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Robert J. Savino is a Long Island, N.Y., poet who ran into the Eat Write Cafe's editor and recycled trash separator when David was hawking his book, "The Story So Far," at a poetry reading in a Barnes and Nobles bookstore in Huntington, L.I., several years ago. We published him in a past issue and invited him to come back again. These poems are from his forthcoming book, "fireballs of an illuminated scarecrow." Here's what he has to say about it: WELCOME TO MY WORLD! As you may or may not know, I've been writing poetry for a number of years. Over the last few months, my work has attracted the interest of two publishers; and the result will be two different kinds of poetry books. The first, "fireballs of an illuminated scarecrow," published by GOOD JAPAN PRESS is due to release on DEC 5th 2008. This will be a poetry chapbook, 20 - 24 pages, selected for its thematic choices from dark dungeons of dreams and nightmares. |
| ROBERT J. SAVINO |
STRETCH OF IMAGINATION
Early morning is the right time
to stretch the imagination.
It’s when I like to play
in the garden with my stinkhorn,
watching it sprout from covers
of fig leaves, point its cyclops eye
to a straddled universe
and bask in the hellfire of Eden.
Soon, thunderstruck by tremors
of the cloud seeker,
splashes of rain soak the garden,
the snake transforming to its
bitterroot.
LETTER TO A RETIRED FRIEND
Each morning becomes more tremulous
as I transition into a computer anecdotal
world of invisible aggressors, self-
empowered energizers, twenty-four seven.
Their hope is to engage in cyber intercourse,
finding secure pockets behind dark windows.
Now, I’m not one adverse to change,
wherein lies easily accessible enjoyment.
But in comparison, cold callers have warmer
intention than these opportunists, when I find
myself buried deep, splattered in spam
or receive life threatening chain letters.
After long semesters of waking to early
morning frost and dew, I want to reach
that peaceful poem-a-day plateau,
something more than an unrhymed
couplet or single quatrain I howl,
in the wilderness of recycled dreams.
I imagine landscapes, layered in colors,
with bridges to the other side of morning,
without fear of impending drought.
WALPURGIS NIGHT
Between rows of water-soaked blankets of the dead,
the discipline of excavation continues in darkness.
Faceless voices direct mind-to-hand coordination,
the more intent the listen, the easier and deeper the dig.
An old man is walking his dog in the distance.
I believe it to be an old man by the raucous, muffled growls.
But I smell only a dog and see marble eyes glisten
and travel, hot air breaths escape into the rising mist.
It’s what those eyes see that becomes madness in hours
of solitude, no matter how deep or commonplace the
corridors.
Footprints and pawprints of two minds fill with the mud
of spiritual departure in this necromantic night without end.
