Tag Archives: Poetry

Poetry Hour on KOPN

Thanks to Anne and the gang at the Columbia Downtown Poetry Club, I got to read poetry on the local radio! I also got to meet a few poets from Jeff City (Gumbo Bottoms Single Pot Still Poetry Society), and one of them gave me a collection of the society’s poems, which was very exciting. There were musicians performing, too: Billy Haring, Dylan McCord and Kind Kurt.

This was a lot of fun. Except for the mics and headsets, the radio station didn’t look anything like Frasier. The lights were dim and there were perennial Christmas lights on the ceiling. Everyone was super nice and supportive and chill.

The first poem is at 53:15, and it’s called “Hate.” Tactful as ever, I upset the host. Sorry Mike! He handled it like a pro, though. Next time this peculiar situation arises, I’ll try to remember to read a life-affirming poem instead of a hate-affirming one.

No, of course I wasn’t nervous! …Okay, yes, I was nervous. I don’t know how I get stage fright reading in front of six people and a mic. Heck, sometimes I get stage fright just reading whatever I last wrote to two or three people at the Columbia Poetry Club. I’m getting stage fright right now, thinking about it. But it’s good for me. As I recall, it was a lot easier reading things aloud that were written by other people. There’s an extra layer of vulnerability, when you are the one who wrote it.

The second poem is called “Caught” and it’s at 1:41:36.

You should listen to the whole episode, though, because there’s lots of really good stuff in there!

And donate to your local radio station. Better yet, donate to mine! Imagine how boring radio would be without these good people mixing it up out there.

Until next time! ❤︎⁠

Impressions of a River

We walked on a sandbar

stepped where a blue heron stepped

the four lines where its foot fell

pressed into crackles by our weight.

 

We found warm shallows

where life abounded

mollusks the size of our palms

had pulled themselves across the floor

doodling blind, directionless lines

searching for I do not know what

 

We found a gar

dried to leather

black as driftwood in the moist sunshine

sunken eyes like leather coins

expressionless, shriveling down

to its primeval skull.

 

We found wet clay 

as deep as our knees

We mired ourselves on purpose

and struggled back out again

Pretending we were dinosaurs

Or maybe the making

of some new fossil

 

Everything on the riverbank leaves a trace

Every path is printed

 

That is until

the water rises, falls

and refreshes itself.

Each rainfall rinsing

the palette clean.


We sat on our hill and she taught me a song

 

We sat on our hill and she taught me a song.

I remember her laugh when I got the words wrong,

I remember the way the grass tickled our feet,

And the flowers I tucked in her hair looked so sweet,

But I ruefully deem the dream as incomplete.

Though deep I have delved and long I have sought,

I cannot recall what she patiently taught.

 

 

 

 


Aoudads


Aoudads are enormous, proud, and graceful animals.
The largest have sweeping beards from chest to hoof,
thick horns curling behind them,
and a critical goaty gaze
which sees you from its perch
high in the desert rocks
and seems to say, “what low thing
squints up at my grandeur?”

Their strength prevails in a climate
where lesser breeds wither.
Every image on the net
is one of these proud ruminant gods,
dwarfing a human at their side,
head upright,
held aloft by the horns
by a smiling hunter.

Something there is about a god
which drives mankind to kill it.
We suffer nothing to live above us.











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