ars poetica

New Hazards

25/04/2005 14:33

The Blackbird;
Within whose territory I garden,
Has a brown wife and daughter.
His son, long gone, was driven out again
When testosterone rose, regular as sap, this Spring…
A tiny fly circumnavigates my spectacles
And, attracted by my sparkling teardrops,
Drowns itself in my eye,
Leaving me it’s pain & residue.
Fucking nature! Who needs it?
End of poem

Taking a break from filing books
Out of poets into the computer
To tea and an hour’s deep thought
About the books I read
And the books V.B. reads
And how healthy it is to have an obsession
(Unless it’s picking scabs.)
Rock & Roll, Egil & Njall
Sharing a cloud with Rory
Books that glow in the dark stone
Illuminated instruction.
The courageous spirit of the imagination
Game - set and disposable lighter
One man’s obscure is also his reality.
Shit! I let my tea go cold
Back to the scree

25/04/2005 16:12
r.s.s.
maastricht

—Rod Summers

SHOPPING.

I had to walk in a thunderstorm
With my leaden boots
And copper flask of blessed Belgian water
At my hip.
Turning out for the supermarket
Because the milk had turned
Sour, from the thunderous heat inside the refrigerator.
Besides which
I had clearly forgotten
What I promised to cook
For the evening meal and, therefore,
Was unable to prepare
An adequate shopping list.
I thought “Perhaps if I go
And stare at the laden shelves
Inspiration will deliver me a menu or
A label will jog my memory.
Of course, I might get
Struck by lightning on the way over to the shops
And then this poem will be considered
Significant,
Blessed with profound insight etcetera.”

I was struck by lightening
This poem is the result.
We ate simply.

—Rod Summers

NO MANS LAND.

How much of what happens passes you by?
All of it, I am not suspended in the time I am suspended in by any means.
None of it, I see every one of doubts cast glances, and the give away gesture never escapes me.

No-mans-land and the space between dormitories. The life led to the life to live. The concrete and grass verge conflict. The grass made slippery by the morning due. The leather well dodged. The chauvinism of cannoniers. The listening silence of the counter-miner, and all of that net op tijd. Boom!

The countless lines mulled over and forgotten. The best best forgotten, forgotten anyway.
How many lines? No lines at all. How many lines? No lines at all.

I used to plod around in the darkness, now I plod in the light.

—Rod Summers

YESTERDAY.

Yesterday I wrote a poem
So bad I’m mortified!
Though too ashamed to go back and open the file
I have kept it
And have made it ‘read only’,
As a potent reminder of fallibility
In these days
Without synaptic lapse
And level diagnostics detecting
Sensors are functioning optimally.

—Rod Summers