Tag: J.R. Solonche

SNOW by J.R. Solonche

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SNOW

The snow started when one flake
landed on my sleeve and stayed
there like a piece of light that had
forgotten how to be infinite. Snow
falls and falls. It doesn’t care about
the property lines. It doesn’t care
about the fact that I haven’t
finished the chores I promised
the autumn I would do. Snow falls
and falls. Soon will the woods
become a white room. Snow falls
and falls and falls, and the earth
yields itself up into the sky’s hands.

*

Nominated for the National Book Award, the Eric Hoffer Book Award, and nominated three times for the Pulitzer Prize, J.R. Solonche is the author of more than 40 books of poetry and coauthor of another. He lives in the Hudson Valley.

THE DEATH OF POETRY by J.R. Solonche

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THE DEATH OF POETRY

It will not be an accident.
It will not be premeditated cold-blooded murder.

It will not meet a violent end.
And it will not be suicide despite all the threats.

Poetry will die peacefully, alone, at home, of natural causes.
Its heart will give out, and it will just be gone,

like the spectacular roses we didn’t take care of.
Poetry will die the way old men do on park benches.

No one will notice it’s missing at first,
but after a while, someone will notice a bad smell.

No one will claim the body.
Its next of kin, music, having died years ago.

*

Nominated for the National Book Award, the Eric Hoffer Book Award, and nominated three times for the Pulitzer Prize, J.R. Solonche is the author of more than 40 books of poetry and coauthor of another. He lives in the Hudson Valley.

Four Poems by J.R. Solonche

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THE RAIN

The rain gave what we asked of it.
It was generous, too generous.
It gave more than we asked of it.
Today it is enough. Today we ask it
to stop. Today we ask it to go away,
to bestow its blessing where it is
really needed, to a field parched,
to a lake too low, to a river crawling
on its knees, to a streambed with
the ghost of water, to a reservoir
starving for attention. The rain gave
generously. It poured its heart out
to us. It is we who have the greener
pastures, who have the greener grass,
who are embarrassed to be so envied.

*

A VERY BELATED LETTER TO ROBERT BLY

The first poet I wrote a letter
to was Robert Graves. He
didn’t answer. That was 45 years
ago. It might still be in the Dead
Letter Office on Majorca.
The second was to A.R. Ammons.
I told him about my letter to Graves.
He answered. He congratulated me
on improving my taste. He sent
me an unpublished poem called
“Zero and Then Some.” The third
letter is this one to you, Robert Bly.
Please don’t tell me you’re dead
and have been since 2021.
I won’t hear it. I know you’ll receive
this. You already have. I know
you’ll answer. You already have.

*

THE BUDDHA ON MY WINDOWSILL

has a big belly, a big cloth sack
on a stick over his shoulder,
a full bowl of rice in his hand,
and a big laugh on his face.
I, too, was fooled at first, but
later I found out that Budai’s
belly was full of laughter and his
cloth sack was full of laughter
and his begging bowl was full
of laughter and that his laughter
was his way of teaching fullness,
so I laughed and was with fullness full.

*

IN THE BEAUTY PARLOR

The woman in the beauty parlor
was talking about the people
she knows who just died, all
women. “Don’t you know any
men who died?” asked the hair
stylist. “You mean the husbands?
They all died years ago,” the woman
said. “That’s right, I remember you
told me,” said the hair stylist. “Yes,
God’s in His Heaven and all’s right
with the world,” said the woman.

*

Nominated for the National Book Award, the Eric Hoffer Book Award, and nominated three times for the Pulitzer Prize, J.R. Solonche is the author of more than 40 books of poetry and coauthor of another. He lives in the Hudson Valley.

VANITY by J.R. Solonche

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VANITY

I’ve been walking around
mumbling the word vanity.
I can’t get it out of my head
or off my lips. “Vanity,” I say,
shaking my head, when I see
the cardiologist drive off in his
new Mercedes. “Vanity,” I say,
shaking my head, when I watch
the woman in the supermarket
ostentatiously display her Gucci
bag. “Vanity,” I say, shaking my
head when the teenage lovers
walk down the street wearing
matching Jordans and aviators.
“Vanity,” I say to my reflection
as I pass in front of the book
store window. “All is vanity,”
I say, shaking my head.

*

Nominated for the National Book Award, the Eric Hoffer Book Award, and nominated three times for the Pulitzer Prize, J.R. Solonche is the author of 40 books of poetry and coauthor of another. He lives in the Hudson Valley.

Four Poems by J.R. Solonche

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PIN OAK

The tree man came to do tree work.
You should cut down that dead pin oak, he said.
Why? I said.
It’s dead. It could fall in the first big storm, he said.
How long has it been dead? I said.
Hard to say. When did it leaf out last? he said.
I’m not sure. Two or three years ago maybe, I said.
You should get rid of it, he said.
What’s the proper period of mourning for a dead pin oak? I said.
I never heard of a proper period of mourning for a tree, he said.
Me neither, but I’m starting it. Four years for a pin oak, I said.

*

MIRROR

I saw an old mirror
at the side of the road
to be picked up with
the trash. I stopped to
look at myself in it,
but it was very old and
cracked and missing
most of the silver backing,
so it was more of a window
than a mirror, a window
looking out at a wall
looking back at me.
I should have taken it home.
It’s the perfect mirror for
me, old man that I am.

*

CANCER

My friend, Yvonne, is a poet.
She has cancer, so she’s been
writing “cancer poems.” They
are very, very good poems.
They have been published in
The Hudson Review and JAMA.
Congratulations, I said. Please
don’t say that. I wish I didn’t
have to write them, she said.
I understand, but you do, and
you did because you must,
I said. Still, I wish it weren’t such
a must when there is so much
else to write about, she said.
You do write about so much else,
I said. Yes, but it all smells of chemo,
she said. Even the roses, even them.

*

BARREN ROAD

I have a friend who lives
on Barren Road. It’s a
shame he’s not a poet.
“It’s a shame you’re not
a poet,” I said. “Why’s
that?” he said. “Because
you live on Barren Road,”
I said. “So that’s why it’s
a shame I’m not a poet?”
he said. “Yeah. Consider
the irony,” I said. “I do.
I’ve been considering it
all the time since it really
was barren,” he said. “I’m
surprised at you. This is
the first time you said it’s
a shame I’m not a poet.
Well, I think it’s a shame
you are. A damn shame.
What a waste of a mind,”
he said. I understand.
He’s a sociologist.

*

Nominated for the National Book Award, the Eric Hoffer Book Award, and nominated three times for the Pulitzer Prize, J.R. Solonche is the author of 38 books of poetry and coauthor of another. He lives in the Hudson Valley.

Two Poems by J.R. Solonche

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I WANT TO WRITE ABOUT WHAT I DON’T KNOW

I want to write about what I don’t know.
I want to write a sequence of sonnets, for instance,
on the mysteries of the mind, one for each mystery or so.

I want to write about what I don’t know.
On botany, macroeconomics, quantum gravity,
I want to compose elaborately complex odes.

I want to write about what I don’t know.
The secret language of deaf Babylonians, let’s say,
or how nocturnal plants use moonlight to grow.

I want to write about what I don’t know.
An epic about my heroic great ancestral father
and how he found my great ancestral mother in the Russian snow.

I want to write about what I’ll never know.
What will the world be like in a thousand years?
Will there still be birds called eagle, puffin, hawk, flamingo?

*

SHORTCUTS

“Remember, there are no shortcuts,”
he used to say. He was my father,
and he used to say that a lot. I think
he said that more than he said anything.
I knew what he meant. He didn’t need
to spell it out. So, of course, I took all
the shortcuts I could find. The shortcut
to the ball field. The shortcut to the
candy store. The shortcut to the deli.
The shortcut to the pizza place. The
shortcut to the junior high school.
The shortcut to the high school. The
shortcut to the B average in high
school. The shortcut to the college
across town. The shortcut to dropping
out. The shortcut to the woman I
married. The shortcut to becoming
a poet. I never told him he was right.

*

Professor Emeritus of English at SUNY Orange, J.R. Solonche has published poetry in more than 500 magazines, journals, and anthologies since the early 70s, including The New Criterion, The New York Times, The American Scholar, The Progressive, Poetry Northwest, Salmagundi, The Literary Review, The Sun, The American Journal of Poetry, Poet Lore, Poetry East, The Hampden-Sydney Poetry Review, The Journal of the American Medical Association, and Free Verse. He is the author of Beautiful Day (Deerbrook Editions), Won’t Be Long (Deerbrook Editions), Heart’s Content (Five Oaks Press), Invisible (nominated for the Pulitzer Prize by Five Oaks Press), The Black Birch (Kelsay Books), I, Emily Dickinson & Other Found Poems (Deerbrook Editions), In Short Order (Kelsay Books), Tomorrow, Today and Yesterday (Deerbrook Editions), True Enough (Dos Madres Press), The Jewish Dancing Master (Ravenna Press), If You Should See Me Walking on the Road (Kelsay Books), In a Public Place (Dos Madres Press), To Say the Least (Dos Madres Press), The Time of Your Life (Adelaide Books), The Porch Poems (Deerbrook Editions , 2020 Shelf Unbound Notable Indie Book), Enjoy Yourself (Serving House Books), Piano Music (nominated for the Pulitzer Prize by Serving House Books), For All I Know (Kelsay Books), A Guide of the Perplexed (Serving House Books), The Moon Is the Capital of the World (WordTech Communications), Years Later (Adelaide Books), The Dust (Dos Madres Press), Selected Poems 2002-2021 (nominated for the National Book Award by Serving House Books), and coauthor with his wife Joan I. Siegel of Peach Girl:Poems for a Chinese Daughter (Grayson Books). He lives in the Hudson Valley.

Saturday by J.R. Solonche

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Saturday

Frank came to clean the place,
pick up branches, blow leaves.
My mother died last week, he said.
Oh, I’m sorry, Frank, I said.
She died in her sleep. She was 89,
he said. She lived a full life, I said.
It was peaceful in her sleep, he said.
That’s the best way. In your sleep,
I said. She lived a full life, he said.
I saw her more in the nursing home
than I saw her for thirty years,
he said. I understand. The yard
looks good, I said. But you have
to do something about this, he said,
pointing to the bare ground in front.
The rain coming down the back
is washing away the soil and the grass.
I see that. I should tend to that, I said.
You really need to or you’ll have
no lawn this summer, he said.
Thanks. I’ll tend to it. Sorry about
your mom, I said. Thanks. It’s okay.
I’m okay. We’re okay. She was 89.
She lived a full life. She died in her
sleep. Real peaceful. I hope I go
like that. In my sleep. Don’t forget
the lawn. And the garden needs
work, too. Don’t forget the garden,
he said. I won’t forget, I said.

*

Nominated for the National Book Award and nominated three times for the Pulitzer Prize, J.R. Solonche is the author of 35 books of poetry and coauthor of another. He lives in the Hudson Valley.

Two Poems by J.R. Solonche

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HAIRCUT

“He was the best president
in our history,” I heard him
say, the elderly man I thought
was talking about Lincoln, or
Washington, or FDR. As a boy,
he could have remembered FDR.
He could have heard him on the
radio giving a Fireside Chat. He
could have remembered the funeral
train. But when he said, “He’s a
self-made millionaire,” I knew
he was talking about Trump, and
all I wanted to do was grab a towel
and shove it down his throat. Shit,
I wish I had. I’ve always wanted
to write a poem sitting in jail.

*

I HAD ROSES

I had roses.
I have no roses now.
I did not take care of my roses.
My roses were red.
My roses looked spectacular by the yellow lilies.
My roses looked spectacular by the front door.
Of my roses visitors would say, “Your roses look spectacular.”
This was years ago.
This was about the time my wife got sick.

*

Professor Emeritus of English at SUNY Orange, J.R. Solonche has published poetry in more than 500 magazines, journals, and anthologies since the early 70s, including The New Criterion, The New York Times, The American Scholar, The Progressive, Poetry Northwest, Salmagundi, The Literary Review, The Sun, The American Journal of Poetry, Poet Lore, Poetry East, The Hampden-Sydney Poetry Review, The Journal of the American Medical Association, and Free Verse. He is the author of Beautiful Day (Deerbrook Editions), Won’t Be Long (Deerbrook Editions), Heart’s Content (Five Oaks Press), Invisible (nominated for the Pulitzer Prize by Five Oaks Press), The Black Birch (Kelsay Books), I, Emily Dickinson & Other Found Poems (Deerbrook Editions), In Short Order (Kelsay Books), Tomorrow, Today and Yesterday (Deerbrook Editions), True Enough (Dos Madres Press), The Jewish Dancing Master (Ravenna Press), If You Should See Me Walking on the Road (Kelsay Books), In a Public Place (Dos Madres Press), To Say the Least (Dos Madres Press), The Time of Your Life (Adelaide Books), The Porch Poems (Deerbrook Editions , 2020 Shelf Unbound Notable Indie Book), Enjoy Yourself (Serving House Books), Piano Music (nominated for the Pulitzer Prize by Serving House Books), For All I Know (Kelsay Books), A Guide of the Perplexed (Serving House Books), The Moon Is the Capital of the World (WordTech Communications), Years Later (Adelaide Books), The Dust (Dos Madres Press), Selected Poems 2002-2021 (nominated for the National Book Award by Serving House Books), and coauthor with his wife Joan I. Siegel of Peach Girl:Poems for a Chinese Daughter (Grayson Books). He lives in the Hudson Valley.

THE WINDOW SHADE by J.R. Solonche

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THE WINDOW SHADE

I had a neighbor once who was a psychologist.
His office was in his house. It faced the road,
so it was easy for his neighbors like me to see
through the window. Whenever he had a new
patient, the very first thing he did was ask if
the patient wanted the shade up or down. He
said this immediately gave him the first glimpse
into the patient’s psyche. If the patient wanted
the shade up, he was probably dealing with an
extrovert, an exhibitionist of some kind. If the
patient wanted the shade down, he knew he had
an introvert, or worse, on his hands. In any case,
a patient with something to hide. I started to tell
him something. That when I walk on the road
at night, all the shades are up. Except the office
shade, which is down. I changed my mind and
didn’t mention it. No need to complicate matters.

*

Professor Emeritus of English at SUNY Orange, J.R. Solonche has published poetry in more than 500 magazines, journals, and anthologies since the early 70s, including The New Criterion, The New York Times, The American Scholar, The Progressive, Poetry Northwest, Salmagundi, The Literary Review, The Sun, The American Journal of Poetry, Poet Lore, Poetry East, The Hampden-Sydney Poetry Review, The Journal of the American Medical Association, and Free Verse. He is the author of Beautiful Day (Deerbrook Editions), Won’t Be Long (Deerbrook Editions), Heart’s Content (Five Oaks Press), Invisible (nominated for the Pulitzer Prize by Five Oaks Press), The Black Birch (Kelsay Books), I, Emily Dickinson & Other Found Poems (Deerbrook Editions), In Short Order (Kelsay Books), Tomorrow, Today and Yesterday (Deerbrook Editions), True Enough (Dos Madres Press), The Jewish Dancing Master (Ravenna Press), If You Should See Me Walking on the Road (Kelsay Books), In a Public Place (Dos Madres Press), To Say the Least (Dos Madres Press), The Time of Your Life (Adelaide Books), The Porch Poems (Deerbrook Editions , 2020 Shelf Unbound Notable Indie Book), Enjoy Yourself (Serving House Books), Piano Music (nominated for the Pulitzer Prize by Serving House Books), For All I Know (Kelsay Books), A Guide of the Perplexed (Serving House Books), The Moon Is the Capital of the World (WordTech Communications), Years Later (Adelaide Books), The Dust (Dos Madres Press), Selected Poems 2002-2021 (nominated for the National Book Award by Serving House Books), and coauthor with his wife Joan I. Siegel of Peach Girl:Poems for a Chinese Daughter (Grayson Books). He lives in the Hudson Valley.