Poetry with Friends

Myself, my wife, and friend David Leff at the Artists' Cooperative in Westerly, Rhode Island, just before we gave a poetry reading. Here's one of the poems I read that day.

The Long Grey Trail

Legs pounding, feet slapping against grey rock,

Hard muscles straining up cold, grueling slopes,

We follow green, breadloaf mountain ridges,

Through days of biting flies and spiteful rain,

Until our backs bend beneath the burden,

Lean flesh steaming in the simmering sun.

 

What force pushes us past hunger and pain,

Past endless trees, icy mist, wind and thirst,

Past oceans of boulders and nightmare peaks?

This strange strength forces us to moments when,

With pure hearts, empty heads, and leathered skin,

We hope to touch the real, fight the long sleep,

And share a feast with old friends and strangers

At the silvery end of the long grey trail.

Rare Chance to See Me Reading Poetry

I'll be participating in the "Poets for the Earth" celebration, Sunday, April 10, 1 p.m. at the Artists’ Cooperative Gallery, 7 Canal Street, Westerly, Rhode Island. In fact, I'll be reading some of my own poetry, which is a rare occurrence to say the least. After I married Amy Nawrocki, I realized that my dreams of being a top-notch poet were mostly dreams, and I should defer to il miglior fabrio. However, I still dabble, and although my poetry is not on par with my wife's, it has its own little niche (or so she claims). Since you are probably reading this at your office, here's a little sonnet I wrote ten years ago. Enjoy!

 

Office Space

 

Chit-chat and happenstance stretch office days

into pleasant, coffee-doughnut hours –

How was your weekend, someone says blithely,

and we smile, answering with sun-rays

of good nature, and decide to add her

name to our email address list as friend.

The copy machine and the microwave

are hubs that whirl us like a thousand moons.

 

 

When we at last jitter home to empty,

deadbolt apartments, they seem too empty,

like the bottoms of vast whiskey bottles. 

Night opens around our lonesome bodies,

so vulnerable now that we have shed

the interlocked armor of cubicles.

 

                                                                        - November 2006

The First Settlers of Black Rock

I had a piece on the first settlers of Black Rock published on the Bridgeport History Center site and I didn't even know it. So much written over the past decade...I often forget what I submitted and what was accepted, even if I try to keep track. Read it here.

A Reason to Write

Just got a nice phone message from someone named Kate Gallagher who finished Becoming Tom Thumb and thought it was the best book she ever read. That's always nice to hear - balances out the occasional hate mail and the disingenuous review or two. It'll help keep me going through the next project. Thanks to everyone who has enjoyed my work and told me about it through reviews or personal messages over the years. You are one of the main reasons I keep writing.