My American University Coffee Mug
I
have long known that an individual’s response to poetry is very subjective.
That is one reason that “schools” of poetry sometimes have fierce arguments
about what is good poetry and what is not. It is also why a poet like Henry
Wadsworth Longfellow can be highly regarded by his own generation, then fall
out of favor, and then become more popular again. It is why, although some
poetry journals disdain rhyme and regular meter, others specialize in
publishing sonnets, villanelles and other formal verse.
I
asked Mary Jo Balistreri and Karla Linn Merrifield, whose poems were used as
examples of “coffee” poems in the previous post, to judge the February Poetry Challenge separately.
One of the judges identified first and second place poems; the other picked
first, second and third place work – but not one poem was on both lists. As a
result we have two poems, tied for first place, to share this month.
Balistreri
picked “Barista:” by Caroline Johnson as winner.
Barista
Henry
says the Lakota called it black medicine.
I
can imagine Black Elk drinking from a gourd,
huddling
around a teepee with a peace pipe
sometime
in July when the cherries are ripe.
Henry
looks at each customer with green eyes
full
of gourmet hot chocolate and caramel mochas.
He
moves his arms across the espresso machine,
steaming
milk, whirling words with a smile.
His
eyes sail through you like a windjammer,
as
if you’ve been caught by a cool island breeze.
He
hums as he scrubs stubborn stains off of soup
kettles,
stocks the pantry, or pours steamed milk.
He
shakes his head and his braids rustle round him.
I
work the register, exchanging money for drinks.
The
smell of French Roast perfumes the air.
You
can hear the crackle of beans as they grind.
The
line is long: a mother with a stroller,
a boy
in
a wheelchair, two ladies with Gucci bags.
Two
wealthy ladies talk of sconces in their new
living
rooms, a young couple orders hot chocolate,
and
a lone man with dark black hair stands at the back
of
the café wearing a T-shirt, his arms exposed to reveal
a
green tattoo: “I-R-A-Q” neatly printed
across his skin.
Henry
talks to them all as they huddle around, waiting
for
their black medicine. Henry makes
everything look easy.
He
can do three things at once. Yet Henry’s
not easy.
He’s
just trying to figure life out before it passes him by.
~
Caroline Johnson
In discussing why she picked this
poem, Balistreri said
Barista”
is as much about Henry as it is about coffee, as much as it is about two
distinct groups of society. The black medicine winds through the entire poem,
from Black Elk huddled around his teepee with a peace pipe to the customers
that huddle around waiting--and the contrast is clear. Henry's eyes
might really be green, but green is also a sign of envy as he watches these
people with money to spend on coffee, while he works behind the bar. "His
eyes sail through you like a windjammer," and he gives his customers
individual attention as well as the "feeling of a cool island
breeze."
The
poet gives an accurate and poetic description of a cafe--I smell the French
roast, see him wiping the machines, hear the crackle of the grinding bean. The
small portraits of the long line are interesting, too—a microcosm of society.
IRAQ is another symbol of gaps in our culture.The
ending of the poem makes the reader ponder other baristas she's seen--and people
in general. Our outward appearance often has little to do with what's going on.
The last line keeps the poem open--we don't know what he's trying to figure out
either.
Craft:
The poem has seven stanzas, all except the ultimate one with 4 lines. Good
diction, and wonderful use of rhyme, slant rhyme, assonance and alliteration. I
like the way the stanzas give a firm container for Henry who is most likely
firmly contained. He doesn't give much of himself away. Form and content complement
each other.
Caroline
Johnson
enjoys watching movies with her father, especially James Bond movies. She
has published two poetry chapbooks, Where the Street Ends and My
Mother’s Artwork. In 2012 she won 1st Place in the Chicago
Tribune’s Printers Row Poetry Contest. She has published poetry and fiction
in DuPage Valley Review, Prairie Light Review, Encore, Chicago Tribune, New
Scriptor, The Quotable, Uproot, Rambunctious Review, and others.
She teaches community college English in the Chicago area, and leads poetry
workshops for veterans. Currently president of Poets and Patrons of
Chicago, she has a blog at http://jupiter-caroline.blogspot.com.
Copyright
on this poem is retained by Caroline Johnson.
Unfortunately the way this blog is laid out, it will not accept lines as long as those in the winning poem, so I had to use indentation.
An Early Morning Hymn
The
air is heavy, still and silent, disturbed only by the rasp of the cup
in
protest of being pulled from its cabinet slumber
as
the dawn chorus of warblers and goldfinches greets the start
of the new day.
If
you listen carefully, you can hear the soft sighs of the coffee pot
on the
countertop
as
it whispers “Good Morning” to the dust motes whorling
on
an invisible current like the fae Queen’s glamour, or snowflake
s in Autumn.
As
the skies slowly bleed from black to purple to pink, it reminds
me of a
Romanichal spell
being
cast, which bids me stay reticent and lend ear, as the day
slowly awakens
to
the strains of an early morning hymn that slowly fades away
as I savor my last
sip.
The
charms of the morning dissolve as swiftly as they had
appeared, and the birds
are mute
until
the morrow, when the sweet refrains can be heard again
and
the runes are restored once more with the divine communion
of decoction and
cream.
~
Christy Cole Quast
Merrifield’s
response to “An Early Morning Hymn was “WINNER! On theme. Lovely language. Narrator’s lofty diction
(appropriate to a hymn) sustained throughout. I am charmed. Great control over form and line, too.” She
used fewer words to explain her choice, but her enthusiasm for this poem is
clear!
Merrifield
remarked separately that “Romanichal” is a “great word.” It is a word which may
send some readers to the dictionary – but unless you have a very unusual
dictionary, you won’t find it there. Wikipedia explains that the Romanichals
belong to a group of Romani (the group that used to be referred to as gypsies)
who settled in England in the 16th Century. Sometimes an unusual
word detracts from a poem; other times it is just what the poem needs.
Copyright
for this poem is retained by Christy Cole Quast.
Christy Cole Quast is an
avid reader of the written word, and has a B.A. in English Literature. She
hasn’t written any poetry since college, but has recently dusted off her
beloved notebook to jot down some verse here and there, inspired by her
12-year-old daughter who writes poems and short stories “just for fun.”
Congratulations to Caroline and Christy for winning the February
Poetry Challenge, and thank you to Mary Jo and Karla Linn for serving as judges.
Bios of the judges can be found in the previous post on this blog.
Check back early in March for a new poetry challenge.
© Wilda Morris
