James Blevins
An Old Poet
An old poet
arrives at a reading,
sits alone, waits his
turn;
his breath a hiss,
issued patiently.
old words held
close to a sudden
drop—
a sudden drop
in the cavern
of his hollow
chest.
***
He grumbles
an introduction to the crowd,
recounts an old heart’s
bruising—
to the room, to some empty chairs,
to other poets gathered,
too young to know:
he had long forgotten
the poem’s reason—
but still holds it
close—and shares
it again, just as easy.
Ode to a Rock Road in Ohio
I desire to be warm as red paint, spread on dying wood:
Behind my best friend’s house, on a barn, in Ohio, something like 1985,
On a rock road, by an adjoining church parking lot, where I learned to ride my bike.
The dialogues I had back then with God have followed me all of my life.
My father, he held me high over his powerful arms then, and I didn’t mind.
My mother, she tucked me in and read me stories till I dreamed of writing my own.
With ruddy eyes, I’d stare out from the wood of the shed;
I’d stretch my red lips into a smile, watch the trees finally release,
With a touch of regret ingrained, the snow above my head.
Knowing full well the fleetingness of these moments,
And the time spent wishing I could grip longer—
But I don’t waste that time holding my wooden breath.
I’d befriend the rocks that skinned my knees,
Behind my best friend’s house,
In Ohio, as I am spread, like warm, red paint
on the dying wood of a barn,
that had probably been there for decades before I first fell;
Watching all the five-year olds like me, breaking in our knees, bleeding on the white rocks—
Twin wheels spinning lazily in wind shear off timber skin,
Whirling struts sharing in the light-motes off holy glass;
A bike waiting to be pulled up from the ground; a gust emits,
like that of unseen hands, ushering the boy along back home.
These are the musings of poet student James Blevins:
Valentine’s Day, 2016
I put Poem down on my knee
I rub Poem’s back
I scratch Poem’s shoulder blades
I knead Poem’s muscles till my fingers ache
I cup Poem’s cheeks
I kiss Poem’s lips
I push Poem down
I lean Poem back
I hold Poem close
I give Poem more than enough
I pour Poem a drink
I size Poem up
I wish Poem a nice night
I fork Poem’s tongue
I quarter Poem’s heart on a page
I force Poem’s eyes wide
I finger Poem’s core
I guard Poem’s weak knees
I total Poem’s bar tab
I garner Poem’s ear
I treat Poem right as rain
I march Poem out tonight
I singe Poem’s skin
I sign Poem’s yearbook
I dream Poem’s dream
I clean Poem’s fingertips
I warm Poem’s feet
I maroon Poem’s seed
I wash up on Poem’s beach
I dig Poem’s hole
I corner Poem’s prey
I lure Poem within reach
I need Poem’s eyes
I hate Poem’s lies
I waste Poem’s time
I love Poem as nothing else alive.
