My father loved poetry. He would recite, from memory, poems by Kipling, along with Gray’s ‘Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard’ and Fitzgerald’s ‘The Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam.’ I began to love the language of poetry and still I love the sound of it, the variety of tone, the sonority, the mysteries and the moods of it. There is beauty in the combinations that can meet, join and fulfill themselves through the many forms of poetry. The result is an arousal of spirit, something that can be experienced but not fully described.
Many of the poems in this volume are theatrical, historical, illustrating the passage of time. Some are occasional, or celebratory— a holiday or birthday. Others are funereal—- etching with sadness the wordly life of humans. As a writer I become interested in an idea, a moment, a character, a place. I want to share these interests in hopes that the mysteries and moods arouse the spirit and engage the mind.
below the curve. He would fall
southerly over the Antarctic wastes and on
into the voids if he were not clamped in
a swamp slithering and bellowing. His
only way out is to adapt his belly
to the sands. His only luxury’s venom.The fate of the Southerner is to have
his king and all musicians of court
far to the North, secure on the upside
of Earth. They will not take him up,
clean him up, suit him up, civilize him.
They gauge themselves by his misery,
their missioners come to remind of the rule.The fate of the Southerner is to dream
of dominions of lands with a house which
if built, would fall off the world with him
in it. He would marry a belle, a gully,
a bayou more fecund with snakes than his
own, which by marriage they’d jointly make one,
the Great Swamp of All. The king plans to drain it.