New Poem: Coffee Cup April 11, 2010
Posted by William Kostakis in Poetry.Tags: poem
2 comments
My coffee cup confirms it – what I could have
told me yesterday. It suggests with little squiggles,
the things I cannot say:
We aren’t the solid trio that we make us out to be.
I’ve heard your stupid whispers,
you’ve told me what he’s said – one breath
and I erase them, like the snakes in a coffee cup
thrust under running water.
A different day, a different brew,
another sip and thoughts of you. A twist, it dries,
I turn and glance –
My coffee cup confirms it.
April’s poem April 29, 2009
Posted by William Kostakis in All About William, Poetry.2 comments
After the last one, I didn’t want you thinking I was manic-depressive, so I was careful what type of poem I wrote next. It’d have to be something cheery for April, possibly acrostic. Then, when I revisited my old school, inspiration struck when I realised they’d renovated the spot I used to sit with my mates into a carpark. It’d make for a nice metaphor for the passage of time after one of my mates died. Then, I figured people’d definitely think I was manic-depressive, so I decided I’d quirk it up a tad with a nice forced rhyme 
It sobers up by the end…
A treestory
A treestory of you and me – a history
of us and we… and there’s a tree.
Our history has been abridged,
for the sake of pleasant poetry,
I can’t be telling everything.
I’ll set the scene with falling leaves,
in a less-than-subtle autumn breeze
we’re glowing gold like memories,
our laughs are loud, we’re full of glee –
you and me and more than three.
I can’t recall the things we’d say,
but rest assured, we were the best,
you and me and them made ‘they’.
And here it comes, the tragic twist,
‘they’ loses its vital piece, and after time,
we reconvene – me and them, the newer ‘we’ –
underneath our special tree.
We have our leaves, we have our breeze,
the laughter takes a while… it comes back eventually,
but the gold is always tinted black.
As we grow up, the setting shifts,
we test the bonds of schoolyard cliques
in a world of chicks and politics,
where some of us turn into dicks.
We continue to meet regularly.
There is no tree, instead we keep the
company of drinks from Tennessee,
but no amount of whiskey
can smooth over overt bitchery
and change what I can clearly see –
it’s them and me, and not a ‘we’.
But then, an epiphany, when I return to see our tree,
only…
it isn’t where it used to be. Instead, a carpark,
fourteen spots, each outlined with silver dots,
our special place has been replaced,
the headmaster wanted the space
to slot his testament to compensation,
a hot-red Porsche for adoration.
He’d cut our tree, and with it all our memories,
that’s when it comes to me:
The world has moved, why haven’t I?
March’s poem March 28, 2009
Posted by William Kostakis in Poetry.Tags: Poetry, T. S. Eliot
3 comments
Okay, new tradition, a poem posted online each month.
I have a love-hate relationship with my poetry. Sometimes, I’m awesome. Sometimes, I’m horrible. And I only realise how horrible a poem is a few months down the line when I revisit it.
I’ve always said writing poetry is great - while not each one might be about you, written in your voice, from your perspective, every poem preserves some part of what you’re feeling, and when you go back and re-read your body of work, you re-experience your life through those feelings that inspired the poems.
The thing is, in the past two years, I haven’t written much poetry at all. By chucking it online and forcing a deadline on myself, I have to write poetry. That way, I have more to read when I look back.
So, this is my newest poem. It’s, literally, two minutes old, and very raw. It’s only a first draft. It’ll be a few months before I’ll know whether it’s good or crap. Or, a few minutes, depending on what commenters say. I think it pretty much explains itself, I’m not T. S. Eliot or anything. [As an aside, anyone here also love 'The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock'?]
The future
I want to know tomorrow,
take it out to dinner,
loosen it up with flattery –
it’s looking good, has it lost weight? –
all while drowning it in cheap wine
in an attempt to lure its secrets out.
It begins to sway and slur, I lean in close,
the waiter watches, a bit concerned,
I say it’s fine, there’s nothing wrong,
I’m pouring tomorrow another red.
Go on, spill, spill.
The glass is overflowing,
shit.
Tomorrow laughs and asks if I’m sure I’m not
the one who’s been drinking, and I blink,
and I’m alone, muttering to myself,
opposite an empty chair,
two bottles-deep and waiting for
what’s after this.
EDIT Spent the night tweaking it, much better now. Considered deleting the original, but that wouldn’t be honest. This is the newer, better version. Much better flow.
The future
I want to know tomorrow,
take it out to dinner,
loosen it with flattery
and a glass that never empties.
I’ll lure its secrets out.
It begins to sway and slur, I lean in close,
it’s about to give it up.
The waiter watches, a bit concerned,
I say it’s fine, there’s nothing wrong,
I’m pouring tomorrow another wine.
Go on, spill, spill.
The glass is overflowing,
shit.
Tomorrow laughs and asks if
I’m sure I’m not the one that’s drunk.
A blink and I’m alone,
muttering to myself, opposite an empty chair,
two bottles deep and waiting for
what’s after this.
