that’s my forest
— deep and dark —
but, yet, I see cracks of azure dome
through the canopy gaps,
and when it undulates
competing species wave together —
tousled by the same hand
so, even though each sways at its own rate,
it looks like one gasping organism
fog ahead
deafening white noise
hidden falls
staring up
at falls sans water
drought dreams
high falls
water stretches and drifts
violent spatter
waterfalls,
creeping backwards
over eons
suicide, or
the best story ever?
luck of the rocks
the snow falls
silent and slantwise
“KNOCK-KNOCK” ear check
darkness drifted in
between last look and now
wifely cover theft
monsoon rains
awesome from the inside
awful to be in
in India,
seeing no one outside?
Rapture feared
out my window
fiery orange blossoms
are in season
Deciduous Qween by Matty Layne Glasgow
My rating: 5 of 5 stars
This collection of [mostly] free verse and prose poems touches on nature, sexuality, and the loss of a mother. The poems are evocative and sometimes haunting, and they offer insight into experiences as specific as the author’s life as a gay man in Houston’s bayous and as universal as the loss of a loved one.
The collection is arranged into five parts. Each part continues the eponymous poem, “Deciduous Qween,” such that that poem acts as a connective tissue for the collection. The various parts each have their own unique feel.
As mentioned, sexuality is a major feature of this collection, and so readers sensitive to the subject should be forewarned. The fourth part is where the poems become explicit. In terms of graphicness, I’d put them in line with the more risqué works of Allen Ginsberg.
I found these poems to be poignant, heartfelt, and readable. I’d recommend the collection for poetry readers, particularly those who aren’t sensitive to matters of sex and sexuality.
blacksmith forges bands for a cooper
tap-tap-CLANG, tap-tap-CLANG!
staves for the barrel planed from oak
stip-stip-SHHISSH, stip-stip-SHHISSH
whiskey from the cooper’s barrel
glug-glug-GLUG, glug-glug-GLUG
souse staggers from the bar at night
ker-PLUNK!
shaggy yak
in Himalaya high
gallops carefree
desert skies
painted impossible hues
scrub and sand
moth wing eyes
so very convincing
owl or “seeing tree”
calm seas
don’t draw sailors
storms do
monkey moments
that mirrored pond,
reflecting us
Heliconia Rostrata
lobster-claw plant
flaming in red and yellow
headless bird stack
coconuts
dimple sands with a thud
tin roof heart attack
seeking relief
from the humidity,
entered greenhouse
little lizard
crawling under the door
take bug duty!
i recall short days
just as i recall cold days
nostalgia trumps truth
Walking beside a wagon.
Lost in blowing snows.
Ahead they’ll make their cannibal stance,
hoping for a voice to pierce their snow-blind minds,
and rescue them from dread days
that will haunt those lucky enough to live to contemplate their unluckiness.
The Drum That Beats Within Us by Mike Bond
My rating: 5 of 5 stars
This collection of short form poems touch on themes of nature, Americana, and the Native American experience, but it covers a lot of ground and is, ultimately, a reflection of Bond’s experience and philosophy in poetic form. Among the 80+ poems, there are some as short and sparse as haiku, but most run between a page or two.
In the prologue, Bond takes up the eternal argument of whether free verse is poetry, and the antithesis of whether rhymed and metered poetry is “serious poetry.” His view, not dissimilar to my own, is that there is room for the coexistence of these two poetic forms. That said, he overwhelmingly favors free verse in practice – as do most poets in the modern era – though not exclusively so.
I enjoyed this collection. It offers food-for-thought, beautiful language, and doesn’t wallow in a view of the world (or the poet’s life) as a fetid morass (as is a common theme in poetry collections these days.) It’s worth reading as an exemplar of a personal poetic statement. The collection offers examples of verse that is evocative without sopping with sentimentality. In the prologue, Bond urges expression through the poetic form, and this is him putting his money where his mouth is.
Edvard Munch; “Vampire”
They say a Vampire can’t enter your house unless you invite them inside.
I don’t know whether it’s true, on account of I don’t know if Vampires are a thing.
But I recognize a rule that is good and true when I hear one.
I always hear this or that person complaining about how such-and-such is,
“…living in my head, rent free.”
Well, who invited them?
