Some of These Days

by Robert King

Robert King's poems ruminate and celebrate, embrace and release, laying moments of insight and feeling on our open palms like fragrant pine needles. The poet leads us from what he calls "first days" (a childhood in Omaha during WWII and then Colorado) to "last days" (wrestlings with mortality) to "these days" in the eternal Now of the natural world. King moves with ease from humor to heartbreak, often in a single poem, and his language is always fresh and clear. He has the gifts necessary to fulfill Frost's dictum that a poem "begins in delight and ends in wisdom," and readers will take great pleasure in making that journey with him.

Genres: Poetry

90 pages, Paperback

First published May 20, 2013

Reviews

[Peter Derk · Rating 5 out of 5]

I was very, very sad to hear about the passing of local poet Robert King. His work is incredible, and in my copy of this book, there are two handwritten typo corrections. I was glad to see them.

[Daniel Klawitter · Rating 4 out of 5]

Bob is such a great poet. A really unique perspective combining memory and reflection with a wise, often bitter-sweet voice. I'll just share one example...one of my favorites from this collection:

Examination

It is science to see my father's skull-
as he lies in the dim machine next door-
on a screen, faint white, vague black, a pot
of thoughts, whether broken or not, the question,

and another science to see my father's skull,
an X-ray of the grave, the bare old bone
of everyone, jaw's jut, the forehead's curve,
the dark rounds that hold eyes, seeing or not.

He follows orders not to move. I barely
move myself. I shouldn't be seeing this.
I can't stop looking. This could be
a thousand-year old find in a sandy cave,

the plates and fissures of our last design,
a round home held in the hands and turned,
the singular museum of memories
gone hollow, dry in the driest air.

"Wendell, wake up," the technician murmurs
into a microphone. He needs him awake.
The son, too, needs him awake, wanting
to see that unique familiar mask

pulled back over the general stone,
the temporary look a long time loved.
"Okay," he murmurs back, the soft wet eyes,
which I can't see on this machine, now opening.

[A. · Rating 4 out of 5]

I loved so many of these poems. King writes movingly of his boyhood, the fairly recent death of his father and living in America in these poems. He's a wizard with endings, nailing them more times than not.