Some Short Poems

Hi everyone,
I'm new here so I figured I'd just post a few pieces to see what you thought. Please criticize, comment, etc. etc. Thanks

Pater

I used to think
My father
Wore a watch bigger than the sun

To think
That he'd seen the lot
Where our home had been built
Before the Pacific receded
Or, at least,
Before they'd dug
The knee-high lake
In which I'd thought so often
Of floating

But the only thing
he saw before I did
was the car dealership down the road
And the cemetery
Up the street.

. . .

To Federico Garcia Lorca

I once heard it said
that Lorca held his cigarettes
like orange blossoms

Erect between
His index finger and opposable thumb

I never believed it
until I sat down to write
with one between my fingers

And set my whole notebook on fire

. . .

Erlkönig

I sit and smoke
on an old park bench
Watching boy after boy ride by--
Sophomoric Spartans coming home from war
Each with a concubine
On the pegs of his ten speed

Streaks of their hair
Scar the young warriors' pink cheeks
Each laden with unfamiliar blood

But they don't smile
They just stare down
At the striped yellow line on the asphalt

They can't stop to think
About the cars slipping past

Heavy with their homebound kin

. . .

On Finding A Place to Smoke

The patio was less
Than twenty-five feet long
And the sign said twenty-five

So I took a walk
Past the monkish umbrellas
waving their flaccid robes
and the rod iron chaises
half-shading the concrete below

Then I walked 'round the corner
Into the parking garage
And found her leavings
Lying there
Across a coffee tin
wilted doric columns
made dark by the rain
and her lipstick

I was sold on "Pater" - those quietly devastating closing lines- and wondered if you would keep up that standard, and you assuredly did. Wonderful mix here of occasionally self-depreciating humour and sharply observed images.

Welcome to the Forum.

This is very assured, mature poetry. I like the sparse tone you use and the undercurrent of humour.

As Prince says, a warm welcome.

H

I particularly liked Pater, LMJ

welcome indeed LMJ
Your poems have an original style and a cynical wit and I enjoyed them.
cheers
Jerry

Well written and a pleasure to read. I'm looking forward to more.

First of all, thanks for the kind words. I think I'll probably just stick to this thread. Here are a few more poems. A bit longer than the one's above.

Between Bellaire Blvd. and Richmond Ave.

They flock to the light*
Like mosquitoes and moths,
Hovering in tight little circles.

They gather under the signs,
The big neon signs,
That say, "open,"
Above locked doors.

So they buy their cigarettes*
From tired old owls,
Perched behind windows
Of half-cracked glass
Their fingerprints lost on their pennies and dimes.

(You may have touched them, you know.)

And every once and a while
You'll see two of them meet.
Outside the light of the service window.
A man and a woman,
Both Marlboro Reds,
Exchanging numbers and smiles and advances,
And as the night hums away,
A bag changes hands
And wrinkled bills slip away to the South.

Then they get in their cars,
Turn their headlights on,
And drive away into the sea of the city,
While the street lamps turn themselves off
One
****** by one
by one.

Now, with my back against a crooked fence
Listening to their spectral footsteps
Hoping they won't become my own,

I watch my light start flickering blue-green to steel-blue and go off.

But in the morning
It won't matter.
I'll buy two cups of coffee and read this thing that I've written
And I'll laugh

** *And I'll laugh

** *** *** And I'll laugh.

. . .

Concupiscence


Four boys,
necks as wide,
as mother's wrists
*
slap fight
in the courtyard.
*
Afternoon prayer
plays over the P.A.

But they continue
romping over the sounds
of the deadpan recording.
*
Then a voice rings out,
A man's voice,
"Kneel."
*
They do as their told
Their knees lined up on the pavement
like Lorca's before the firing squad
*
It was the voice of a priest
Collar and all
*
He comes and squats
In front of them
*
His head
bowed
*
His eyes
closed
*
His knees*
Just above*
the grass
*
The boys squint
eyeing his backside
*
Our father
Who art in heaven...

They write it in the air*
Like a suicide note
*
Give us this day
Our daily bread...

As they chew
On the pink of their tongues
*
And lead us not
Into temptation...

One gets to his feet
*
The priest bows lower
And kisses his fingers
The way he used to kiss Annabel's
In the back seat of his car

He gets to his feet
Flattens his pleats
And turns to face the boys
*
But they've already scampered
Away in a row
Three mice
In a maze
Who know*
Just where to go

. . .

And two shorter pieces

. . .

Madame Butterfly

Giaccomo makes mother cry,
A butterfly,
so shy, inside

A king sized bed with corkwood posts*
Playing host
For ghosts, at most

Of men that dance in 4/4 time
in line
With some pre-written rhyme

. . .

I need to become
an Alcahuete

A-sexual, a-morphous, a-everything

So I can sell you
My sweets
wholeheartedly *

Purely my own personal taste but I like the strong imagery you painted in the first one. I was waving moths and slapping mosquitoes to a flickering neon light as I puffed away.

And every once and a while - I think this should be 'And every once in a while' That is the term popularily used here (but it may not be elsehwere)