I Crave the Stillness of Rooms

I crave the stillness of rooms
full of smoke, after the party,
when all the guests have gone.
That’s when the poem is born.

Late at night, sitting at a desk
in the city, or outside of one,
the poet remembers those rooms
full of smoke. He lives in them,

a world of his own making.
He conjures the odor of ash,
the yellowed lampshade, the stain
of lipstick on a shard of glass.

Marc Alan Coen, also in the NEWYORKERS section of this blog.


2 risposte a "I Crave the Stillness of Rooms"

  1. It´s dark and cold in Germany, just like its inhabitants.
    I´m breaking, and pretty aware of it.

    John Fogerty sings in my room “write a song for everyone”. And John Coltrane blows his saxofon like anyone else has done it never ever before and after.
    Go on, keep on blowing Marc, your saxofon sounds like a BLUE TRANE. Really.

    Gracias, nunca lo olvidaré.


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