Category Archives: The Coffee Poet’s Society

“I went to the woods because I wanted to live deliberately, I wanted to live deep and suck out all the caffeine of life, To put to rout all that was not life and not when I had come to die Discover that I had not lived.” – Henry David Thoreau (with apologies)

Dead Poets Society

I love this movie and this scene is such a beautiful encapsulation of my faith:


A Raven & A Cross


Eyes as old as the ages,

wisdom buried deep in lines carved there,

Wings burnt as ashes, carried on the wind.

Strength as old as the ages,

in steel beak and arcing talons gripped.

Across the field of golden honey,

a shadow in its flight,

She watches you soar to distant horizons,

then return,

Return, to my lover’s delight.


Try Darkly

I broke a window

It smiled with jagged grief

and the hole swallowed me up

The darkness around you

held me

more than your eyes

more than the stares

of strangers

Each passing moment

weighing heavily

The second hand falling

the minute hand following

pulled by that weight

The darkness deepened

and your eyes dimmed

The spark inside went out

Standing there

smile lost in pitch

and a whisper issued

from you

in me

: Don’t even try

A Good Cry

God, unwilling, has given this day,

a mind at mercy, skies ashen grey,

What is your hope for the forthcoming dawn?

She cries, she is the sea, the ships have moved on.


God, unwilling, has given this day,

Greenlighted for misery, the innocent pray,

For what is the hope for a truth that lies dead?

 A funeral march on broken glass tread,

Across the desert pass of live terrain,

When defiance brings hope in the encroaching night.


God, unwilling, has given this day,

We have forced his hand to deliver this pain,

Darkness comes, but not the dark of sleep,

She is the sea, she moves, her pain is deep.


Scented leaves of a rose’s bud,

On salty air and tear stained cheeks.


God, unwilling, has given this day,

Her mind is at ease, the winds have their way,

For she is the sea, and I have my place,

And god, willingly, has given this peace.

Of Her Whisper (excerpt)

 She likes the rain.

Not that she has told me so, but I have noticed her expression; eyes widening slightly at the first suggested pitter-pat, then her mouth broadening in a smile at the full blossoming of the promise and the steady drum of the fall against the window. The window, its large plate-glass with the letters E F A C in chipped and fading red letters arced like a beaten sunrise across its surface.

She stands over me with her coffee pot poised and eyes shining. The look of a little girl lost in illusion.

Can’t see a thing now, I say, simply to have something to say.

Drawn back, she tilts the pot, filling my cup with steam and rich burnt coffee and smiles into it. The world outside loses definite shape, blurs and runs in shining colours as the water pours down the glass. She looks at me briefly then glances out.

It’s a van Gogh, she says, and whisks away.

Second Cup

Look at my hands aged by this water,

Look at my mind, wrinkled by time,

Look at my soul fresh as the morning,

Look at my coffee, cost me some dimes,

(And love cost me nothing, but all that I had)

If you come back, I’ll tell you I’m sorry,

If you come back, you’ll buy me some time.

If you come back, I’ll buy you a coffee,

Hey, what the hell, I’ve still got a few dimes.

(And since love cost me all, I’ve nothing left to lose)

*me at 18

Hugh’s Cherry Post

I’m entering this mostly blind. I’m a cautious person by nature, but I’m neither very good at research, nor at taking advice. And so I’m just wading in. How does one start a blog? Do I tell you a little about myself? Or is that something you’re meant to discover along the way – the scattered crumbs for cyber-Hansel-&-Gretel(2.0) to follow to some half-baked idea? Anyway, it’s not about me, it’s about writing…

I’m spilling the contents of my head.

Here’s the thing: I refuse to believe there is one way to write. There isn’t. But most writers know this and that’s one of the reasons the community builds. When it comes to unlocking creative energy, to harnessing it, making it yours, making it universal, wrestling it to the page and then whittling away the excess (or in reverse order) to something more refined, there are so many variables that one can consider that you could almost become overwhelmed before you’d begun. But as a writer you wade into that mire. And as a writer, even as you curse and shake your fist, you love it. A million-and-one set-backs, but each with its own potential for a minor victory. As a writer you are a receptor for it all, and every method, every little piece of advice can help – even the pieces you don’t take.

They say there are no original stories left to tell. Maybe that’s true. But there are an infinite number of ways in which to tell them. So, just as we patch together our own stories (novels, screenplays, etc.) and try to create something original, something our own, from every and anything – perhaps, so too, we can create our own technicoloured-dreamcoat-method, gathered from anything and everything… even if it’s what not to do…

I know I’m already learning. Hopefully it’ll be better next time.

Welcome to my scrap of cloth.