by Scott Owens
Self-Fulfilling Prophecy
I am going to
write a haiku for you now --
There! I have done it.
Self-Denial
This poem is not
a haiku despite the fact
that it seems to be.
By the Numbers
Five syllables to
start the poem, then seven next.
Five again to close.
Syllabic
It cannot be that
simple. Just five syllables,
then seven, then five.
Coursework
How many haiku
must I write to illustrate
such simple design?
Craft of Culture
This reminds me of
Gary Snyder’s Axe Handles
or Stephen Bishop
How we go on and
on, on and on, on and on.
Indeed, not far off.
Trepidation
I wonder just how
many haiku writers I
have pissed off with this.
Lottery
The banal haiku
tumble down the page -- Listen!
Are those stones I hear?
Monster
The poets are restless.
They think I’ve harmed their children.
Their torches are lit.
They’ve sharpened pitchforks
and carry plenty of rope.
It’s time to shut up.
Showing posts with label Scott Owens. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Scott Owens. Show all posts
June 18, 2010
October 7, 2009
Con-spic-u-ous
by Scott Owens
my father would say.
Try not to be so God-damned
con-spic-u-ous
when we’d go out together
anywhere we might be seen by others,
meaning even though he thought I might be gay
he didn’t want the rest of the world to know
it was a possibility,
meaning, Take off that damned pink shirt,
meaning, Don’t stand like that, one hip
thrust to the side, arms across my chest,
meaning, Would it hurt to put your hair
up under a cap now and then,
meaning, Get your nose out of those
God-damned books for a while,
meaning, Forget all those daydreaming
bleeding heart liberal ideas
that don’t have anything to do
with the real world,
meaning, At least talk in a deeper voice
if you have to say anything at all,
meaning, And for God’s sake don’t tell anybody
you write poetry.
When he first asked, when I was 15,
I thought long and hard
before refusing to answer,
asking, instead, why it should matter.
And it ate him up for the next 3 years,
not knowing. Not that it was always easy,
convincing my mother not to say anything,
keeping my girlfriends away
from the house when he was there.
But it was worth it,
keeping him off balance,
unsure if he could dismiss
a whole group of people
without condemning his own son,
making his discomfort
the most conspicuous thing about him.
my father would say.
Try not to be so God-damned
con-spic-u-ous
when we’d go out together
anywhere we might be seen by others,
meaning even though he thought I might be gay
he didn’t want the rest of the world to know
it was a possibility,
meaning, Take off that damned pink shirt,
meaning, Don’t stand like that, one hip
thrust to the side, arms across my chest,
meaning, Would it hurt to put your hair
up under a cap now and then,
meaning, Get your nose out of those
God-damned books for a while,
meaning, Forget all those daydreaming
bleeding heart liberal ideas
that don’t have anything to do
with the real world,
meaning, At least talk in a deeper voice
if you have to say anything at all,
meaning, And for God’s sake don’t tell anybody
you write poetry.
When he first asked, when I was 15,
I thought long and hard
before refusing to answer,
asking, instead, why it should matter.
And it ate him up for the next 3 years,
not knowing. Not that it was always easy,
convincing my mother not to say anything,
keeping my girlfriends away
from the house when he was there.
But it was worth it,
keeping him off balance,
unsure if he could dismiss
a whole group of people
without condemning his own son,
making his discomfort
the most conspicuous thing about him.
June 10, 2009
Letter to Pris
by Scott Owens
Sara and Norman aren’t gone, of course.
They can never be gone completely.
When I walk alone under a waxing moon,
Sara is there, her hand in my back pocket.
When you try to rise, morning’s drowse
stretched across your eyes, Norman
is there, pulling you back, wanting, needing.
When I hide my head beneath the covers,
making love until there’s nothing left,
I know that Sara and Norman are there.
When you see the girls in cropped tops
and hip-huggers, long hair and strategically
placed tattoos, all breasts and thighs,
like modern-day fertility goddesses,
creating the world in their own image,
you know that Sara is there.
When I answer the alarm and press
my slacks and drive to work
in a hurry and stay late and worry
over every detail, I know that Norman
has come back without Sara this time.
When I hear from another room
that something in the voice of a man
in love, quiet murmur of assent,
hum of appreciation, ur-language of love,
I know that Norman has found
at least some temporary peace,
and even my own raging stops a moment,
stands still in the possibility of love.
Today, in the garden, Peruvian lilies
opened their petaled throats, and I swear
I heard Sara’s voice singing
We may never pass this way again.
What else could I do but listen and kneel down
and cry over things that pass and all
the things we know will last forever?
*Scott Owens is co-editor of Wild Goose Poetry Review. He teaches creative writing at Catawba Valley Community College.
Sara and Norman aren’t gone, of course.
They can never be gone completely.
When I walk alone under a waxing moon,
Sara is there, her hand in my back pocket.
When you try to rise, morning’s drowse
stretched across your eyes, Norman
is there, pulling you back, wanting, needing.
When I hide my head beneath the covers,
making love until there’s nothing left,
I know that Sara and Norman are there.
When you see the girls in cropped tops
and hip-huggers, long hair and strategically
placed tattoos, all breasts and thighs,
like modern-day fertility goddesses,
creating the world in their own image,
you know that Sara is there.
When I answer the alarm and press
my slacks and drive to work
in a hurry and stay late and worry
over every detail, I know that Norman
has come back without Sara this time.
When I hear from another room
that something in the voice of a man
in love, quiet murmur of assent,
hum of appreciation, ur-language of love,
I know that Norman has found
at least some temporary peace,
and even my own raging stops a moment,
stands still in the possibility of love.
Today, in the garden, Peruvian lilies
opened their petaled throats, and I swear
I heard Sara’s voice singing
We may never pass this way again.
What else could I do but listen and kneel down
and cry over things that pass and all
the things we know will last forever?
*Scott Owens is co-editor of Wild Goose Poetry Review. He teaches creative writing at Catawba Valley Community College.
Loving Norman
is impossible.
He knows.
He’s tried
for years,
hand stroking
his manly ego,
squeezing his bloated
throat.
Oh, he looks good
enough on the surface,
hair combed
across the thinning
spots on top,
teeth white
but somewhat bent,
cheap slacks pressed,
shirt immaculately clean
though a little damp.
Myrtle Beach Lothario
slightly out of season,
voice too loud,
sugar too high,
patience all but gone.
In his younger days
he tried hard
to earn the love
of at least one
warm body
beside him,
held his temper
in check,
spoke
only in whispers,
only sweet
words, tried
to be sensitive,
vulnerable, think
of others first.
He thought
if he could love
another, they might
love him in return,
but if his own father
couldn’t do it,
if he, himself,
can’t do it,
what hope
could anyone else have?
by Scott Owens
He knows.
He’s tried
for years,
hand stroking
his manly ego,
squeezing his bloated
throat.
Oh, he looks good
enough on the surface,
hair combed
across the thinning
spots on top,
teeth white
but somewhat bent,
cheap slacks pressed,
shirt immaculately clean
though a little damp.
Myrtle Beach Lothario
slightly out of season,
voice too loud,
sugar too high,
patience all but gone.
In his younger days
he tried hard
to earn the love
of at least one
warm body
beside him,
held his temper
in check,
spoke
only in whispers,
only sweet
words, tried
to be sensitive,
vulnerable, think
of others first.
He thought
if he could love
another, they might
love him in return,
but if his own father
couldn’t do it,
if he, himself,
can’t do it,
what hope
could anyone else have?
by Scott Owens
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