I want to write poems in bright inner courtyards. Sitting somewhat uncomfortably at corner tables.
Quietly, pensively, naturally.
Inner courtyards that aren’t at all obvious from the outside. Charming, private and full of possibility.
Like in Spain, or Puglia in the south of Italy. Or even in Morocco where I imagine they exist even though I’ve never been.
Courtyards of old farmhouses, or petty noble castles, or reconstructed villas.
Made up of weathered stones and chipped ceramic pots. Uneven walls and careening vines. Steps up to roofs that are never visited.
And maybe I slowly smoke a cigar dipped in chocolate or cognac. Refill my coffee cup three, four, five times.
Forget what day of the week it is and maybe even what month. Hear the wind passing overhead. Whispers of birdsong, gravel roads, wildflower bushes.
Dream of other worlds and other times and other lives. Lived in and around such inner courtyards.
Of all the possible poems born on unhurried inner courtyard mornings or fading on every cool, orange grey violet sunset.
Little worlds in the bigger one. Perfect moments. Personal paradises.
Dad In The World 