was in an Edward Hopper painting but didn’t
want to be a part of his bleak cityscape of lone men
who live in cheap hotels and drink coffee in a cafe,
which clientele are lost souls like me.
I splashed water in my face adjusted my tie put my
hat on and walked out, a cab drove by looking for
a fare, I opened the cafe’s door, the man with hat had
gone, drank coffee and ate a doughnut.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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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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For me Brazilian music is the perfect mix of melody and rhythm. It just bubbles rhythmically. If I had to pick just one music style to play if would be Brazilian.
quote by Herbie Mann
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Starbucks Coffee/The Coffee Bean
starbucks cafe
the boy looks into
the eyes of the man
as he looks into his
cups of coffee from which
both draw their passion
their fingers stir a storm
both prefer to weather
by themselves
the girl looks into
the straining eyes of mom
limpid, brown, a shared
centrum they can hide
and blend their feelings
so that they do not spill over
both understand why
the bitter side of a beverage
is sometimes the most tempting
and fulfilling
a woman with crisp english
works hard to impress a
young british manager
in an engaging interview
their conversation often
hitting a pleasant high note
with short bitter sweet intervals
both intelligently hold off
with bursts of laughter
the conversant woman
recalls every place she had
worked from Hong Kong to
New York, and London, taking
the world around him to show
him how she could he his
piping hot tea or coffee
which ever he prefers
the waitor and a regular
guest eye and give each other
a cryptic smile as a new jazz
fusion tune trails the air
a cup of fresh brewed brazilian
without much waiting
comes onto the table
the aroma wafts through his senses
the innert looking male
quickly goes on to add
milk and sugar to draw the
best out of his day
the interviewed woman
fueled with enthusiasm
goes on and on
the manager listens carefully
in an effort to size her up - a
cup of coffee he wonders
he should be having year round
poem by John Tiong Chunghoo
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Cafe Prague.
Cream coloured coffee
And hot buttered toast
August sunshine
A packet of cigarettes
Talks on love and life
Friends and strangers all together
Days of summer
Seated on outside chairs
Tears and laughter
Mixed in the air
Of the perfect day just us and them
Cafe pavements
The world at view
Paris, Rome and cafe Prague
Used coffee cups
And ashtrays too
Paris, Rome and cafe Prague
Trendy young girls
And the wannabe author
Auster, Adams and Mr. Salinger
Days of dreaming
The perfect film
In view for all to see
Hello, hello
So good to see you
Was it twelve?
Or maybe it was two
I’ll sit and wait
And think of you
Cafe pavements
For me and you
Pairs, Rome and cafe Prague
Dirty spoons and knives
And glasses too
Paris, Rome and cafe Prague
Teacups and Earl grey
And ice cream sundaes
Black and white life
In full technicolour
Light my cigarette
And I’ll listen all day
Sunshine days
Storm clouds - away
The table over there
Just a smiling man
For today - all alone
Waiting his time
Cafe pavements
The world today
Paris, Rome and cafe Prague
Beautiful Ladies
And business gents
Paris, Rome and Cafe Prague
Student cameras
And picture painting
Hollywood lifestyle
In the common street
Brando, Dean and Al Pacino
Next to you and me
See you later
Maybe tomorrow
Give me a ring
And we’ll make a date
I’ll sit and think
And wait for you
Cafe pavements
For meetings and lunch
Paris, Rome and cafe Prague
Perfect tables
And used up chairs
Paris, Rome and cafe Prague
poem by Patrick Sant
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Bomb-Bay
'Bomb-Bay' oh Bombay! !
Of the tears of many eyes that saw your dead;
With killers in Jeans and T-Shirts.
The 'Taj Mahal Palace' was in flames!
And, why should people hate others so much like this?
Why?
The horror of bombs and the death people that was recorded,
Oh India! ! Why should this occur to you?
'Bomb-Bay' oh Bombay! Of the terrorists acts against you;
Mumbai oh Mumbai, then came the explosions on................
The Metro Cinema,
The Cama and Albless Hospital,
The Trident Oberi Hotel,
The Chowpatly Beach,
The Administrative Office in Mimbai,
The Gokuldas Tejpal Hospital,
The Chhatrapati-Shivaji Main Station,
The State Bank of India,
The Leopald Cafe,
The Taj-Mahal-Hotel,
And the Nariman House.
Bombs were on Bombay like 'Bomb-Bay'!
But many people died at the main station and the Taj-Mahal-Hotel;
It was a sad news on this sad day of many bombs!
Why Mumbai? In the land of the Hindus.
poem by Edward Kofi Louis
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All The Brazilian Souls
ALL
The Brazilian
Souls
Are now on fire
And the fire
Had burned
All the
Brazilian souls
Living them
Black like charcoal
poem by Aldo Kraas
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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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Are We Ill?
How many men are against us when we are ill?
Illness desires you as a last resort, when ill.
The magnificent and the abhorrent ailments
Need both cures, again and again in the hospital.
The hospital is for doctors who care,
And the nurses are fearful of you.
Patients need patience to adore the health
Of a nation in pity for their condition.
The pities are seldom seen in youth
As they are in public or private.
May the men who are against us be quiet
Now that illness is the past.
poem by Naveed Akram
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The Parrot
The Parrot.
The café in our village has shut. The couple who ran it left
when their parrot died. They had kept the place open for it,
since it was a genial bird. The parrot called everyone who
entered idiots; people laughed no one took offence, or so
we all thought. But someone must have taken umbrage, it
was shot through the window when the café was empty.
Feather everywhere the village was shocked, who could do
such a shameful deed? The culprit, was a farmer, who had
drunk his coffee at the café for twenty odd years, and had
enough of being called an idiot. The moral of this sad tale,
if there is any: if you call a man an idiot long enough he will
end up being one.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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Girl In Park
Girl in the Park
In the park I saw my dog Bambi, she was playing with
another dog that belonged to a girl who sat in the grass.
Bambi didn’t see me she had a glossy coat, and looked
beautiful, so I waited for her to see me and come over.
The girl was of no interest, looked as a black & white
photo taken with box camera 1950, I didn’t see her face.
She got up and walked into a café its door was open but
the entrance had a curtain of fake pearls that sounded as
of water in a stream, when moved. The park was empty
and there was no ducks in it dark pond. I walked into
the café, it was empty too; the owner was reading
a paper I asked if he had seen a girl with two dogs, he
said dogs were not allowed in his café, and continued to
read and for no reason at all I sat down and cried.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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Over His Latte.
He's only just sat down
in the cafe when she enters
and stands at the counter
waiting to be served. He lets
his latte settle. Allows his
eyes to scrutinize. The waitress
serves the woman in the white
hat and black dress. He notes
her fine figure, the low cut at
the neck, the thin straps over
shoulders. He tries to breathe
in from where he sits her perfume,
but it doesn't come. The woman
orders an espresso and says it
with an Italian accent. He follows
her with his eyes as she walks
to a table alone. She looks like a
girl Modigliani would have painted.
She looks at her watch and then
around the room of the cafe.
She crosses her legs, one over
the other, thigh revealed. He sips
his latte. Wipes his lips with the
back of his hand. Bad habit, mother
would have slapped his hand as a
child once. The waitress delivers
the woman's coffee; he notes the
waitress's fine behind, the hands
serving, the legs touching together.
Then she's gone. Just the woman
in the white hat to study. The way
she lifts the small white cup to her
mouth, her fingers holding delicately,
as if afraid to break. Get a life Brody
would say if he were there. But he's not;
he's away with that girl from the office,
having a lay. The woman in the hat
stares at him, her eyes devour, her lips
part like legs before sex. She looks boringly
away. He sips more latte. He doesn't like
her white hat or black dress anyway.
poem by Terry Collett
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Young Lovers
I like sitting at this particular table in this lively Café
eating my cheese toastie and drinking black coffee.
At a nearby table, two lovers are kissing and making up,
but then after their last kiss they decided to disconnect
to take a deep drag from their shared cigarette
and to take a sip from their cooling coffee cup.
Placing the cigarette in the ash tray they cuddled back together
fitting like a glove with their arms around each other
totally preoccupied, giving no one else a second look.
After several minutes of holding, kissing and whispering,
and the occasional passionate tongue in mouth sucking
it looked as though they were here for the rest of the day.
Suddenly her chair flew backwards, as she quickly stood up
rocking the table, which spilled the coffee from their cups
and the ashtray to hit the floor, as she pushed him away.
She then slapped his face and shouted at him in anger,
but he sat calm and collected, and said that he loved her,
and she had misunderstood what he was trying to say.
With her hot temper cooling she decided to sit back down
and asked him a question, which caused her face to frown,
as he explained she dragged the chair closer to him again.
Picking up the fallen ashtray she listened to what he said
whilst others in the Café were drinking and being fed,
and outside it persistently poured with torrential rain.
She ordered two fresh coffees, with a deep sigh of regret
while he lit up another blue tipped cigarette,
which they both drew upon until none remained.
He held out his hands as they looked into each other’s eyes,
with a smile she touched his finger, as though to apologise
then dragged her chair closer and began kissing again.
I like sitting at this particular table in this lively Café
eating my cheese toastie and drinking black coffee
watching people fall out who later make up,
and it’s by no means unusual to see in this busy place
a few exchanged words followed by a slap across the face
and then a kiss and make up, over a fresh coffee cup.
poem by Orlando Belo
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The Greedy Cat at the Cafe.
He sits at the corner table
with not a fur out of place,
delicately he eats with a well-manicured claw,
then, overwhelmed by the delicious smell - and taste,
shovels mouthful after mouthful in with his paw.
He greedy comes to the Cafe everyday
for breakfast, lunch and afternoon tea,
Gets served by Chris and Morgan,
two lovely people who, to please their customers
go out of their way.
The Cafe but had no name,
a catchy title none could think of,
But then the cat with the appetite so greedy,
said 'why not name it after me? '
'I always come here everyday,
and the freshest food you go out of the way to serve,
It would do me the greatest honour
if you named it The Greedy Cat Cafe'
So the cafe at last had a name,
'The Greedy Cat' it's now called,
Still everyday there go's that greedy cat,
Because of the food -
and Chris and Morgan's service with a smile -
he could never get bored.
02/01/06.
For the Meeting of Hearts and Lips
Julie took
one of the cigarettes
out of the packet
you had bought
and said
you're too kind
and lit it
with a small
plastic lighter
she took from her bag
you both sat
in a side room
set aside
for patients and guests
just off the drug
dependency ward
she was in
there was a scene
of a few trees
and bushes
from the window
marred by the sight
of the other part
of the hospital
over the way
glad you could come
she said
my parents
won't visit me here
don't they love you?
you asked
it's a matter of what
the neighbours might say
if they found out
I was here
she answered
inhaling deeply
and looking at you
with her dark eyes
her dark hair
was pulled back
in an untidy bun
and the hospital
dressing gown
she wore
was stained
and open
at the neck
and down
revealing a small cleavage
of young pinkish flesh
why did you come?
she asked
I wanted to see you
you replied
none of the others
from the Church come
she said
it's all talk
and promises
and God talk
but none
have come to see me
so far
she inhaled again
and stared out
the window
you studied how
she had crossed
her legs
showing
a glimpse of thigh
where her white
dressing gown
and nightdress
rose high
a nurse entered the room
and said
would you like tea
or coffee?
yes
Julie said
two coffees please
and the nurse
went out and off
her feet pitter
pattering down
the corridor
through the half
open door
I'm lucky here
she said
some druggies
get shoved in mental wards
or poked in
psychiatric units
with other
damaged goods
it seems ok
you replied
lifting your eyes
from her thighs
to her face
pure in its makeup
less state
and dark eyes
19 years young
she said
and already buggered up
as my father has said
I'm sure they love you
in their way
you said
taking in her neck
and the run
of her chin
and her mouth
with the small
moving lips
the nurse came in
with a tray
with two mugs
of white coffee
and a bowl
of brown sugar
and set it down
on the small grey table
and walked out
my parents love me
as property
not as a person
she said
uncrossing
her legs
and lifting a mug
and taking small sips
and oh you thought
(lifting a mug
and drinking)
for the meeting
of our hearts
and lips.
poem by Terry Collett
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Rosebank
From the village of Rosebank the hills look so green
A beautiful country as fine as i've seen
A gem of the mountains on the higher ground
Is this quiet little village with hills all around.
In the Green Frog cafe i go back in time
A bard of the old school sat crafting his rhyme
His long hair and long beard seemed whiter than gray
And he sat in the cafe and wrote every day.
In the 'Green Frog' each morning for an hour or two
He sipped his coffee looking out on the view
He took in the beauty it came out in words
The green of the woods and the songs of the birds.
He sat in the cafe this maker of song
And sipped on his coffee and he thought hard and long
And he gazed on those mountains and song to him came
And he died old and poor though he lives on in fame.
And though the bard for long years has now lain with the dead
His verses survive and by many still read
And the mountains of Rosebank that gave him his rhyme
Are still green as ever unfaded by time.
poem by Francis Duggan
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To Verbalize In A Void
To Verbalize in a Void
Tired of talking to god who never answers and watching silence
drip like tears from the ceiling beams, I walked down to the new
café, the one at the fruit market, for a cup of coffee.
A profound philosophical conversation ensued. The young girl,
who served me asked if I wanted cream in my brew; after a brief
pause, I said no. The slight pause was caused by a sudden need
to tell her I have diabetes and full fat cream is bad for me, but
since this information had little to do with her question I let it pass.
That was the extent of my tête-à-tête for the day, but it was
fulfilling though, a question had been raised and a comprehensive
responds had been given.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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The Sad Cafe
You sit inside the Sad Cafe,
eyes tinged crimson red.
A shattered fearful heart today,
every dream has fled.
Broken tokens, love not spoken,
marred and scarred your soul.
Pause to make life's cause reopen,
then regain control.
Cafe of torn and broken hearts,
victims of deceit.
Their healing dreams now grown apart,
wrapped inside conceit.
Confusion is their constant song,
background music sung.
The caring Sad Cafe belongs,
brightly shines it's sun.
Fear is in the tears now falling
from their drowning eyes.
Now the healer hears them calling,
through the Cafe's cries.
Mystical Cafe is reaching,
to the healing muse.
Muses share their fearsome teaching,
on the tools to use.
So thank the stars for Sad Cafes,
all around the world.
The Sad Cafes may take away,
hatred gnarled and burled.
© S.E.S
poem by Sara Stowell
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Plato's cafe
Scrolling Wikipedia
for entries on ‘Perception’
this entry – scrappy and unclear –
produced a new conception:
referring to the standard quotes
tradition offers, to be safe,
before the bolder modern thoughts,
it mentioned ‘Plato’s Cafe’…
imagination leapt for joy:
dazzling hubbub of philo-sophy,
sunglassed and gesticulating;
strong wine, expressive coffee…
or should it be pronounced today
as genteel afternoon café?
or, workmanlike, the niff and naff
of greasy spoon and bikers’ caff?
but thanks, O Wikied editors,
for this so joyous Grecian twist:
long may this Left-Bank image stay
of how philosophers should exist,
and spend their dialectic day:
coffee and exquisite gateau;
Gauloises at Le Cave de Plato..
poem by Michael Shepherd
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A Pavement Cafe
In the café where I sit I can see the village’s church, nice building
typical Portuguese architecture and painted white. I walked inside
it once, didn’t like that so much, as it had dark corners and whiffed
of sins not yet forgiven. It is quiet here now as the people prepare
for winter sleep in damp houses. There are a few tourists about
mostly elderly bad on their feet. The church bell tolls one o’clock,
it is good to know time even in Paradise. Today I will go for a walk
in the village’s cemetery a lovely place full of flowers and often
with pictures of the departed when they looked ruddily healthy
and the claw of death had yet to touch them; and I mustn’t forget
the good silence. Whatever the argument was it means nothing
anymore. The waiter brings me a coffee and a sly cigarette which
I smoke with guilty pleasure, yet looking out for my doctor he often
comes here for his coffee. Yes, this is another perfect day.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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