Duane Locke, Doctor of Philosophy in English Renaissance literature, Professor Emeritus of the Humanities, was Poet in Residence at the University of Tampa for over 20 years. Has had over 2,000 of his own poems published in over 500 print magazines such as American Poetry Review, Nation, Literary Quarterly, Black Moon, and Bitter Oleander. Is author of 14 print books of poems, the latest is WATCHING WISTERIA ( to order write Vida Publishing, P.O. Box 12665, Lake, Park, FL. 33405-0665, or Amazon or Barnes and Noble). Since September 1999, he became a cyber poet and started submitting on-line, and since September 1999 he has added to his over 2,000 print acceptances with 1,730 acceptances by e zines.

He is also a painter. Now has exhibitions at Thomas Center Galleries (Gainesville, FL) and Tyson Trading Company (Micanopy, FL) Recently a one-man show at Pyramid Galleries (Tampa, FL)

Also, a photographer, has had 116 of his photos selected for appearance on e zines. He photographs trash in alleys. Moves in close to find beauty in what people have thrown away.

He now lives alone in a two-story decaying house in the sunny Tampa slums. He lives isolated and estranged as an alien, not understanding the customs, the costumes, the language (some form of postmodern English) of his neighbors. The egregious ugliness Of his neighborhood has recently been mitigated by the esthetic efforts of the police force who put bright orange and yellow posters on the posts to advertise the location is a shopping mall for drugs. His alley is the dumping ground for stolen cars. One advantage Of living in this neighborhood, if your car is stolen, you can step out in the back and pick it up. Also, the burglars are afraid to come in on account of the muggers.

His recreational activities are drinking wine, listening to old operas, and reading postmodern philosophy.

(Photo and Bio provided by Duane Locke.)

 

Poetry by Duane Locke

JANUARY POEMS, NO. 18

In a land of dry wells,
No one could understand
Why the water departed.
Everyone stared down into the dry wells,
Saw only white, wrinkled sand.
Why did the water leave
Was the question
Creasing the forehead
Of each silent questioner.
The few that heard the answer,
Became frantic,
Went beserck,
Ran wildly, trying to find
A donkey to kiss,
But all donkeys
Had been chased away long ago. 


JANUARY POEMS, NO. 19 

In a small German,
White sausage town,
A man wearing a forlorn hat
Plays a hurdy-gurdy. 

He plays the hurdy-gurdy
Because he is hungry.
If he was offered food,
He would refuse. 

If he were not hungry,
He could not play the hurdy-gurdy. 


JANUARY POEMS, NO. 20 

When Parmigianino painted St. Catherine,
He stressed the beauty of her breasts,
But Catherine selected the au courant hedonism
Of being tortured on a wheel
Rather than being touched by a lonely hand. 


JANUARY POEMS, NO. 21
 
In Rome's Panthenon,
Metal doves fly
Over Raphael's tomb,
But Raphael's bones
Cannot hear
The flutter of the metal wings.. 



JANUARY POEMS, NO. 22 

I always thought the ancients in error
When the ancients portrayed Love
As a young boy, a blind cupid,
Who stood on a pedestal and shot arrows. 
Love should be portrayed
As an old man with his face buried in his hands,
Sitting naked and shivering alone in a cold room.

 

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