Anthony Watkins's Blog, page 17

Sagging

in the shaggy raggedy little houses,

backyards against the freeway

so many people live their lives,

they lay their head down on the pillow

and drift off to that summery time of sleep,

the sagging back porch

doesn’t matter near so much.

When the water freezes at 40

and the cold, grey sun rains down like clouds

you remember hearing the man on the radio

say it’s important to make sure

the Chinese live up to the fish

or was that a dream?

The Queen Is Still Dead

Russia is still losing the war

Jackson still has mud

for drinking water

Flint still has lead in theirs.

The west is on fire.

Brown and Black people

are still not mourning,

not for the queen, at least.

Though they still bury their dead,

the ones the cops killed,

the ones who died

from exploitation

and enslavement.

And the sun also

still rises.

Ruins of the 20th Century (free here, and for sale)

As this chapbook is now in the hands of early readers and buyers I am publishing the MS here. It is a little hard to follow because it is formatted for print. If you would like your own paperback copy you can order it from me at anthonyleewatkins@gmail.com. The cost is $6 or 3 for $15, plus shipping handling which is $2.00 to most USA addresses for one or just under $4.00 for the packet of 3. You will need to send me your mailing address and I will send you a price including postage. I will accept payment thru paypal, zelle, and cashap.

Copies signed and/or personalized at no extra cost. anything beyond a signature will be typed on a small slip of paper as my hand writing is undecipherable.

Note I will ship to non USA addresses, but of course the postage will be higher, for example, much of Canada adds a dollar and parts of Europe adds $2. I do not yet have pricing for other places.

Of course, you are welcome to simply read them for free here.

Anthony writes and lives in North Florida,

with his wife and 100 lb. pit bull lapdog, among the live oaks,

the pine straw plantations,

and a world of decaying structures

that share their age and condition with the poet.

He also is a volunteer community teaching assistant at the University of Pennsylvania as part of Professor Al Filreis’ massive free online poetry course known as ModPo.

He has founded and published a series of literary journals, online and hardcopy since 1995.

Currently he is working to bring students of poetry in local colleges together with those who live inside prisons, through his new project: Poetry, Prisons, & Newsprint.

You can find many of his poems on his blog at https://anthonyuplandpoetwatkins.wordpress.com/

If you would like to reach Anthony to purchase copies of his poetry,

or to book him for a speaking engagement,

either a reading or a discussion about poetry, you can contact him via this email:

anthonyleewatkins@gmail.com

Ruins of the 20th Century

[image error]

Anthony Watkins

2023

Falling Down Press

Jasper * Starke * O’Brien

 i

For those who can remember, and those who cannot

ii

The White Birds 

in front of the old cinderblock 

United Methodist Church 

with the sunbaked graveyard 

beside it, 

all behind 

a field of cattle munching 

on overgrown weeds.

This is July 

near the break down pond 

not hot yet

and the old three sisters 

stand waiting for 

tobacco that 

will never come

15

Three Rings in Concrete

in a low concrete block building

smelling of mold

listening to rain

playing solitaire with coated playing cards

so worn the coating is coming off

I have already read

all the books in the library

including two books

on sewing and cross stitch

I dream of bigger cities

and bigger libraries

not knowing

how happy I

already am

writing out poems

in four line rhyming verses

on notebook paper

in a three ring binder

and drawing pictures

of horses and automobiles

to be twelve again

on rainy summer afternoons.

14

Previous Works

Cabbage Field and Rust 1995

Heroes and Bandits 1996

Machines of the Mind 1996

Out of the Soft Delta Dirt 1999

High maintenance Ways 2001

I Might Die in Florida 2002

After the Door Had Opened 2003

How to See Alabama 2003

If Mississippi Could Talk 2004

From the Tree Caves 2008

Depression Enterprise 2009

Single Buds 2010

Rusty Tractors (Collected Poems 1994-2004) 2011

Warm Enough for Ice Cream (Collected Poems 2005-2011) 2011

May’s Hill 2013

Blind Carafe of Wheelbarrow Rain 2014

30 More 2015

Silent Poems 2016

Black Snakes and Happy, the Little Christmas Book 2016

Sometimes California or March Set 2017

Broken Samovar 2017

Hard Okra and the Seed Pod Trees 2017 (Collected Poems 2011-2017)

Old Copper 2017

The Lost Season 2018

Written in Darkness 2020

Lovers Beyond the Reeds 2021

Translations of Fire 2022

The House of Two Fountains 2022

iii

Contents

Ruins of the 20th Century                                                         1

Thirteen                                                                                    2

Even with Rust                                                                         3

Dirty wife beater                                                                      4

Middle aged back                                                                    5

Three Women, a Vulture, a Kitty Cat, and a Ball of Yarn       6

In a World of Chicken Hotdogs                                               8

This Book Was Written                                                            9

Bad Shoulders                                                            10

Little Things and Big Things                                              11

I Have Climbed Mountains                                                     12

I Used to Build Bicycles                                                          13

Three Rings in Concrete                                                         14

The White Birds                                                                      15

iv

I Used to Build Bicycles

gears and chains

and forks, pedals

and little clip devices

thin rubber tires

thirty-six spokes

front and back

more on the tandems,

but who really buys

those, anyway?

I had a shop

on a side street

in Earle, Arkansas,

between the bait shop

lean-to and a oily

garage where my uncle

rebuilt John Deeres

making that “pop-pop” sound.

Most of my days

in solitude, closing up

on perfect days

to ride by endless

cotton fields of my mind.

13

I Have Climbed Mountains

lept from rocks

swam in lakes

full of I don’t know what

even snow skied in Alabama

fished for crappie

at midnight

ate a tarpon

I caught in the keys

I dropped out

drove a truck

now teach poetry

at university

I sit quietly

in my cottage

in Mayo

knowing so much

is past.

12

Ruins of the 20th Century

every day, before I go

riding down the roads

looking for pictures

to take of ruins:

old barns, gas stations,

mansions in disrepair,

I look in the mirror

and see my own

ruins of the 20th Century

1

Thirteen

I was going to change the world

Writing a dozen influential novels

 and half as many

books of poetry,

all to be studied and

remembered for at least 400 years.

Sixty-three

pre-dawn coffee

walking the dog

listening to both

rain on the front porch tin roof

and the courthouse bell

across the street

tolling four am

eating a sandwich made from

leftover cream chicken

 my wife cooked for supper last night

planning pork tacos for breakfast

a family trip to Tallahassee

for broken watches

and college clothes

then back to supper

of home-made deep-fried eggrolls

tomorrow a trip to the springs

before the rain comes

I never changed the world,

but I have loved the life,

so far.

2

Little Things and Big Things

up at two am, coffee

and internet browsing,

walking the dog

in the cold darkness,

can’t focus on

the poetry study group

even though Joan Retallack

is one of my favorites

Refilling my coffee

I note, for the thousandth time

a spot of missing paint

a bit of dog-chewed

newsprint in the floor

“I should pick that up

I should get out the paint

and touch that spot up”

and then I remember

the siding shingles

one missing two years ago

so I bought a box of new ones

another has since fallen

the box unopened,

the shingles still missing

I drink my coffee

and think of little things.

11

Bad Shoulders

Like old kings sending

thugs in the night to wake

and torture me, reminding me

 that, unlike Samson,

there is not one more strength

even to pull down the temple

and the feet

numb and tingly

with an occasional stab

like a twisted ankle

though I can see

nothing has turned

only a fresh chasing pain

run through and gone

sleep like a blind man

tethered to the grist

pushes and goes nowhere.

10

Even with Rust

on the near empty beach

in my folding chair

looking at pages of the book

I am not reading

The brown and white corgi

lays at my feet

looking at me with eyes

that never saw the queen.

“Shes dead, you know”, I say

but the corgi doesn’t know,

doesn’t care, neither do I.

I see the old Ford F100

in the shade

not mine, though like me

still running

but not what it was

Dry rot has attacked

the white walls

but they still hold air

all in all

it looks better than me

even with rust.

3

Dirty wife beater

he stopped on the side

of the road

in his dirty wife-beater shirt,

shooting his pistol,

at first at a snake,

and then at old beer cans he found.

I’m not sure he was crazy

or just crazy drunk

the door of the dusty white van

hung open had a crazy angle

and the pistol made flashes

in the shade of the pine trees.

I didn’t stop to ask any questions

because he was stopped

on the side of the road

in his dirty wife beater shirt

shooting at snakes

and old beer cans he found there.

and I had somewhere

to be further

down the road.

4

This Book Was Written

on Horse lined paper

bought for ten cents

from the nice lady

who kept her store

in the tiny closet

across the hall

from Mrs. Bumper’s

principal’s office

where I never got a paddling

though, the fact

that Mrs. Bumpers knew

my parents was worse.

I didn’t buy the paper

from the store,

the lady always wore

a gray apron full of pockets

and pushed a cart

filled with paper,

yellow wooden pencils

erasers, big and little

glue and paste.

On these pages

of three ring paper

I have written my life.

9

In a World of Chicken Hotdogs

(in memory of Bernadette Mayer)

The taste of burnt vinyl

swirls around my mouth

tiny black flakes

on my lips an gums

There is no money

in the sink

coffee is

the only luxury

Black beans and rice

for breakfast

with enough salt

Christmas comes,

as always, broke

and demanding.

Thank you

Baby Jesus

for my coffee.

8

Middle aged back

At 63 I am well past 

the middle of my age, 

but out of politeness

we call old people in their 60s 

middle aged instead of old 

I think of this 

In the gray cold drizzle fills the air, 

but doesn’t quite fill my boat. 

I had a notion to go out on the water. 

It was cold, but it wasn’t raining 

And the way the gray slate sky 

ran into the gray slate water 

with almost no horizon

appealed to me earlier 

but now the gray above 

and the gray below 

has become the gray within 

and I know I must hurry home 

to some coffee and maybe 

warm winter soup.

the cold, wet air makes 

all of my bones ache 

but I put my middle-age back

into the oars and pull 

and pull and it hurts 

a lot 

for there is no Tylenol

on a rowboat 

just an old man pretending 

to be middle-aged 

trying to get home

5

Three Women, a Vulture, a Kitty Cat, and a Ball of Yarn

The older red-headed lady

in the quilted red house coat

hung out laundry

on the open porch

the baby played with the kitty cat

and a yellow ball of yarn.

The vultures swooped down

out of the perfect blue sky

and carried the child and the kitty cat away.

When she saw the ball of yarn

and no child and no kitten,

it took her a while to sort it out.

She called the cops

and they found the baby

in the side yard where

the vulture had dropped it,

though the kitty cat was eaten,

and because this is not

a Greek myth, it had not eaten

the child’s eyes or intestines or spleen,

though the child

had a nasty gash under her left eye

which became infected and left an awful scar

which remained, even after she

grew to be a tall redheaded women on her own

6

and she was never

fond of vultures,

or kitty cats or yarn,

though she always

loved her grandmother

and the red quilted housecoat

with the golden thread

in the pattern of a sun

but the sun of a different earth.

But that afternoon,

long before the baby

grew up with a scar,

the young mother

stood in the sunny room

with her short pageboy

brown hair and

her short-sleeved

black turtleneck

and charcoal brown pencil skirt

and wondered if she could

ever leave her baby

with her mother again.

7

The Ugly Spoon

in my kitchen

I have my favorite

forks, spoons and knives

as well as bowls and plates

I am not happy

if my food is served

without these items,

but in the kitchen

when I am cooking

I will use an ugly spoon

a fork with a too light

or too heavy handle

I have found

they stir and prod

in a serviceable manner

and sometimes I wonder

why I cannot accept them

at the table.

The Ugly Spoon

in my kitchen

I have my favorite

forks, spoons and knives

as well as bowls and plates

I am not happy

if my food is served

without these items,

but in the kitchen

when I am cooking

I will use an ugly spoon

a fork with a too light

or too heavy handle

I have found

they stir and prod

in a serviceable manner

and sometimes I wonder

why I cannot accept them

at the table.

I Used to Build Bicycles

gears and chains

and forks, pedals

and little clip devices

thin rubber tires

thirty-six spokes

front and back

more on the tandems,

but who really buys

those, anyway?

I had a shop

on a side street

in Earle, Arkansas,

between the bait shop

lean-to and a oily

garage where my uncle

rebuilt John Deeres

making that “pop-pop” sound.

Most of my days

in solitude, closing up

on perfect days

to ride by endless

cotton fields of my mind.

Ruins of the 20th Century

every day, before I go

riding down the roads

looking for pictures

to take of ruins:

old barns, gas stations,

mansions in disrepair,

I look in the mirror

and see my own

ruins of the 20th Century

Little Things and Big Things

up at two am, coffee

and internet browsing,

walking the dog

in the cold darkness,

can’t focus on

the poetry study group

even though Joan Retallack

is one of my favorites

Refilling my coffee

I note, for the thousandth time

a spot of missing paint

a bit of dog-chewed

newsprint in the floor

“I should pick that up

I should get out the paint

and touch that spot up”

and then I remember

the siding shingles

one missing two years ago

so I bought a box of new ones

another has since fallen

the box unopened,

the shingles still missing

I drink my coffee

and think of little things.

Three Women, a Vulture, a Kitty Cat, and a Ball of Yarn

The older red-headed lady
in the quilted red house coat
hung out laundry

on the open porch
the baby played
with the kitty cat
and a yellow ball of yarn.

The vultures swooped
down out of the perfect blue sky
and carried the child
and the kitty cat away.

When she saw the ball of yarn
and no child and no kitten,
it took her a while
to sort it out.

She called the cops
and they found the baby
in the side yard where
the vulture had dropped it,
though the kitty cat was eaten,

and because this is not
a Greek myth,
it had not eaten the child’s eyes
or intestines or spleen,

though the child
had a nasty gash
under her left eye
which became infected
and left an awful scar

which remained,
even after she
grew to be a tall redheaded
women on her own

and she was never
fond of vultures,
or kitty cats or yarn,

though she always
loved her grandmother
and the red quilted housecoat
with the golden thread
in the pattern of a sun
but the sun of a different earth.

But that afternoon,
long before the baby
grew up with a scar,

the young mother
stood in the sunny room
with her short pageboy
brown hair and
her short-sleeved
black turtleneck
and charcoal brown pencil skirt

and wondered if she could
ever leave her baby
with her mother again.

This Book Was Written

on Blue Horse lined paper

bought for ten cents

from the nice lady

who kept her store

in the tiny closet

across the hall

from Mrs. Bumper’s

principal’s office

where I never got a paddling

though, the fact

that Mrs. Bumpers knew

my parents was worse.

I didn’t buy the paper

from the store,

the lady always wore

a gray apron full of pockets

and pushed a cart

filled with paper,

yellow wooden pencils

erasers, big and little

glue and paste.

On these pages

of three ring paper

I have written my life.

Entrepreneur’s Log

Six slick wheels

A rusty box,

And god’s very first

Transmission

Blowin’ oil

And unleaded

Into a cloud of dreams

For which I borrowed all

I could on enthusiasm.

This here load

Is the beginning

Of my vast, far flung

Empire of the sun.

Distribution centers in Dallas and De Moines,

Semi crisscrossing

These forty eight

And freighters loaded,

Lord knows I’ll ship

‘Round the world.

I have to get

My load of dreams

Off the shoulder

And down to New Orleans,

Those fools in Memphis

Don’t know a thing.

I just wonder how

The world made it

So long without

My perception and understanding

Of the wants and needs

Of the ordinary man.

Yes sir, I got no more money

But for a tow and to get

This rig arunnin’,

I’ll give ten percent,

That’s like a piece

Of a gold mine.

Yes sir, this is

Your lucky day,

Okay, twenty five, no more,

Now be reasonable

I’m giving you

Half of an empire.

For a half of a day’s work,

Yes sir, an empire of the sun.

Well, then drive on.

You’re just as dumb

As them fools in Memphis

I’ll get there somehow.

Yes sir, officer,

I’ll be moving this thing

Right along any minute,

Seems to be a slight problem

For my empire of the sun,

Temporarily, it won’t run.

July 24, 1994

For every dream and dreamer, for every time the world laughed at us, remember, as long as we have the dream, they are the fools. But this poem is most especially to my father, who taught me how to dream.