To he who has begotten a pollen-fall

To he who has begotten a pollen-fall

I

Your words are sea breeze in jelly jars.

But at the well, a girl who wants only water. 

Your grief is that she doesn’t know or care

about the salty air that moves on poems’ current. 

You may have seen the sun rising from the

flooded rocks. And you may prove anything

as the conclusion. But how you kept the

voice alive!  I could give you paper, ask you

to draw my worn Flamenco boots. We have

loitered in so many galleries. You sit on

the bar as the grainy 8mm runs, breaking

on a frame like a smashed refractor on

a streetlight. In the Express Checkout Lane,

you read the titles on paperbacks of

a thousand pages, wondering what it all means.

It is here you are about to buy tulips,

swipe your card and push red for debit.

Let the celluloid be your fever

who films the iodine of a morning kiss,

or frames the tense love where a fugitive

carves the Christmas turkey.  I confess,

I am one of these men whose Stratocaster

is blue, with fitful dreams of Eliot and his

monocle as he argues on and on.

                        II

Dear Henry Kissinger of Poetry:

Thank you for finding better things to

write about. Like the long war dead

lying in the grasses, the photojournalists

evacuated in choppers, leaving the rest

to you.

A soundtrack must be written of the

salt mounds. On every corner,

a control box ticks, changing the

traffic lights to colors of the bluest

meaning, suggesting we drive on

seaward under lily-centered moons. 

But as for you who loves the conjecture

of the sun rising from the well,

not only do I endorse you,

but I will let you divide by zero

to make your case.  And, this is only a

friendly reminder: As you walk out the

automatic doors of the supermarket,

holding the wet receipt and the tulips in

cellophane, their yellow powder ready to

diffuse, please remember to hand them

like spring to the clasping fingers of

your lover.

                                 Robin Reda

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Loving Heather

Loving Heather

Sordid girl,

these thousand peaches love,

blow the winter hail,

put music away as a beating

finger. 

I will

kiss your music’s swaying

in the whisper of

the garden. Turn lines

within you like blood,

lather the need, trudge

the milk that sours my lust. 

assonance in your voice, lilac,

as the scent of sonnets’

vines expelled

But to elaborate the mist 

you offer me 

stanzas of a villanelle. 

alliterative as pear trees,

singing mad that swim frantically

beneath the palate.

Sordid girl,

these thousand peaches love,

I kiss you

in the longest vowel,

refrain that the jasper oil

from your skin sings.–runs down you

like tears.

                                     Robin Reda

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Where You Are –Contemporaray Poetry

Where you are 

Something about the feeling

of being suddenly complete,

the last thing Heather said and dragged

her bow through puddles of dusk,

the dank melody that answered Venus

with reflections of bone. To candles

she played the night, moaning arc

across an open string, the rich wood

asking rosin which way to oscillate–

undecidedly.

She played the orange slag

dumped into the dead river.

Played the steam rising off the banks,

lifting until it barely

fogged the stars.

And then there was the moon

that couldn’t turn the night around,

the sirens whose loudest squelch couldn’t

suffocate disaster and you teetering

between certitude and confession.

You are–

the revolving doors of the Harmony Arms,

the pure math of melody,

and then –the marginal equation.

You are in the shadow. I find you

shrugging-off your stoic grief that

Shostakovich saw-cut the cello.

Your cradle;  the cup in which you lie,

window-walking downtown,

hair-blown in the brisk Melrose flurry,

wearing last night like a snood.

                                         Robin Reda

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Snow Blind –Beat Poems

Snow Blind

Is there nothing, not Ice as it

beholds itself? And herself in snow

who listens?  The place is barren. Air

which is silence and across the sterile

hill, the heavy sleeping frost. 

But few leaves, a maple one crumpled

then soggy from water left behind.

The wind is any misery, sun too weak

to light the glitter, yet distant pines in

twinkling snow.  And this, January sees. 

The jagged Ice, the long cold on junipers

from which the gin of basements ring.

And, January barren herself since birth of Snow,

weighted maple’s branches and made the mind

of daggers.  The cold glint of stars that shimmer

through the frozen oxygen.  Across the dead

sky you cried to on your exile from the womb.

                                                  Robin Reda

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Welcome to My Psychedelic 60′s Poetry Site

Welcome friends!  Thanks for visiting The Electric Marmalade site.  We hope you enjoy snooping around.  We have added this new psychedelic 60′s poetry blog site in hopes of reaching out to all you hippies, beatniks, mods or anyone else who wants to read or submit poems.

I welcome all kinds of poems really but I am  particularly interested in poems with tenacity.  This is a place for the avant-garde, the outrageous and/or experimental.  Any tone is acceptable including light or witty.

I love show-off lines.  I love unusual or cross-sensory imagery. I love command of language in the creation of new art. 

If you do too and you have a poem, you can submit it here.  Go to the Submissions page (button at top) and follow the guidelines.

I am going to post my own poems on this site, but my hope is that I will have many poems to share from a lot of different poets.

Check out the rest of the site by pressing the Home button. 

Thanks,

Robin

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