The Poetry of Richard Martin
Richard Martin is the author of Dream of Long Headdresses: Poems from a Thousand Hospitals (Signpost Press, 1988), White Man Appears on Southern California Beach (Bottom Fish Press, 1991), Modulations (Asylum Arts, 1998), Marks (Asylum Arts, 2002), boink! (Lavender Ink, 2005), Sideways (Obscure Publications, 2004), Strip Meditation (Igneus Press, 2009), Altercations in the Quiet Car (Lavender Ink /Fell Swoop, 2010), Under the Sky of No Complaint (Lavender Ink /Fell Swoop, 2013), Fungo Appetite (unarmed chapbooks, 2014), and Buffoons in the Gene Pool (Lavender Ink /Fell Swoop, 2016). Martin is a past recipient of a National Endowment for the Arts Literature Fellowship for Poetry and founder of The Big Horror Poetry Series (Binghamton, NY, 1983-1996). He lives in Boston with his family and recently retired as a principal in the Boston Public Schools.
AFTER
after the chute through love and nightmare
after the long kiss and the confused hermit’s tongue
after the apple orange and peach of decision
after the tears and eyelids are ripped off tomorrow
after the joy of high pitched voices and the standardization of bruised knees
after the trees and branches of light
after the hurricane of larynx and soul
after the cordless mothers and bloodless dads of wax-worth creations
after the grass and great awareness of toes
after the death of prepositions and spiders dangling at dawn
after the heavens the purgatories the limbos the cycle rides with the angels of Hell
after the Gods
after the Satans
after the ox-faced managers of Good vs. Evil
after the poetic demons and saints smash the windows in the house
after the mirrors and 4,000 tons of cosmic dust per second/per second
after the this and that and the not this and not that
after the great hole in the rose is seen
after the assassination of governments and secret police
after the right-wing death squads and those to the left
after the middle-class TV
after the wealth is equally distributed
after the children stay in their childhoods
after the wino eats his breakfast
after the windblown hats and soft breeze tickling the mechanical crotch
after the jobs are done and the money consumed
after the senses are senseless
after the intersections are painted with blood
after the bums finish counting their change
after the shame and guilt of the radiant eagle
after the last dick in the last hole subsides
after the priests and priestesses of the subatomic are gang-raped and shot
after the terrible mission of needles
after the garbage odor of gravity is sprayed
after the reduction of beauty to sanctified points succeeds
after the cannibalism of flux and rivers with more than two shoes
after the great Greek alphabet vanishes from the poem
after the son feels every fish in the ocean
after the daughter reenters the being of rainbows
after the last gorgeous siren sings through her breasts
after the red suns and cool novas of mind
after
after
after…
after the symbols for infinity are digested and expelled
after the de-bombing of humans
after the delusion/illusion of chance
After
from White Man Appears on Southern California Beach (Bottom Fish Press, 1991)
A MAN IN DUBLIN
A man loads the index finger of his right hand
with pantomime bullets. In parks
flowers receive pollen from yellow bees.
There is an imaginary knife tucked inside his pants.
A loud goose is upset with a green pond.
On his belt he clips plastic grenades.
Lovers kiss on a famous bridge. Sudden urine
Flows from city statues.
The man is up for a good time.
The bathroom mirror retains his grin.
Pigeons have red feet.
It is a friend from childhood.
Made from the sadness he saw in old comedians.
Soot on stone buildings is called black lace.
The man’s hands are made of dirt. In the backseat
Of an empty car silence is defined.
A dark clown in his brain wants a drink.
The sea deposits gray words on endless shores.
When there is work it ends in long lines for waiting.
Smoke trails move across the sky.
This time the man is in Dublin.
Tomorrow he’ll be seen in Pittsburgh.
Surface like a beached whale in central Ohio.
In Beijing he’ll light a cigarette outside of McDonald’s.
Now he walks down Baggot Street.
The clown’s thirst is full of bears. It was
a tough week on the streets. Balloons flew
into sea gulls with wings of fire.
Jokes got trapped beneath the wheels of black cars.
The red nose smelled bad. The man
Refused to practice his moves.
Open the door when nobody’s there.
Close it on a crowd of questions.
Move inside glass.
Kill the neighbor with funny lips.
I need a drink goddamn it.
The man steps on sparse shadows.
Beggars with their backs to the moon.
There has to be victims.
Inside a pub he listens to men play Irish blues.
He understands a red face is a stoic expression.
He shouts at fingers to move faster.
A violin leaps past the history of sheep on sheer ridges.
The man grins. Swigs his Guinness.
The pub reflects the fate of conversation.
Stars shudder. Grenades explode.
from Modulations (Asylum Arts, 1998)
FLUKE OF INSOLVENCY
this morning (meaning any random morning)
the world awoke without money.
during the night (meaning any random night)
the money disappeared from the face
of the earth.
though the face seemed more radiant
a world without money
was hard to swallow.
those who had gone to bed with their pockets full
of the stuff
found not a single coin
when they awoke. most panicked
when they discovered homes and cars
were devoid of the signs and symbols
that provided the feeling
objects were worth something
now they weren’t sans explanation.
a few unlucky souls began to see
the trees, rocks, and minerals
their things were made of
and took sick; some died on the spot
when they caught a glimpse of something mysterious
and unattached to the concept
of value. it was a tough morning
for personal ownership. those who scurried
to banks to check on life savings
were dismayed to find fields of tall wild flowers
had replaced financial institutions.
in the fields were birds of every color and beak-shape
busy at breakfast. it was a horrible day
of the brightest light.
the people cried in the freshest breeze:
our stocks and bonds have become the clouds
above our heads. oh, it sickens
us to see how white
and innocent they appear. without a doubt
it was the greatest upheaval in a long time
with a few old minds
comparing it to the big bang
of Adam’s rib.
from Modulations (Asylum Arts, 1998)
REVERIE ON A PARK BENCH
The gold mirror of imagination has broken in two
It was not a clean break –
Shards in a haphazard pattern cast a rainbow
On a sliver of apostasy
The other day I picked up a book about the universe
The first line claimed that everything is the universe
Or the universe is everything
Including the book the first sentence and the reader
It rained during the night with serious thunder and lightning
Ice cubes – well actually tiny pieces of ice and water droplets
On occasion rub against each other inside clouds like they’re lonely
And presto! electrified dreams of the beautiful other
Sequence matters
On mute the universe mimics a dog taking a nap on a bus
No barking allowed
No driver either
Once I strolled down the paved streets of the mind
All the trees were fantastic structures
With leaves like orange doilies or bowling balls
The past slipped into the present and birds took flight
The word is out
Poetry has been eliminated from school curriculums
It’s high time high kids learned to write a damn essay
On the history of software and its founders
I heard on the news the next Apocalypse could arrive any day now
Supposedly it was spotted by someone on a snowy summit
With a good set of binoculars and a penchant for coordinates
On a grid of rigged elusiveness
The happiness meter could use a few coins
Which I have in my pocket –
Rare ones like the Statue of Liberty and Mount Rushmore
On play the universe goofs around
from Techniques in the Neighborhood of Sleep (Spuyten Duyvil, 2016)
