Wednesday, June 25, 2008

Featured Poet: Robert Voris

"Born in the City and County of San Francisco, Robert Voris lives and works in Brooklyn, New York. Previous writings have been published by the literary magazines New York Collective, JMWW and Slow Trains." The New York Poetry Invasion (NYPI) continues on O Sweet Flowery Roses. Please enjoy Mr. Voris' poems. Realm of Possibility

What if the East River were to freeze?

If, on one of those nights when the snow stings

Our eyes, we were able to peer through the blizzard

And found ourselves confronted with a ripple of jade

Punctured by the steel towers of the bridges?

Would we shake our heads, dizzy from drink, chapped

By the cold and trudge across the drifts to the warm den

Our bodies create in your bedding?

Whiskey winds whipping around our bones;

Stale smoke smell clings fervently to our hair, skin, moist breaths;

There’s soft cash dusted with lint in our pockets,

And perhaps I’ll rub your feet to bring back your

Circulation once we’re home;

Maybe you’ll brush melted droplets of very cold

Water out of my eyebrows;

Or could it be that this night – eve

That nature trumps all human concern –

Could it be that tonight you and I will venture

East, lace our bloodless feet into childish,

Ridiculous bladed boots and glide from Corlears

To the Kills, navigating thoughtless and carefree

Away from adult trappings out and out into wonder?

Sometimes I miss you

Sometimes I miss you.

But not always.

Occasionally I think of you.

But not every moment.

Certain nights I dream of you.

But not often enough.

When I do miss you

I think of the times

I didn’t miss you and wonder

If I’m not missing you

As much as I should.

When I think of you

I remember the occasions

I spent in contemplation of moments

With others and imagine you

Feeling slighted, if only you knew

How few are the moments I think of you.

When I dream of you

I am aware of how very long

It’s been since I’ve seen or heard from you.

This rare apparition of the you

I sometimes miss

And occasionally think of

Triggers a dread feeling:

I have misplaced you.

That you are gone

And it is my fault.

I lost you by allowing my

Thoughts to wander to moments not

Spent with you.

By missing others during the time

When I am not missing you.

By dreaming of flight

Rather than you.

This feeling lasts long after

The dream of you

Has concluded, driving me to miss you

More intensely, to spend longer

Thinking of you, until a night arrives

When I cannot sleep,

Cannot dream my pale imitation of you.

And so I put pen to page,

Attempting to place you safely

Somewhere I can find you

In those dread moments

When I panic that you are lost always.

On the sidewalks in front of the intricate

Facades and arched windows of massive

Apartment houses are piles of bulging plastic bags.

It’s trash day on the Upper West Side.

All of the pretty girls wear high boots

In this part of town, standard-issue-like.

The trees push against the bricks of their planter boxes,

As if attempting to break free and join their brethren in the park a few blocks away. Above the brown brick buildings the sky is all clouds.

No sunlight permeates them, no nourishing water falls from them.

They are plain gray, as lifeless as the concrete.

In the park the dead leaves rustle in a shallow breeze,

The water is dreary brown, the turf hard underfoot.

No birds call. Steaming puffs of breath move along

The paths beside the lake, but there is no sound of conversation, nor of play.

The cloudy exhalations dissipate quickly in that breeze

That rustles the dead leaves – the only sound.

It is but a few minutes past four and yet night is falling.

The lamps are lit, but no life congregates.

In this chill there are no readers, no insects;

There is hollow light and silent cold.

Midtown and the millions of dark windows

High above the cab-crowded streets.

Smokers huddle in doorways,

Tourists gather to gaze upon impossibly expensive baubles

And no bell, silver or otherwise, can be heard.

The towers, the glass and steel ever-erect

Cocks of capitalism, create canyons.

Upon these walls , the horns, voices, sirens echo unrelentingly.

The winter wind is funneled down, cutting through coats,

Whipping scarves every which way.

Coffee cups clatter, caught in the bitter gusts and tossed

From their perches atop the overflowing litter baskets.

Votive candles glitter invitingly in expensive

Restaurants and the churches are all closed.

The waters of the East River swim their languid

Course to the sea alongside the impassive

Obelisk that is the United Nations building.

Across the street in an abandoned playground

A lone man in a tattered coat tips a bottle in a tattered

Brown bag to his lips. He sits on a bench, bathed in beer-hued streetlights.

Noxious fumes from the FDR.

Foul scents from the river.

The river red-wine dark, flowing.

The headlamps white-wine light, unmoving.

Stuyvesant Town, each of its buildings larger than any address uptown.

Combined with Peter Cooper Village, some 50,000 souls

Call this quarter mile square of the island home.

Size is but one part of might, though, and here the facades

Bear no adornment, the windows are simple rectangles

And the grocer and wine shop are

Replaced by the deli and liquor store.

The crowds are just as substantial here, but the full-length

Wool coat has given way to hoodies under beat-up

Leather jackets or layer upon layer of hole-riddled sweaters.

Haircuts seem to have been done by razor, if at all.

Hands are pierced, faces tattooed.

The low, old buildings bear intricate

Spraypaint tattoos, pierced by fire escapes.

Street vendors display gloves, knit caps, but no one’s buying.

The folks down here all already look exactly as they want.

Men in tight jeans shiver alongside

Women in bright coats, all of them sucking smoke.

Whether unaware, uncaring or unbelieving

Of the consequences, they inhale and exhale,

Shaking in the cold, drawing no warmth from their small fires.

Outside the subway stairs there are men

Hawking half-price newspapers. No one buys.

Those that care about the news know the stories by now;

Those that don’t know the news by now don’t care to.

Chinatown keeps expanding.

Little Italy’s three-block toehold remains,

But the smell of hoisin surrounds it.

Lower East Side streets bear the aroma of plum sauce

When once they reeked of nothing whatsoever.

Downtown towers are as depressing

As their Midtown cousins are impressive.

They are equally reminiscent of hard-ons,

But down here it’s the cadaver’s erection.

No windowshoppers, no champagne lounges,

Just security guards, bored and lonesome.

The sky remains implacable.

It is full night and the cloud-cover gives as little

To the moon as it did to the sun.

Winter Wasteland

I. UWS

On the sidewalks in front of the intricate

Facades and arched windows of massive

Apartment houses are piles of bulging plastic bags.

It’s trash day on the Upper West Side.

All of the pretty girls wear high boots

In this part of town, standard-issue-like.

The trees push against the bricks of their planter boxes,

As if attempting to break free and join their brethren in the park a few blocks away. Above the brown brick buildings the sky is all clouds.

No sunlight permeates them, no nourishing water falls from them.

They are plain gray, as lifeless as the concrete.

II. CP

In the park the dead leaves rustle in a shallow breeze,

The water is dreary brown, the turf hard underfoot.

No birds call. Steaming puffs of breath move along

The paths beside the lake, but there is no sound of conversation, nor of play.

The cloudy exhalations dissipate quickly in that breeze

That rustles the dead leaves – the only sound.

It is but a few minutes past four and yet night is falling.

The lamps are lit, but no life congregates.

In this chill there are no readers, no insects;

There is hollow light and silent cold.

III. MT

Midtown and the millions of dark windows

High above the cab-crowded streets.

Smokers huddle in doorways,

Tourists gather to gaze upon impossibly expensive baubles

And no bell, silver or otherwise, can be heard.

The towers, the glass and steel ever-erect

Cocks of capitalism, create canyons.

Upon these walls , the horns, voices, sirens echo unrelentingly.

The winter wind is funneled down, cutting through coats,

Whipping scarves every which way.

Coffee cups clatter, caught in the bitter gusts and tossed

From their perches atop the overflowing litter baskets.

Votive candles glitter invitingly in expensive

Restaurants and the churches are all closed.

The waters of the East River swim their languid

Course to the sea alongside the impassive

Monolith that is the United Nations building.

Across the street in an abandoned playground

A lone man in a tattered coat tips a bottle in a tattered

Brown bag to his lips. He sits on a bench, bathed in beer-hued streetlights.

IV. MH/EV

Noxious fumes from the FDR.

Foul scents from the river.

The river red-wine dark, flowing.

The headlamps white-wine light, unmoving.

Stuyvesant Town, each of its buildings larger than any address uptown.

Combined with Peter Cooper Village, some 50,000 souls

Call this quarter mile square of the island home.

Size is but one part of might, though, and here the facades

Bear no adornment, the windows are simple rectangles

And the grocer and wine shop are

Replaced by the deli and liquor store.

The crowds are just as substantial here, but the full-length

Wool coat has given way to hoodies under beat-up

Leather jackets or layer upon layer of hole-riddled sweaters.

Haircuts seem to have been done by razor, if at all.

Hands are pierced, faces tattooed.

The low, old buildings bear intricate

Spraypaint tattoos, pierced by fire escapes.

Street vendors display gloves, knit caps, but no one’s buying.

The folks down here all already look exactly as they want.

Men in tight jeans shiver alongside

Women in bright coats, all of them sucking smoke.

Whether unaware, uncaring or unbelieving

Of the consequences, they inhale and exhale,

Shaking in the cold, drawing no warmth from their small fires.

V. LES/DT

Outside the subway stairs there are men

Hawking half-price newspapers. No one buys.

Those that care about the news know the stories by now;

Those that don’t know the news by now don’t care to.

Chinatown keeps expanding.

Little Italy’s three-block toehold remains,

But the smell of hoisin surrounds it.

Lower East Side streets bear the aroma of plum sauce

When once they reeked of nothing whatsoever.

Downtown towers are as depressing

As their Midtown cousins are impressive.

They are equally reminiscent of hard-ons,

But down here it’s the cadaver’s erection.

No windowshoppers, no champagne lounges,

Just security guards, bored and lonesome.

The sky remains implacable.

It is full night and the cloud-cover gives as little

To the moon as it did to the sun.