Sunday 9 May 2021

Three Sublime Poems by Steve Klepetar

 




Too Many Poems


 

...the trouble with poetry is 

that it encourages the writing of more poetry...

 

Billy Collins

 

My friend tells me there are already 

too many poets, too many poems. 

 

“Yeah?” I say,

“It’s much worse than you think. 

 

According to quantum theory, 

every time someone writes a line, 

 

a new branch opens in another universe, 

where the same poet has written 

 

a different line, maybe a better one, 

and the branches keep, well, 

 

branching out toward infinity. 

Infinity! 

 

Not just infinite poems, but infinite 

variations on the same line, 

 

orders of magnitude of the infinite!” 

My friend looks ill, so I sit him down 

 

as far from my laptop as I can get, 

pour him a scotch, pour him another. 

 

Outside it’s finally dark. 

The stars have come out, and we watch 

 

the Milky Way, grateful that it rhymes 

with nothing, stands for nothing but itself.



 

 

Dear Reader


 

I know I irritate you sometimes, 

with my wild stories — a father 

who dances with shadows 

in the street, a mother, 

who keeps rising from the grave 

bearing roses and chrysanthemums. 

 

Forgive my uneasy dreams.

It’s only that I believe you exist,

imagine you there listening, 

leaning against a wall, 

or lounging in a comfortable chair 

reading or shaking off sleep.

 

Who could blame you for that? 

I see you so clearly, your sweet

face turned towards mine 

with a mouth shaped in wonder,

hands struggling to keep time, 

a hectic look burning in your eyes.

 

 

What I Meant to Say


 

When I said whisper, I meant the rustling of leaves, 

birds on bare branches, a voice in a dream. 

When I said April, I meant the tender shoots of grass, 

a colt’s whinny, the taste of peaches and plums. 

When I mentioned bad jokes, I was referring 

to a tendency of the universe to make me feel small, 

or foolish, like when I put my shirt on inside out 

or go to work with slippers on my feet. I use the word 

poem to imply something about language, but I’m 

not sure what. Maybe it has to do with glow worms 

or men playing trumpet on a city street. 

Kindness, you can be sure, is not a word I would 

ever use, so I must have meant chocolate or a dram 

of Irish cream. For archive read woody glen or waterfall 

or chapel in the Greenwood, where  high school kids 

go to drink and set off cherry bombs. You can tell 

I’m in a strange mood, which happens when I spend 

too much time looking at my palms. When I said 

directions, I probably meant something like reservoir 

or kidney beans. But meaningless things are just that — 

objects orbiting a planet where the phones have gone dead.

 

 

 

"Let us intoxicate ourselves on ink, since we lack the nectar of the gods."

 Flaubert



Steve Klepetar lives in the Shire (Berkshire County, in Massachusetts, that is). His work has appeared widely and has received several nominations for Best of the Net and the Pushcart Prize. He is the author of fourteen poetry collections, including Family Reunion and The Li Bo Poems.

Steve Klepetar is waiting out the winter and the pandemic in Berkshire County, Massachusetts.


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