BAR E LYBUTTONED

summertime poems

by Drew robison

Drew

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Barely Buttoned

DrewRobison

summertime poems

barely buttoned. Copyright © 2012 by Drew Robison.

All rights reserved.

Printed in the United States of America. No part of this book may be used

or reproduced in any manner whatsoever wihout written permission

except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and

reviews. For more information, address drew robison

3450 Auchentoroly Terrace. Baltimore, MD. 21217.

drewoncesaid.wordpress.com

library of congress cataloging-in-publication data

isbn: xxx--x-xxxxxx-xx-x

1 2 3 4

“In the depths

of winter I finally learned

there was in me an invincible summer.

Albert CAmus

”

Drew Robison is Baltimore’s legally blind poet, and his most recent collection of poetry Barely Buttoned chronicles a few formative years of staring into

the sun. Some of these works are fresh from the notebook page; others have seen many revisions. Many thanks to the readers and poets who have guided these poems to shore.

Emily

Kevin

Meg

Gabe

Cailin

With Special thankS to —

CONTENTS

The Weather Man

On the Beach

Hope Springs

Smokers, Cease Fire

Dedication for a Moonbounce

60-Second Life

Not for Want

Prince of Summer

1

2

4

5

6

8

9

10

For Summer —

Barely Butt ned

The Weather Man

One must have a mind of summer

to regard the humidity and the heat

and the heavy-body covered by the sun;

and have been hot an awful long time

to touch the cool water muddy with leaves,

the canteens dipped in the huge lake

of the July moon; and not once feel

any suffering in the wind-song,

in the grass-song,

which is the song of the water,

sent from that same wind

that sends those same awful clouds

to the weather man, who swims in the heat,

and, slowly evaporating, beholds

the nowhere of everyone.

inspired by the poem “the snow man” by wallace stevens

1

On the Beach

itchy unrest? a sunburnt soul?

seek reprieve in the evening shoals

and step as lightly as a gull,

when you’re living on the beach.

from the heat of day, a night of cold

would bewitch you to behold,

for centuries are hidden in the darkness

where silently a story unfolds.

for secrets, cast away from home

leave daylight lies alone,

for friends, they pocket as they please,

when sharing the shadow of the trees.

while nature designs to hide the light

and designates nocturnal life,

the night offers rest.

seek to be peaceful or else live to die

with both claws raised to sky

like a crustacean at sunrise

from the depths of how far and wide.

2

patient dusk outwaits the pain,

as our sun follows the flight of the majestic crane,

first heaven then the sinking

to our concept of nowhere,

the place where thoughts vanish,

touching the void

which empty shadows retain.

3

Hope Springs

The last day I saw her was like most days,

broiled and buggy, sweat was running down

my bag by the time I got to Bickman’s creek,

where the air was cool and I could wipe my

brow. There I found Ellie fighting the water,

her Sunday whites were soaked. She got to

looking real sorry at me, and then she made

a wicker sound. She snapped

her hair like a whip, shooting I-don’t-care

eyes across the creek: Joshua, I know ya ain’t

leavin’. Well I knew she was lying at me, and

I mean what did a baby sister know? Her

chores were un-dusting Ma’s floors. I meant

to leave her and Hope Springs alone. I told

Ellie to go away with flies in my voice. Two

words she said back to me, reminding me to

frown – go home.

4

Smokers, Cease Fire

and wake up Monday morning ACK ACK

from the warmth of last night’s pillows

burned into makeshift clothes,

which we wore,

the screaming inside our flesh for days.

heavy in head and so we try to fall asleep,

and try to fall asleep,

and try to,

yet still the same sensation of fire returns

and again suddenly you’re there.

I’m disarmed and fascinated,

yet frightened

of the way my skin feels

after your wintry fingertips cause me to melt

into a puddle of oos and aas and freckles…

my eyes water…

someone in my head tries to warn me

by flashing leopard skin patterns,

but I follow my nose

to an ecstatic pitch of déjà vu

that lasts until next Monday.

5

Dedication for a Moonbounce

This inflatable castle

in the heart of the summer festival

is dedicated to the living joy of

Doctor Bill,

who was born smiling, loved,

lost her to Edgar,

survived Hell’s Kitchen,

married her sister Flossie,

bought a Rutherford house,

established a practice on Main Street

and returning restless, wrote poetry

for people who called themselves patients,

treated the thing itself,

lived two full lifetimes

as existence rushed by

in full blossom and autumn’s decay,

struggled to scribble it down

between appointments,

between prescriptions,

despite the doctor’s badge he wore,

found the time for fun with words,

fun in yelping tantrums

and in breaking the rules,

fun in the thought material of America

which is not taught in a classroom,

6

fun in small individual nervousness,

and in daring to touch

the one who resists all touch,

despite the office hours, two sons,

the weariness and stacks of

recent criticism, despite desire

and Pound’s madness.

He labored in this tiny town with his name

to plant a garden of familiar objects,

broke through a century’s alienation,

revived America’s first words,

reached the limits of a lunar orbit and–

If you can find nothing in his joy but

disinterest, please fuck off.

7

inspired by the poem “dedication for a plot of ground” by william carlos williams

60-Second Life

You lived a good 60-second life.

Sure, you missed out on a few things.

Maybe the things you desired were always

Just out of reach.

Maybe you were indecisive.

Nothing to grieve about though.

Love played an important role in your life.

You would walk 500 miles and

You would walk 500 more.

You never had much money.

But maybe you didn’t care about it anyway.

Sometimes you were a rather awkward person.

Strange maybe, but likeable.

Your hobbies were a great way to relieve

The stress of everyday.

You spent solid time on them,

But not too much.

9

Not for Want

there is little left here

to inspire new ideas

in the shoeless generation

who play in their pockets

and rattle gold coins

without a mind for want

but with a bored soul

they say to each other,

i want that one.

no, maybe that one.

have you seen them?

they take a slice of bread

ignore it for days

and then throw it away.

this has happened so much.

there is little left here.

8

Prince of Summer

the guy’s barefoot on atlantic ave

barely buttoned

shirttail sailing in the breeze

whose salty french-fried scent

never changes with the current

so recognizable to inhale

you cannot separate sea

from skin or the sight of

the guy on his knees

reaching into a sewer drain

to retrieve a skinny can

a lemon-lime four loko

dripping neon grit

back down into the grate

he drops it and begins again

10

Set in the Dante family by Giovanni Mardersteig and Ron Carpenter.

Titles set in Avenir Next by Adrian Frutiger and Akira Kobayashi.

Letterpress printed from photopolymer plates and lead type. Delaminated by hand. Brought to you by

your friends at The Press. December 2012.

His Majesty’s Going Away Tea Party

Cat and Mouse

other WorkS by the author—

DR

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