Hi Paul:

Greetings from Manhattan. There is a common aid to navigation — often used in coastal waters — that has always had a special meaning for me as a poet. Here is “The Bell Buoy,” a poem from my 2008 collection, Father of Water.

Best wishes,

Charles Pierre

Shivering Sand. Photogravure by Wylie. Undated. Click to see the bell buoy more clearly.  Reposted this poem from 2015 Blogfinger.net. ©

BELL BUOY

By Charles Pierre.

There is something singular in the rhythms

of the bell buoy, as it rings in the wake

of an unknown vessel already passing

on to its destination. The restless gestures

of this solitaire, anchored in the routine

of the sea, are a directing presence,

even in this hostile chopping,

metal on metal clanging from its heart,

clanging down the chain to the muddy anchor,

clanging out above the waves, creating

a point in the pointless sea, echoing out

to another, its clanging a song

of hope through these splintered waters,

a hard human song in an inhuman place,

something with a ringing truth to it

of who we are, something to sustain us,

wherever this imagined drifting leads.

Sounds:  bell buoy ringing; waves hitting boat:

Music on the water, from the film  The Sand Pebbles  (1966) with Steve McQueen.:

MATT MONROE

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Hi Paul:

Greetings from Manhattan. The downtown café has been a part of New York life for more than a century — a place of quiet refuge from the stresses of the city. Here is “Café Candles” from my 2008 poetry collection, Father of Water.

Best wishes,

Charles Pierre

Paris. Candles in “a place of quiet refuge” as described by Charles Pierre, poet.  Paul Goldfinger photo.©

Café Candles

By Charles Pierre.

An hour past sunset, the sky gone gray,

a waiter with a tray of candles balanced

on his palm circles this intimate room,

placing a flame at the center of each table,

the lights casting aureoles around the faces

of casually seated couples and threesomes,

and even the solitaire clutching a book

who burns with isolation in his corner.

As evening deepens and the sky darkens,

each candle becomes a central point

for the rhythms of talk and silent thought,

each table a star in the modest constellation

of this room, patrons entering and leaving,

the waiter serving and clearing the tables

of all but those small candles, which flicker

at each disturbance of the air, then recover

to blades of brightness, portioning this space

and its speech against the black canyons beyond.

CARLOS GARDEL

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