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Archway Publishing - Robert W Green

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245 pages

English

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This book is entitled “The Third Drawer”, a collection of poems and musings that share a story and reflect upon a notable slice of history.

An Ogham stone and quern face my green sea. The wild fuchsia, the fern and eucalyptus tree recall your sad face. Remember it better than me. One recent day, Beth Green unearthed a bundle of papers from a drawer next to her Viking stove. The papers contained poems and musings penned by her husband Robert—some typed on an old Royal manual typewriter, and others handwritten on beer mats, table napkins, and the backs of envelopes. After deciding the poems told a fascinating story of a creative mind while detailing sixty-plus turbulent and emotional years, she decided to organize the writings and then share them with the world. Green leads others through his life experiences while vividly reflecting on a variety of relatable topics that include nature, love, the desires that come with life, the four seasons, the familiarities of gazing in the mirror, the thoughts of a dictator, an unforgettable moment between father and daughter, the sound of children playing, and much more. The Third Drawer is a resurrection of a collection of poems unearthed after years that share lyrical insight into one man’s journey through life as he observes, loves, and remembers.

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Poetry

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Publié par	Archway Publishing
Date de parution	17 mars 2023
Nombre de lectures	1
EAN13	9781665733403
Langue	English
Poids de l'ouvrage	1 Mo

Informations légales : prix de location à la page 0,0200€. Cette information est donnée uniquement à titre indicatif conformément à la législation en vigueur.

Extrait

THE THIRD DRAWER
ROBERT W GREEN

Copyright © 2023 Robert W Green.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

This book is a work of non-fiction. Unless otherwise noted, the author and the publisher make no explicit guarantees as to the accuracy of the information contained in this book and in some cases, names of people and places have been altered to protect their privacy.

Archway Publishing
1663 Liberty Drive
Bloomington, IN 47403
www.archwaypublishing.com
844-669-3957

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.
Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

ISBN: 978-1-6657-3339-7 (sc)
ISBN: 978-1-6657-3338-0 (hc)
ISBN: 978-1-6657-3340-3 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2022920974

Archway Publishing rev. date: 3/16/2023
CONTENTS
Foreword
Post 1960
Twenty-Five
Pond Square
Conservatory
Possession 1999
Shoebox
Scaffold
Smile
The Dream
Fort Dix
Wanting
January
Shoe
Haircut
Windrift 2012
For Sylvia Plath
1327 and 1985
1985
Mondrian
The Paint of Mark Tansey
First Peel (The Bricoleur’s Daughter, 1987)
Second Peel (Conversation, 1986)
Pink Straw
Tour de France
Glenn Ngealt
In my convertible
Poem for Sarah
Dead Dogs
The Watch
Ordnance Survey
Crow
The Man
Anthracite
Rose Harriet
The Magic Dragon
Easter Lilies
The Rails
London
Albert
Going Home
Gene Kelly
Morning Miracle
Kissing God
Thursday
Philadelphia
Two Photographs
the prize
Ireland
Saying Good Night to a Young Lady
The Mirror
Wednesday, September 19, 2001
Rena
Kristallnacht
Jevity
Hokkaido
Three
At the Aquarium
U.2. 1961
San Francisco
The Road to Anascaul
2002
Greenbeam
North Star Bar/Michael Kroll
Auntie Louie
Cill Airne
Flo
Melanie
Max
Finola
Metro Section
The Secretary
Millie
LA
Santa Barbara, Friday Night
Beit-Mery
Killarney
Exactly 8:35 P.M.
The Maze
For CMG, May 2001
Elegy
Frankfurt
Wednesday, September 11, 2001
Words
Empty Gym, December 2007
Funeral
Menagerie
Putin Thoughts
Hope
Virginia Tech
Sophie and Max, 11/24/21
COVID
After Christmas
Hulagu’s Prayer
The Raid
J. H.
Somewhere in Europe
The Late Poems
Listowel
Kafka
Revelations
For Victoria
Pinball
Theodicy
On the Treadmill
Atlantic City
For Eugene
Dan
Cryin’
Sentence
Sunday Afternoon
A Nice Way of Looking at It
Midnight Jasmine
The Journey
Uncoupled
Deconstruct
Mix
COVID-19
Another Sin
Overcoat
Homecoming
Tulips
The Youngest Boy
The Mayor’s Entreaty
Patrick
Ode to Alan and the Black Taxi
Once
Cookies and Candies
To Louise Gluck
Love Poem
Swim
Moore
A Sweet
Father and Daughter
Memorial Sunday, Philadelphia, May 1996
Sophie
Parting
Return
For Ross
For Sarah
Hi, Nick
Toes
Gallery
Frances
Iridescent Star
Freedom
Musings from La Calaca Feliz, 11/8/21
June
Journey
Norma Jean
Where Do You Go?
Juvenilia (pre 1960)
Tonight
North Circular
Survivors
The Circle
Landsy
Astroworld
Eleanor
The Advance
The Drummer
Spring
This Morning
The Answer
Miramare
Beach
Kids
The Fly
Andy
Hypnosis
London
That’s How It’s Gonna Be
October
Modern Jazz
The Bank
1960
The Stairs
Locusts
Nets
Some Thoughts at Christmas
Springtime
Italy
The Wall
Two Poems for Kids
The Rat and the Cat
The Fight
Postscript
Trailer for the Rematch
FOREWORD
My name is Beth. I met Bob in 2012 and we were married in 2018. We have had over 10 years of a wonderful life together. This book is entitled ‘The Third Drawer” and it derives from our kitchen. As Bob is the main cook here, I rarely stray too far from our dining table but one day last year, I was looking for something and I happened to open the third drawer, next to the Viking stove. Inside, I found it stuffed with a bundle of papers containing poems and musings - some typed on an old Royal manual typewriter, others handwritten on everything from beer mats, table napkins and backs of envelopes. I took it upon myself to put them into some sort of collective order. And here they are. I think they tell a story that should be shared. A story of Bob’s creative mind and a slice of history over sixty turbulent and emotional years. For the record and in case it’s not clear, I love this man - as do many others.
POST 1960
TWENTY-FIVE
I am twenty-five minutes old.
There is blood around my ears
and the side of my neck.
The tissue at the crown of my head
is soft, almost fluid.
People peer in,
watch my mind at work.
My curled body
and bruised face,
my tiny fingers and toes
deceive them all.
I am twenty-five minutes old.
Already,
it has started.
POND SQUARE
Out there,
the square is clear.
So little movement.
A cloud interferes,
with a blade of moonlight.
There is
a slight tightening
of windows.
In here,
nothing moves
that can be seen.
Sounds, amplified
by the cold,
live their own life.
A soldierly tap drip,
the resonant breathing
of old furniture.
Isn’t this
a calm account?
An iron description
of a secular night.
The flat language
of needs
embedded in objects.
Trees footbound
in asphalt
and my effects,
my locked mouth.
For an icy moment,
let us admit
to a fractured heart;
your thumbnail
mechanically
scoring
a tinsel frost,
the veinless surface
of my mirrored back.
You won’t hear this.
So come back;
please come back.
CONSERVATORY
I am a
banded peacock,
and I have
to get out
of here.
Eleven days
to live,
a third
of my life
already gone.
I’m on high alert
for the tiger
buzz wings—
the black and gold,
mad marauders.
I’m already sick
of Jatropha,
milkweed,
and watermelon.
The mating caw
of the pink flamingo.
The conservatory
has doubles
of everything.
Doors, glazing;
curved ceilings -
so escape
will be difficult.
I must find
a floral,
turquoise
short-sleeved
shirt
to attach to.
Hitchhike
on a human
shoulder
to the bars
of Duval Street
and freedom.
One thing
for sure,
I won’t need
a tattoo parlor.
POSSESSION 1999
I have bought a row house
mansion
on North Sixth Street.
The number is
nine hundred and
ninety-nine, and
it is all mine.
The endless rooms,
the dark Victorian fixtures,
and the ghosts
of dead women
belong to me.
What shall I do?
Set them free?
Fold away
the brass stirrups
of the gynecological chair
finished in red velvet,
where the portly
Doctor Strittmätter
perched on his stool
and peered
into pink forests?
Perhaps
I will put in air-conditioning
and paint the walls white.
Play seventies punk
at full blast
in the George Washington room,
with Sid Vicious singing
“God Save the Queen—
you know what I mean.”
But this is all
fanciful.
In the gloom
of an autumn afternoon,
I will nod
to my old, black neighbor
sat on his porch,
and creep quietly
through the double doors
and sit at a desk
made from oak,
salvaged from
the frigate Augusta,
and listen
to a mournful symphony
by Tchaikovsky,
pretending
that a whole century
has passed me by.
Then I’ll get a cold one
from the fridge
and turn on the news.
SHOEBOX
You must burn the shoebox.
The little bits of me
you saved for posterity.
You are twenty-one,
what’s the use?
Things we might have done,
sun goblins, everyone.
Burn the shoebox;
start a new one.
SCAFFOLD
Am I paying
attention to
what I see?
A cusp
of snow
on an eyebrow;
a tree line
of fir
and spruce;
the shadow of
an animal;
a clumsily
erected
scaffold
and bodies
seen through
binoculars.
This is
happening.
The mute
coupling
and strange
entanglement
of a naked
man and woman
on a mink coat
in a white field
before the trees
rise up
into the hillside.
Why is there
a scaffold?
Is there
a wolf
lurking,
an aneurysm?
SMILE
“Smile though
your heart
is breaking …”
To be
a meteorite.