All systems are failing shadows flicker around the darkened room
There is no captain to report to, I am he.
Lost among the leaves.
*****
Poet, author, editor, publisher and digital creator Anthony Watkins passed away this week after a long illness. I knew him only through his creation of Better Than Starbucks, the wonderfully broad tent poetry-fiction-and-interviews magazine that came out monthly and provided for writers of all styles. It was a generous and inclusive publication, well reflective of its creator.
The poem above is one of the last messages posted by Anthony Watkins on his Facebook page, as everything was winding down.
Sitting in his seat, a seat broad and broken In, sprinkled with ashes, Pop switches channels, takes another Shot of Seagrams, neat, and asks What to do with me, a green young man Who fails to consider the Flim and flam of the world, since Things have been easy for me; I stare hard at his face, a stare That deflects off his brow; I’m sure he’s unaware of his Dark, watery eyes, that Glance in different directions, And his slow, unwelcome twitches, Fail to pass. I listen, nod, Listen, open, till I cling to his pale, Beige T-shirt, yelling, Yelling in his ears, that hang With heavy lobes, but he’s still telling His joke, so I ask why He’s so unhappy, to which he replies… But I don’t care anymore, cause He took too damn long, and from Under my seat, I pull out the Mirror I’ve been saving; I’m laughing, Laughing loud, the blood rushing from his face To mine, as he grows small, A spot in my brain, something That may be squeezed out, like a Watermelon seed between Two fingers. Pop takes another shot, neat, Points out the same amber Stain on his shorts that I’ve got on mine, and Makes me smell his smell, coming From me; he switches channels, recites an old poem He wrote before his mother died, Stands, shouts, and asks For a hug, as I shrink, my Arms barely reaching around His thick, oily neck, and his broad back; ‘cause I see my face, framed within Pop’s black-framed glasses And know he’s laughing too.
Featuring it in 2007 (alongside another Obama poem, “Underground”), The New Yorker noted that it “appears to be a loving if slightly jaded portrait of Obama’s maternal grandfather, with whom he spent a large part of his childhood.”
Under the midnight moon, the high garden’s outlined palms Wait. The sky round the white moon Is blue. And the clouds in the blue sky Are white. And the shadows in the white clouds Are blue. Below, offshore, Where three green islands lay in daylight’s blue sea, Tonight in the moon’s silver sea lie four black islands And one, gliding imperceptibly north, Is the black shadow of a white cloud in the blue sky. Gone are the golden butterflies from the pink hibiscus, Gone are the orange Monarchs from the purple bougainvillaea; Black lizards hunt black insects through black flowers of black bushes. The palms are black against the blue, Complex silhouettes of simple forms, Bending bowed fronds towards the moon – To the white Moon in her blue sky.
*****
I’m always embarrassed in writing or sharing “poetry” that lacks form. But oh well. There are still things in it I enjoy. This one was published in Abraxas.
Form in Formless Times 