Saturday, January 3, 2015

Mary O'Connor: "These Days My Music"

is the sound of people talking in a coffee shop, just
the general rhubarb: asserting, doubting, saying nothing
much; the clink, the chuckle, the food-muffled murmur,
the startled intake of breaths, the rumble of pleasure, the Yes.

When I can’t talk with people or lift my eyes to them,
when food tastes like boiled barley and fried raccoon,
when I can’t pray or think or read or make a decision,
I want to be burrowed in a corner with a cold half-cup

in that congregation,
in that supreme court,
in that caucus, that conclave
that heavenly choir.

"These Days My Music" by Mary O'Connor. Text presented here by poet submission. 

Art credit: "da Black," photograph by



  1. Thank you, Phyllis and all participating in this community. Grateful to share in this journey. Love, from Lucy Depp Park - Ohio

    1. Love to you, Lucy Depp Park! I hope you had a meaningful holiday season....

  2. Absolutely great ending to poem.

  3. The universe gave me a great gift, once in seating me beside Mary O'Connor at a poetry workshop two summers ago, and again today, with a sunlight-flash of insight. It is wonderful to see her name as writer of words that warm my heart on a gray Minnesota afternoon. Thank you again, Phyllis for your thoughtful, intuitive curation.

    Lynda Lee as

    1. Mary is a delight. She is auntie to our son....

      You're very welcome. :)

  4. This poem is even more true now, heading into the third calendar year of the pandemic. Sitting in a coffee shop without a low hum of concern despite precautions and vaccines would be heaven indeed.


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