Ron Smith

Savannah, Georgia, The United States


Librarian Note: There are more than one author in the Goodreads database with this name.

Ron Smith is the author of Running Again in Hollywood Cemetery, runner-up for the National Poetry Series Open Competition and the Samuel French Morse Prize (Margaret Atwood and Donald Hall, judges) and published by University Presses of Florida. His Moon Road: Poems 1986-2005 has just been issued by Louisiana State University Press, and has been praised by Pulitzer-winner Claudia Emerson and Pulitzer-finalist David Wojahn, as well as the Italian scholar and translator Massimo Bacigalupo and the world-famous journalist and novelist Tom Wolfe.

Ron Smith's poems have appeared in many periodicals, including The Nation, Kenyon Review, New England Review,

Average rating: 4.04 · 625 ratings · 60 reviews · 116 distinct worksSimilar authors
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The Ballpark Book

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Hooked On The Word

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Read to Lead

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Rear Gunner Pathfinders

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Moon Road: Poems, 1986-2005

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Its Ghostly Workshop: Poems

4.70 avg rating — 10 ratings — published 2013 — 6 editions
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Public Relations: The Basics

4.30 avg rating — 10 ratings — published 2013 — 7 editions
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HVAC Spells Wealth

4.44 avg rating — 18 ratings — published 2007 — 2 editions
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Private Prayer, Public Power

really liked it 4.00 avg rating — 10 ratings — published 2013 — 3 editions
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More books by Ron Smith…
Business Calculus
(2 books)
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“Leaving Forever

My son can look me level in the eyes now,
and does, hard, when I tell him he cannot watch
chainsaw murders at the midnight movie,
that he must bend his mind to Biology,
under this roof, in the clear light of a Tensor lamp.
Outside, his friends throb with horsepower
under the moon.

He stands close, milk sour
on his breath, gauging the heat of my conviction,
eye-whites pink from his new contacts.
He can see me better than before. And I can see
myself in those insolent eyes, mostly head
in the pupil's curve, closed in by the contours
of his unwrinkled flesh.

At the window he waves
a thin arm and his buddies squall away in a glare
of tail lights. I reach out my arm to his shoulder,
but he shrugs free and shows me my father's narrow eyes,
the trembling hand at my throat, the hard wall
at the back of my skull, the raised fist framed
in the bedroom window I had climbed through
at three A.M.

"If you hit me I'll leave forever,"
I said. But everything was fine in a few days, fine.
"I would have come back," I said, "false teeth and all."
Now, twice a year after the long drive, in the yellow light
of the front porch, I breathe in my father's whiskey,
ask for a shot, and see myself distorted in
his thick glasses, the two of us grinning,
as he holds me with both hands at arm's length.”
Ron Smith, Running Again in Hollywood Cemetery: Poems

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