Robin's Poetry Page 2,

return to Poetry Page 1, return to Robin's Main Page, more poems on Photo Gallery Pages, Other Pages: Interests and Experiences, Favorites, More Favorites

Rainy Night along the Merced River
(after Frances Ponge)

A hyper-abundance of sounds is rushing, flowing, spattering on this liquid night. Following gravity's pull among boulders, the Merced roars in the ears, sinuses, chest. Reverberations storm the valley walls. Geologic solidity is challenged by the constant patient power of time: a compressed ocean crashes on the same beach, milli-seconds separating wave from wave. One energetic outburst of force follows another, boulder to boulder, again and again, as one moment careens into another and all moments join in cacaphonous harmony.

Rainwater pours from a downspout onto a concrete walk with an electric cackle, like a stream of current crackling between electrodes. Unconstant; unlike the river, the volume and pitch of crackle rises and falls with the fluency of rain, following an unknown conductor.

Traffic passes. The silvery flash of "s" hisses, as tires pass through the pluvial curtain. The volume of "s" increases gradually, steadily, upon approach, then dissipates rapidly, forming a sonic teardrop; the aural equivalent of a light beam pass from a distant lighthouse.

Raindrops fall on the leaves of trees with a soft staccato patter, subtle, almost easy to ignore. Gathered water drops fall from leaves to hit the roof with greater impact, like drumstick to snare, firmly, not quite a thud, providing counter-rhythms and counterpoint to the soft patter on the leaves.

A faucet drips in another room, echoing the sounds of rainwater outside, though wearily; a dull pattern that will continue tomorrow.

A glass of water sits on a table, inert, energy stored for another time.

Robin Parsons 11/16/01

Interview

Quiet, demure,
the poem asks questions
about my interests, dislikes,
then remarks what an engaging
conversationalist I am.
I've never been gracious when flattered,
wondering whom is being addressed
as though it couldn't possibly
be me.

Quite taken by the poem,
my eyes search the lines of face,
for signs of something luminous within
until my eyes meet a gaze directly
into my own.

Clearly, the poem is not afraid of me.
Why then, am I afraid of the poem?
Placing pen to paper
I could alter the shape of the poem
but I lose the will to inflict myself,
knowing the movement of my pen
carries some meaning
not yet known to me
and the ink stain
could disappear after tracing
the words I'd found
deep in the earth.

Robin Parsons 08/16/01

Bookmarks

A man has the same dream over and over.
He is ten years old,
riding his bicycle
as a white van descends
screeching skidmarks.
The driver stops momentarily
to gape at the scramble of
motionless boy and twisted bicycle,
then guns the engine
and takes off.

The boy-man watches the World Trade Center
bookends collapse.
He doesn't understand why
he is still ten years old,
the significance of the white van,
or the fragility of his bicycle;
and why he can't seem to pull anyone
close enough to his heart.

Robin Parsons 09/12/01

W8

Poetry reporting for duty:
without fife and drum to beat a march,
just the metallic chink of handcuffs against concrete
under the weight of an unintended trench for 3 days
while Zion's tanks hunt terrorists hunting Zion's tanks
and cells of decentralized terror; nameless, not seeking recognition,
only paradise, move silently among the flock,
and international coalitions slip like sand
through clenched fists bloody
from pounding holy World Trade Center rubble
under flags of fury and flags of sorrow
while eagles drop bombs and food on innocent civilians
and unmarked graves give up their dead at Babi Yar
or wherever the soil covers faded yellow stars staining
the memories of those who cannot forget
and forgotten mines still line trading routes and unharvested fields.
What is the weight of public opinion
as approval ratings sit atop the staff of waving old glory
and government officials' actions vacillate like polls?
The newspapers and television tell it like it is.
Who is telling the truth, who isn't.
Poetry reporting here: nothing new to report.

Robin Parsons 10/31/01

I Have Enough Now

Aria:
I have now enough,
I have now my Savior, the hope of the faithful
Within my desiring embrace now enfolded;
I have now enough!

On him have I gazed,
My faith now hath Jesus impressed on my heart;
I would now, today yet, with gladness
Make hence my departure.
(translation of "Ich habe genug" by Z. Philip Ambrose)

A woman presses her forehead
against a train window,
waving goodbye
to a man,
whose taps on the window,
awaken her happy passion.
He walks away.
She stands looking for
one last glimpse,
and they wave lovingly
one last time.

I smile.
I hear Bach's "Ich habe genug."
How precious the moment.
How precious a goodbye
as the World tumbles down.

Robin Parsons 09/14/01

Weightless

Everywhere to fall,
nowhere to land.
Centrifical momentum
and gravity
in equal parts.
Time moves
in flexible lines
slower still,
hours between breaths,
the silence before
Flight 11 impacts.

And I wash
dishes as though
there's nothing else
to do.

Robin Parsons 2/27/02

Deep Water

There is deep water between us;
water that receives, envelops,
like God.
Despite fears that linger
there is an intimate way
water touches our skin,
closer to our pores than imagination.
When we press against each other,
there is water between us still,
mingling with our bodies,
passing from mine to yours
and back again.
After the World's fire,
the deep water is where we go to find
the language we pray
matters little
when our tongues fall silent.

Robin Parsons 09/28/01