John M. Roll, 63
Gabriel Zimmerman, 30
Christina Green, 9
Dorothy Morris, 76
Dorwin Stoddard, 76
Phyllis Schneck, 79
it’s not a stone
it’s a country
and it’s sinking
/ / /
part of a river of stones
Leave a CommentCategory: My poems
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this changes nothing
you know that, don’t you?
in a few days we’ll go back to our coma
back to our flat-screen televisions
our high-definition getaways
six people? nowhere near enough
at this point, we’d need rivers of blood
flowing past the grocery store
submerging the church pews
to even catch our attention for more
than a 24-hour news cycle
for shock value I could start listing
the daily death tolls
of those without health care
or the number of children who go to bed
hungry or abused each night
right here, in the richest…
but you know the story
or choose not to know it
for less shock value
(because who really cares about them?)
I could tell you how many civilians
were killed today in Iraq or Afghanistan
or Gaza or Pakistan or Yemen
by us or by our allies or with our weapons
but what’s the use?
a new season of your favorite show
will start soon and you’ll plop down
on your couch with some popcorn
or a nice plate of nachos
and go back to sleep
in a few weeks you’ll have to
Google this date to figure out
what this poem is about
and in another few weeks after that
so will I
outside my window
is a scuttling crab
in his winter tuke, pacing
— if that’s the word —
back and forth, counting off
the first bar of a jazz tune
/ / /
part of a river of stones
One Commentas I listen to Jane Ira Bloom’s
dancing soprano saxophone,
I’m reminded again why I chose
to play this instrument, despite its
“small window of accuracy” —
because the whole world
is through that window
/ / /
part of a river of stones
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/ / /
today my brain is more spoon than blade
rounded and dull in my unslept head
still, I’ll grind it against the whetstone
sharpen my wits for what’s ahead
/ / /
part of a river of stones
4 CommentsListen to the reading using the player above.
Here’s the audio of my poetry reading from Caffe Lena last night. I had such a great time, despite the presence of a fairly annoying heckler. Many of my friends were in the audience, and a ton of new folks were there, too. Mostly students, I think. In fact, the place was so packed that I ran out of copies of Daylight Robbery, even though I printed twice as many as I thought I’d need. Thanks to host Carol Graser for having me and to my mom for driving up from New York. And thanks to all my friends for coming out to support me!
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/ / /
walking past the coffee shop
where my friends used to work
the coffee may still be brewing
but the warmth is gone
/ / /
Part of a river of stones.
2 CommentsI didn’t realize this video existed until today. It was shot on May 4, 2010 in Albany, NY.
Thanks to AlbanyPoets.com for the video and thanks to Nipper Town for letting me know it existed.
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/ / /
your face has frozen
like your mom always said
or is that a pasted-on smile?
/ / /
Part of a river of stones.
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/ / /
Talking Heads’ advice is to Stop Making Sense
that’s easy wisdom to accept — it’s been years
since I had any idea what was going on
/ / /
Part of a river of stones.
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/ / /
This is the first poem of the year for me, although it’s the third one to make it to this site in 2011. One note: The person 99% of you know as my father is not the person mentioned in this poem, which refers to my biological father.
Perchance to dream
On the first night in my new apartment —
after fifteen years of sleeping in our bed —
I closed the door to my bedroom,
pushed it tight until the latch clicked home.
On that first night I was a boy again,
waiting for the yellow eyes to appear
around the corner at the end of the hallway
like they had night after night when I was a child.
For years I was afraid of partially opened doors,
preferring to see nothing or to see everything;
to know what fate had in store the moment it
lumbered around the corner, thirsting for me.
Even earlier in childhood I’d had a similar dream.
I was in my bed in my pajamas with the feet on them,
and the door to the hallway was open and I could hear
the footsteps, the heavy pounding on the wooden floor.
One night my mother came through the bedroom window,
snuck in under cover of darkness and spirited me away
from the party going strong in the living room
while my drunk father was supposed to be watching me.
I don’t know when he first discovered I was gone
or what he did next. I like to imagine him in a panic,
searching for me, tearing the house apart, tears on his cheeks —
like he failed to do all those years.
But I’m sure it was nothing so dramatic. Probably a phone call
to my grandparents’ apartment on Main Street.
My grandfather would have picked up the phone in his quiet way.
“Yes, they’re here. They’re sleeping.”
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/ / /
the wood floors are shining
even the dust is put away
waiting for uncertain company
/ / /
Part of a river of stones.
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/ / /
Like so many good ideas these days, I got this one from my friend Carolee Sherwood. Further explanation of the idea of stones can be foudn at a river of stones.
///
Richard Hawley’s “Last Orders”
shimmers through my basement apartment
I wait for my friend to come
drink peppermint tea
this time when Janus beckons
I’ll follow him through the door
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When I was in New York last week, I went to the American Folk Art Museum. One of the pieces that caught my eye was this woodcarving of Matthew the Evangelist by the artist John Perates. He was born in Greece but lived much of his life in Portland, Maine. I’m not a religious person, but I tried to capture what it might be like to create art while feeling divinely inspired. You can click the image to see a larger version.
The Angel and the Eye of God
John makes furniture —
finely cut cabinets,
stout and purposeful bedposts,
tables to hold a family.
He is seeking refuge in this city by the sea,
so much colder than his island home.
Alone in his workshop,
after the orders are shipped,
John puts down the patterns
and turns inward, carving
the wood in the shape of the Word.
He has seen the angel who points
to the eye of God. He has heard
the song of Matthew the Evangelist.
He is not afraid.
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icicle
At first, one drop freezes, so small
you wouldn’t notice it. Then
another drop attaches itself to
the first, freezes. Over time,
slowly as regret, the icicle
forms, its weight pulling
the branch toward the
cold ground.
Eventually
the only
question
is which
will break
first,
branch
or
ice.