Coffee

She lifts the cup – the bland china clank still

above the morning murmur of the hurried customers –

to her lips only for her pen to be stilled

by the surprising absence of content –

it's like finding out one's cigarette's out

even though they're designed to burn out –

running out of coffee remains uncanny –

the story stalled until the next gulp –

time measured in punctincting china –

halted mid-air staring at the blackbrown ring –

granular negative of a near-perfect eclipse –

blended shadows of distilled words,

bitter if left to sit on out for too long –

in one movement she stands up, pushes back

the stool and lays down the cup –

the day stretches outside the bay window

people after cars after people after cars –

queueing up again – keeping watch on her things

– her things – in a haloed blur on the table –

the pockmarked, unnerved, unsmoothed wood –

the tinnital wave of the conversation floating

like bobbing flotsam in the middle of the café,

she feels aloof, stranded, a standstill runaway,

an exile without a justification, a fraud almost

though she has money, a job, club cards –

been mocked for the black hair on her brown arms –

more disturbing to her is the pulp of her skin

loosening so visibly when she drinks water –

as anyone she is the sum of her memories,

slave to them – ditching one means losing a finger –

– her things – her coffee – essential and trivial –

the café, the people, the cars, the china

keep her head down and blank and running,

the noise motions her in the here and the now –

the threads adjusted, the cup filled, the ink stayed –

disambiguates the scars from the words –

while the bland china still clink – while she lifts the cup.

(p)leisure

"The only thing one can give an artist is leisure in which to work. To give an artist leisure is actually to take part in his creation."

Ezra Pound, poet (1885-1972)


There are many shades to be found in this quote when one scratches the varnish, but I'll be discussing only one right now that's the most obvious to me (quick aside: I like the idea that what's obvious at one point in time, in your life, may be different at another further down the line.)

 I initially wanted to say in the title to this quote that "leisure equaled time". I realised quickly this wasn't true, and not what Pound meant. Time is part of the concept of leisure, but so is to be free of any constraint. Providing an artist with a smooth relationship when they're in an artistic process is to take part in the process itself. Without an understanding partner, no success is possible for no anchor in the real is possible. Pound didn't specify the context, so if the artist isn't in any relationship then it's much easier in one sense, but they'll need an equally understanding society to give them free reins.

Leisure is a broad term that in our modern society can encompass many things, from being free from financial constraints to some form of emotional distance -- yet with a maintenance of the strong bond -- from one's partner. Giving space, time; providing a poised, safe environment; taking care of the world around while something else is being created...all of these require dedication, respect and trust, from either society or the artist's partner. Its process is egocentric, yet humanistic in nature. This process has to be recognised as "work", just as Pound envisioned it. Leisure isn't just "free time" or spending endless hours looking out the window or staring at a blank canvas, even though a measure of maturation process has to be suffered.

Last, of all: leisure is really "the only thing" the artist needs to be given. The rest they'll take care of. Hence the title.