Tag Archives: poems

“Where Would We Go?” by Eric Robert Nolan

Where would we go, you and I?
The sea which breathes, in aquamarine,
its rhythmic, salty epic at our ankles
and inundates a foam refrain,
over and over, in rolling green glass:
the tide — the oldest poem — an immutable meter preceding
words, or man, or even ears to hear?

The unvarying sea
takes no notice of poets —
you and I, ourselves inconsonant poems,
varying as all our kind are wont to do …
faithless at the foot of the green, returning tide,
both our lives arrhythmic and
bitter with metaphor.

Where would we go, asalam?
The staid and angled mountains, vaulting up?
Mountains are always odes. The miles of stone
which rise to cut their rival heavens
lance the air, and spin the winds to narrative.
Those winds were singing long before us,
will sing when we are gone.

The mountains will not know our names
even as we whisper one another’s,
or the rise of your breathing where we lay there —
the blithe and meadowed slope that will not blush beneath us,
where we are ribald lyrics, songs out of our lawless senses,
lascivious and nearly wordless.

Where would we go, my muse?
The river that rushes like a fugitive ghost
absconding with its own requiem?
Rivers’ roars are always dirges, for rivers run past
lives beside their banks. Lifetimes
are as seasons to them, always ending.

This timeless river
is unconcerned for poets
and will not slow to note us.
Only our own faces on its hastening, dim and opaque surface.
answer back our gaze. We are elegies, reflected
in heedless, racing waters moving on.

Stay with me, here, for now.
We have two temporary
yet temperate pages all our own
over which is the script our ardor:
my gray-grizzled Irish cheek and your Iranian skin,
to read and study, see and know, slowly and tenderly, in this ordinary room,
in this little city, in this waning light, in this fleeting moment,
in these fleeting lives.

I am inelegant free verse, but you …
you are my perfect poem.
We will draw the sheets over us,
over our moving euphony,
and frame to evoke one another —
the rounded warmth of your white shoulder,
the cadence of my pulse.
We will hear one another, and speak
in sedulous repetition
the particular rhythm of each of our names,
measured in the meter of tremulous breath.

(c) Eric Robert Nolan 2022



Santorin (GR), Exomytis, Vlychada BeachDietmar Rabich / Wikimedia Commons / “Santorin (GR), Exomytis, Vlychada Beach — 2017 — 2999 (bw)” / CC BY-SA 4.0


“Friends, Americans, countrymen — lend me your fears.”

Friends, Americans, countrymen — lend me your fears.
I come to divide the nation, not lead it.
The evil that I tweet will live after me;
the truth will be twisted by nationalist drones.
So let it be with America.
My critics say I am dangerous
— is that so grievous a fault?

America, you have enabled me.
Obama; Bush; Bush, Sr.;
and Clinton were honorable men,
Despite their various differences,
all honorable men.
But I’ll make America chaos,
subservient only to me.

My critics say I am dangerous,
and my critics are honorable men.
But did they entertain at great rallies,
where hatred made your heart full?
Is it this that seems dangerous?
When all are are divided, no Union is left;
Nations should be made of sterner stuff.

Oh America, thou art ruled by brutish beasts!
For you have lost your reason!—Bear with me;
My prescription bottle is in my pocket,
And I must pause to tweak.

~ Trumpus Antonius

(c) Eric Robert Nolan 2020

 

Donald_Trump_(27150816364)

Photo credit: By Gage Skidmore from Peoria, AZ, United States of America – Donald Trump, CC BY-SA 2.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=49611649

“The Philosopher,” by Eric Robert Nolan

She’s a painter in oils in the land of the blind —
and a sculptor over the dead.
The deaf will demur to her poetry
while epics roar in her head.

Like Cassandra, who spun futures
so dolefully from frenzied lips,
Her words are as mad to insensate hearts
as sea-sunk towers, desert ships.

Would that I could assuage that hearth
where her discernment smolders —
my hands around the hard and the white
limestone of her shoulders.

(c) Eric Robert Nolan 2020

 

Bouguereau-Evening_Mood_1882

“Evening Mood,” William-Adolphe Bouguereau, 1882

“Contagion is a Despot Poet,” by Eric Robert Nolan

Contagion is a despot poet. It
releases fatal verses from its throne.
Its alabaster palm will lean to sow
what words will wind within their binding strictures

each arriving low, in permanent cursive,
at the many nadirs of pages — each
to immutable conclusion,
to shared, indelible metaphor:

dirges upon April mornings
eulogies at afternoon
rimes to loss at rayless night, as stars,
so slowly overflying a singing, dim landscape of endowed poetry,

are indistinct, indifferent.

 

(c) Eric Robert Nolan 2020

 

Darkness_(1670488216)

Photo credit: By Helgi Halldórsson from Reykjavík, Iceland – darkness, CC BY-SA 2.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=33782100

The Piker Press features “Smiling Among Inert Shipwrecks”

I’m honored tonight to share here that The Piker Press has graciously published my poem, “Smiling Among Inert Shipwrecks.”

Once again, I’m indebted to Editor Sand Pilarski for allowing me to join the creative community of this wonderful weekly journal of arts and sciences.

You can find the poem at the link below:

“Smiling Among Inert Shipwrecks,” by Eric Robert Nolan

 

 

“The Writer” will appear at Every Writer!

I’m honored to share here that Every Writer has selected one of my poems, “The Writer,” for publication.  Editor Richard Edwards passed the news along to me this morning.  Every Writer is one of the oldest comprehensive resources for writers on the net, and I’m grateful to Mr. Edwards for allowing me to join the creative community there.

I’ll post a link here when the poem appears.

 

 

“An Ode for Fellow Replicants,” by Eric Robert Nolan

(Dedicated to Philip K. Dick)

What if the Internet is an android’s dream,
And we are the electric sheep?

Dick would know at once
our artificial people:
every boy a Roy,
every girl a pleasure model,
trying to pass as real,
inwardly concerned with their design:
“Morphology. Longevity. Incept dates.”

On Facebook,
“More Nolan than Nolan”
is my motto.

If I, in my genuine moments,
could greet my jpeg face
hiding in his electronic words,

he’d go offworld or die.
After all,
“It’s not an easy thing to meet your maker.”

(c) Eric Robert Nolan 2016

 

Facebook_engancha

Photo credit: By olga.palma – facebook enganchaUploaded by JohnnyMrNinja, CC BY 2.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=16525385