Anthony Watkins's Blog, page 25

This Word

(A missive for Al)

Right now 

I want you to 

look at this word,

this word.

Yes, here

Is a whole poem, here, 

and beyond the poem 

by the time 

you’re reading this 

is possibly a book 

and beyond the book,

assuming there is one,

I have written 

at least 30 others,

and maybe 

by the time 

you read this

I will have written 

more ,

But I’m not interested 

in you looking 

at this poem 

or this book 

or my life‘s work.

Let’s look at this word.

I’m writing this word 

so look at it.

Dead Notebook

Few things irritate me

as much as my talk to text’s

unwillingness to learn

the way I speak.

I say unwilling,

I don’t believe it’s unable

I think it’s just stubborn

and snobbish

and anti-southern

I know some people say

us old southern men

sound like we have

a mouth full of marbles

when we talk

I refuse to believe

that is true

at least in my case.

In any case,

the dead notebook:

instructives on

how to behave

as a poet.

One:

write whatever

the hell you want

use whatever form

or no form

rhyme and reason

are both completely optional

as is punctuation

and capitalization

tense and structure

you’re a poet

you make the rules

as you go along

and anyone who doesn’t

like your rules doesn’t

have to read your poetry

it’s really simple.

And don’t explain.

OK explain if you want to.

I’m just gonna hate

you if you do.

I love to hear

other people explain

what a poem means

where the poet was

coming from

what he was writing about

what he was really saying.

But given that

the poet rarely knows

any more than the rest of us

people just guessing

but given that we

tend to give the poet

a lot of credit for knowing

what the hell he’s talking about

the poet explains his poetry

it’s worse than a comedian

explaining their joke.

So don’t do it

or if you do it,

know I’m going to hate you.

That pretty much sums

it up so I think

I’ll stop the poem here.

Though if I wanted,

because I’m the poet

I could go on.

But because

I am the poet

and I don’t want

to go on I will

not go on,

the end.

On the Nightstand

In celebration of April being National Poetry Month

On the Nightstand

Knowing next

to the darkened

battery alarm clock

on a decorated stone

coaster sits a

store brand soda

I awake in the dark

thirsty, but knowing

the act of getting

the drink will wake

me fully.

I roll over

trying to sleep

thirsty,

with the quenching

two feet away.

I drink and rise

To sit in the quiet dark

of my comfy chair

and write this poem

with no thought

of poetry month.

First Let Us Sort all the Words

Inspired somehow listening to this: https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=bDsCwuxDwfQ

First Let Us Sort all the Words

Let’s start with the “a” words

addict and attic

Is there an addict in the attic?

is the attic

like the one

in the old house

by the chicken farm

in Jasper Alabama

with the stairway

like there was supposed to be a second floor

but only a handmade wooden door

and opened up direct, dark, dusty,

attic with one dirty window letting

in soft light

or was it something else?

I don’t know.

I go into attics every day,

strangers attics.

I’ve never met an addict in an attic.

I’ve never met anyone

in the hundreds of attics

I’ve gone into.

I’ve come out of every one

I went into

usually safely.

Except the one

I fell out of

and broke both feet

And both knees

but I’m mostly OK now.

I didn’t get addicted

to painkillers except for

Tylenol and Advil

which I take with coffee

and sometimes food

especially the Advil.

Well you can sort

some more letters

I think this was enough

for me for today.

Some days I am not a poet

Driving down the road I see trees and grass and wildflowers and roadkill.

I see birds and water lilies and nothing crosses my mind that compels me to write anything down.

On those days I could be forgiven for doubting I ever was a poet.

Fat Old Man

sitting on the tailgate

spitting tobacco

on the ground

 big old dog

lying in the dirt

in the shade

of the truck

hiding from the sun

coming through the new leaves

of the oak trees

early Friday afternoon.

In the Air Are Pigeons

Rocks, like in a pocket,

not the smooth circular discs

known falsely as clay pigeons,

shades of gray and brown.

Stones flying

in ever greater arcs,

raining down on children,

huddled, games abandoned.

And on old women,

washing laundry

and making bread

in the afternoon.

In whose hands

I have to wonder

did pigeons become

flaming bits of lava?

Magic Ball

the last cold Sunday

morning in March

the major leagues

are coming back

late but still coming.

The sky,

crystal clear and blue

and I’m thinking baseball.

I love a grand slam,

a strike out,

a double or triple play,

as much as anybody,

but I found I enjoy

watching a game where

I can wander around,

sit behind the catcher,

or along the first base line.

The hot dogs and beer

are as good as any

quality may not be major league

but kids play their heart out

on a hot summer night.

That’s magic.

Get Your Torch, Annie

as we travel thru night,

you and I

different worlds

strangers to meaning

“light by light”

we go

towards an outsiders world

where words fail

and death is the only success

yours, not mine

as mine will surely be

one more failure

the last, or not

but not a line

to be remembered

by all

even old white men

that you would not

have given a damn about

yet I recall

the night

going over

light by light.

Highway Six

the dashboard reads

fifty-one degrees

barren fields interspersed

with plots of pine trees

hardwoods in neat rows

black bottom trunks

under overcast skies

and me trying to get home.