Merry Christmas!

All of us here at Coup Poetry would love to wish you all a Merry Christmas! Enjoy your holidays and live your lives to the fullest! Enjoy your moments and wander through life with a poem in your heart and a skip in your step.

What The Blind See

A blind man only imagines with his mind the things we describe to him.

Yet he may see more beauty in life than you and I who bare sight.
But what if for one moment, one night, God could grant such a man the gift of sight as he stood on a beach in front of his wife? What then would he see?
As soon as he has vision, would before him stand just a woman?

Or his imagination of beautiful, the epitome of it?
When he looks up at the sky would he see stars,

or would he see little holes in the floor of heaven?
When he lays eyes upon the moon would he just see a bright sphere or would he see the glow in the dark ball god forgot in his playground?

When he looked at the water, would he just see sea? Or would he see the sky's mirror?
When he looked at the ground, would he just see sand and footprints?

Or would he see his memoirs imprinted on a surface that kept secrets with every tide? Read them and notice that god is a poet?

Would he then smile and say nature is amazing as he observed this scene?
Or would he dismiss all the words we have made up to describe what we see, and for this precious moment marvel at the artistry of god?
Gasp at how well he blended his colors and detailed his picture?

Would his vision augment the rest of his senses? Would he glance back at beauty, kiss her lips, and taste true love?

Would you believe him if he told you he could see angels, and that this specific breeze was the effect of the flap of their wings? …

Right then he would go back to being a blind man but has seen more than you and I have in our lives in a single moment.

Hey guys,
I was just thinking something today and I wanted to know what you all thought. I just realized that we all sing-Aaron-bass, Earl/Paulo-tenor, Tinisha-mezzo sop/alto and me soprano and I think that we should utilize that somehow. Also, most of us play the piano. Marinate on that.

The Name

What would you say to me
If I told you that all things
have a name?

A name, created forever ago-
A name singular, secret and sacred,
A name that grants form?

What if I told you
That if you cried out
The name of the moon,

You could bathe at midday
under its dappled falling shine;
taking in its light?

That if you called to the skies,
You could surround yourself
With a span of azure infinity,

Paint sun-songs with hidden words,
Or build a house of clouds while
floating in blue nothingness?

To think; You could merely utter
The name of oceans - That
vast implication; You could

Summon distant, breaking shores
for your own inspection and approval-
to satisfy the merest curiosity?

Would you say it was fantasy?
Something august to ponder;
And then regretfully forget?

That to guide a symphony of creation
with mere words and intention
Is a blasphemy?

Or maybe you would think it over -
And softly, sadly say,
"I could never..."

But what if... what if
I gently spoke to you the name of love,
Tender yet bittersweet?

Would you scoff at my audacity,
To arrogantly manipulate its meaning
by not letting it go free?

Or would you see that sadly, I'll
never be able to find the name
for what you mean to me?

Who I am

As much as we may hold
taste to be a divine delicacy
whose manifestation is abstract,
how do we know we don't drink
the sweat of angels in our morning
coffee.

As much as I may love the feel of man
across my fingertips
and the rippling biceps over me-who am I to
tell the soul she is a gender.

Why is it we praise the sun more than the moon;
or sight over sleep-
it is the fatalistic nature of our minds-
do I choose eternity or this moment with you?

All I know is even if
my body is just the shadow of who I am
my choice is to sip hot chocolate with you,
wrapped up in the cold night
whilst the angels smile at us from the stars:
we will soon become who we are.

Heaven in a Box

Once, On a trip during a series of gloomy days
I sat in my seat; thus engaged - To ponder idle
thoughts of simple possibility.

For on the edge of these breaking clouds
lining brightly their misty shroud - were hints
bespeaking some infinite tranquility.

For who, here, could possibly come to know,
Whats behind those simple clouds, and glows
with such beauty, and potential-
...Such lambent fury!

The Observer

Is she the damsel from fantasy books?
The one who heroic hearts arc towards?
Indeed, of faerie eye and fair-lined looks
What cold savior could she be waiting for?
Some faux hero made of dreams, just like her-
From realms of common beauty and the wiles
of class-bred temper; Parted from less learned
Folk like me whom their countenance beguiles-
Although, it seems that all our breaking dreams
In this reality reforge themselves;
Imbued now with the pain of shattered hearts,
We move forward with new convictions held.
To wit; It's not that fucking hip and cool
To play the guy who likes you like a fool

Black&White

Intrinsically tied
Original lie
to death do us part
or liberty die.
A marriage untrue
though equality tries
it gets pacified
through ignorant eye.
I'm black on my white
and white on my black side
the hierarchy is unjustified.
When the colors diffuse
and done is the day
America will turn into
shades of grey.

Bitter as an unripe fruit

She don't like complaining
She sees sunshine when its raining
Her mama says "There are certain kinds of men, the chewy kind you'll never love cuz they're too sweet for your tastebuds, the bittersweet who you want to eat but never can digest. That sour kind of black man to steal your heart right out your chest- then never let your soul to rest. And then of course your husband, as good and healthy as protein."
Protein?
The man you settle on is your mind and body's compromise"
Never fall for ebony child, that sweet dark thang with perfect smile
or one who doesn't call you back
your father, child, was just like that
you grandma married 5 different men
and stress sent her straight to God.
Love though, open up, be yourself
let a man hold you and know you
but you betta watch yourself
cuz some are honeysuckin demons
who just don't give a damn
and I have seen plenty as old as I am
and plenty women ruined for trusting the wrong man.

She, 8 years old and listening as closely as she can.

Mad Love to all our friends and family that came through

Obama Fundraiser

Many thanks to everyone who came out and supported the Coup at our past performance in New Rochelle for Barack Obama's fundraiser! You will be able to find the video of our performance on this site shortly. Please check up for any upcoming Coup events and new poetry posted!




(Left to Right: Tinisha, Nicole, Paulo, Aaron)

To a Writer

What great disgust there is
in making books.
Is there no other way of putting words?
That my hands must grasp it from behind
takes the task of grasping from the mind.

If souls ascend beyond
limits of the third dimension
to waken senses lost in mundane lives,
why not just use simple imagination
than forcing what's essential through the eyes?

To every writer, find that you must know
there is no joy in any words you put.
There is no quintessential fact you're giving,
when the only way one learns is through the
living.

RE; Tomorrow Never Dies

All is hurricanes and all is butterflies,
And "Tomorrow never dies!", she cries.

She yells/sings for the sake of dawning hope,
Passions intertwined, once twin hearts elope,
Feathered flights of fancy in falsetto ramblings,
In his eyes and hers, a refracted diamond kaleidoscope.
In his eyes lay tumbling light struck tears,
In hers, the same - the sum of all falling fears.
Causality, case by case, coming to trial standing,
Both victims sentenced to the review of years.
And so; So slowly does the hourglass sand fall,
Sister Time held prisoner steadfastly in it's thrall-
But caught as she is, the machination doesn't deny,
That he can't stop her course no matter how hard he tries.

In time, all hurts will heal.
In time, everythings purpose will be revealed.

All is hurricanes, and all is butterflies.
All is never-ending, and tomorrow never dies.

The Walk

I took a walk with Beauty today
Down Paths 3 and 2 and 1.
Each path snowflake unique,
And similarly slowly being undone

Path Three was a winding road
of scared and wavering indecision;
Given to brief bursts of clarity
under sun-struck floral visions.

And it was fading. Forever fading...

Path Two was a rocky Azure Shore
next to roaring waves of doubt.
Hammering home the truth of "alone"
I struck toward a land-kissed route.

That path too was fading. Crying, and fading away.

Path One was strikingly held
in the grasp of sublunary attraction.
The road clear, It beckoned and called
for me to become a man of action.

This path stood fast against the pull-

It stood fast! Bastion of some hope,
some dream that refused to be deferred.
Last stand by some far flung fantasy fancy
created as the former paths converged.

Beauty and I took in the linking sites
as they swirled together, innately fleeting.
Transient companions, we parted soon after;
Only one party though, was leaving.

Welcome to the Coup de Grace!

Welcome to the Coup de Grace, A new poetry group consisting of 5 black writers in New Rochelle, New York.

Feel free to browse around and see what you can find. Soon to come, poems, events, and videos!