Tim Suermondt
SHOULDN’T BE MUCH TO ASK
We are not so badly off, if we can
Admire Dutch painting.
—Czeslaw Milosz
I want that house of quietude.
I want the fruit and bread on the table.
I want the young woman who takes care
of it all and never loses her beauty.
We’ll get married, live for art and each other.
Morning sunlight in winter poking
us in bed as we sleep late, vigorously.
How, how could she ever say no to that?
TEMPORARILY
The man is defeated, as is usually the case
but you’d never know it from the staunchness
of his demeanor—like a poet whose slippery
metaphors convince just about everyone
he’s close to the doorstep of heaven or some
such sterling approximation.
The man dresses and leaves for the day
and the hole in his heart does diminish
in the clutter of routine.
You stand a good chance of running into him
when the sky is dreary and the streets
seem lonelier than they’ve been for some time.
You might catch him whistling a sappy song
or better yet doing a buck-and-wing,
dancing badly into the future he’s sure
has to be stupendous.
THE WORLD WILL END
In my dream I’m being pulled away
like everyone, everything in the world—
the movement of people, animals, plants,
and objects gigantic and small on a scale
unparalleled in our long and short history.
A mansion with its rooms still lit passes
by me on the right, an aircraft carrier, deck
cleansed of planes and looking forlorn, passes
on the left, women holding down their skirts
above me, men below me blowing them kisses.
There never was a big day, a big game, a big
brother or big daddy like this, and in the night
of the cool galaxies I punch the stars, confident
the world will end with a bang, nobly, after all.
THE DISTINGUISHED POETS
I have a handful of poems
that are as good if not better
than what they’ve written, are writing.
I’ve always wanted to admit this
but didn’t want to upset modesty.
Yet now that I have I like even more
their genius and their failures,
my genius and failures too.
How nice of them to be peering over
my shoulder as I write this poem.
Tim Suermondt is the author of two full-length collections of poems: TRYING TO HELP THE ELEPHANT MAN DANCE (The Backwaters Press, 2007) and JUST BEAUTIFUL (New York Quarterly Books, 2010.) His third collection ELECTION NIGHT AND THE FIVE SATINS will be published early in 2016 by Glass Lyre Press. He has poems published and forthcoming in Poetry, The Georgia Review, Prairie Schooner, Ploughshares, Blackbird, Bellevue Literary Review, PANK, North Dakota Quarterly, december magazine, Plume Poetry Journal and Stand Magazine (U.K.) among others. He lives in Cambridge (MA) with his wife, the poet Pui Ying Wong.
previous page contents next page
SHOULDN’T BE MUCH TO ASK
We are not so badly off, if we can
Admire Dutch painting.
—Czeslaw Milosz
I want that house of quietude.
I want the fruit and bread on the table.
I want the young woman who takes care
of it all and never loses her beauty.
We’ll get married, live for art and each other.
Morning sunlight in winter poking
us in bed as we sleep late, vigorously.
How, how could she ever say no to that?
TEMPORARILY
The man is defeated, as is usually the case
but you’d never know it from the staunchness
of his demeanor—like a poet whose slippery
metaphors convince just about everyone
he’s close to the doorstep of heaven or some
such sterling approximation.
The man dresses and leaves for the day
and the hole in his heart does diminish
in the clutter of routine.
You stand a good chance of running into him
when the sky is dreary and the streets
seem lonelier than they’ve been for some time.
You might catch him whistling a sappy song
or better yet doing a buck-and-wing,
dancing badly into the future he’s sure
has to be stupendous.
THE WORLD WILL END
In my dream I’m being pulled away
like everyone, everything in the world—
the movement of people, animals, plants,
and objects gigantic and small on a scale
unparalleled in our long and short history.
A mansion with its rooms still lit passes
by me on the right, an aircraft carrier, deck
cleansed of planes and looking forlorn, passes
on the left, women holding down their skirts
above me, men below me blowing them kisses.
There never was a big day, a big game, a big
brother or big daddy like this, and in the night
of the cool galaxies I punch the stars, confident
the world will end with a bang, nobly, after all.
THE DISTINGUISHED POETS
I have a handful of poems
that are as good if not better
than what they’ve written, are writing.
I’ve always wanted to admit this
but didn’t want to upset modesty.
Yet now that I have I like even more
their genius and their failures,
my genius and failures too.
How nice of them to be peering over
my shoulder as I write this poem.
Tim Suermondt is the author of two full-length collections of poems: TRYING TO HELP THE ELEPHANT MAN DANCE (The Backwaters Press, 2007) and JUST BEAUTIFUL (New York Quarterly Books, 2010.) His third collection ELECTION NIGHT AND THE FIVE SATINS will be published early in 2016 by Glass Lyre Press. He has poems published and forthcoming in Poetry, The Georgia Review, Prairie Schooner, Ploughshares, Blackbird, Bellevue Literary Review, PANK, North Dakota Quarterly, december magazine, Plume Poetry Journal and Stand Magazine (U.K.) among others. He lives in Cambridge (MA) with his wife, the poet Pui Ying Wong.
posted by mark young at 3:03 PM
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home