width=61 height=87> Voracious Verses
2008


 

 
Alan Reynolds
featured poet, 1996


My First Wolf


The top of the cave wall
at the limit of my reach
is where I paint
the small triangles
the tips of his ears
creating a still life
from the newly dead
using as paint
blood from my other arm
the one he mangled
with his white sharp teeth
paint his eyes from memory
flashing not glazed like now
sketch his cheeks
fill them with fur
blurring the strokes
my maimed arm stiffening
wound drying
replenishing my red
from his caved-in side
my stone axe still
in the wound
tip of his cut-off tail
my streaming brush


© 2008 Alan Reynolds


Paviljoen De Colonie, Utrecht


The sensation I am winning when I park
after forty minutes searching for a space
intensifies my pleasure.  Thereís a spark
of inspiration here, a carapace
of civil splendor covering the cold
hard paving stones I clomp along until
I'm there.  I go inside into the fold
of warming quiet that conversations fill.
De Colonie is cheerful and top drawer.
With good red wine and croquettes from Van Dobben
it is worth the searching, parking, walking for.

© 2008 Alan Reynolds

(Paviljoen de Colonie is a very nice place in the center of Utrecht.
I do not know which of the times I was there when I wrote this.)


Smidgen


Midge, who likes a challenge, memorized
her husband's faults.  His virtues were too easy.

© 2008 Alan Reynolds


I Alone Played Out


Just yesterday, none of this conversation
I am having with myself had taken place.
Surrounded by good friends, itís hard to ration,
and I, as far from famine as disgrace,
had carried on as if the golden race
of present pleasures would be always mine.
The weekendís rapture fades to Mondayís whine.
Eternal Mozartís flip side is a moan
that mocks my face reflected in the wine
I order, sneer at, pay for, drink alone.

© 2008 Alan Reynolds


Quayside Sketches


I want a book for sketching.  Life is fine
deserving praise, commemoration, paint.
My love is buying paint; Iím sipping wine.
I watch a couple starting to entwine
on a bench beyond my table, but they donít.
Their hearts arenít really in it so they wonít
go further than embracing, playing games
although the waiter says one of them moaned
so maybe they will ask each otherís names.

© 2008 Alan Reynolds

More information and additional work
from this previously featured poet

BACK