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a portrait of the

author as a young

man

i was hot, now i'm not

I wrote my first "inspired" poems when I was 12.  There were two of them, and they were both lonely teenage pathos style poems.  I no longer have those.  No great loss.

I wrote my next poem when I was 16.  I guess I must have shown it to somebody.  It ended up being published in my high school newspaper.  My friend Pam liked it so much she asked me to write it on her bedroom wall.  So I did.  That poem was called, "A Projection," and it appears in this collection.  Not that it's a great poem, although I think it's not too stinkin bad for a 16-year-old.  But the thing is, the theme of that poem has been more or less the underlying focus of my life ever since.  That's why I included it here.

As to my friend Pam, I adapted a note she wrote in my yearbook one year for the third line of my poem, "falling behind."  What she wrote in my yearbook was this:  "Pam's Page.  Found or lost or here or there."  And her ice-blue x-ray eyes haunt my memories.

When I was 16, I was King of the Universe.  You probably weren't aware of it at the time, because there was very little publicity.  It's not that I thought I knew everything, because I knew I didn't.  But I was pretty much master of my circumscribed teenage world.  I had that role wired.

Since then I have abdicated my throne.  I have hardly anything wired anymore.  As the Red Queen said to Alice, "Here, you see, it takes all the running you can do, to keep in one place."

However I have continued writing poetry, off and on.  The quality has been spotty, but I've tried to include a few of what I consider the better works in this online collection.  I may add or remove poems from time to time, so if you like what you see here now, visit again sometime for additions.

t o p  o f  p a g e

roots

my dad, the shithead

When I was a toddler, my dad was in the US Air Force.  His sergeant was so impressed by the fact that my dad had completed a year of college that he made a special effort to refer to my dad as "Shithead."  Whenever the sergeant called out, "Hey, Shithead!" my dad had to respond promptly, "Yes, sir!"

During off-hours, when the Air Force was not utilizing my dad's valuable talents for cleaning latrines and peeling potatoes, he wrote and entered a short story in an Air Force writing competition, and won a prize.  He has a publicity photo of himself in his uniform, pretending to type on his portable typewriter, with little toddler me looking on in the background.

I used that same typewriter to type some of my poems and a short story when I got older.  I would still have the typewriter, except that it was stolen from my apartment when I was 25, along with a 13-inch TV and a few quarters my first wife and I were saving to use at the Laundromat.  I don't care about the other stuff, but I'm still pissed about losing the typewriter.

t o p  o f  p a g e

more roots

concerning my ignorance

My dad has taken college poetry-writing classes, so he knows what he's doing.  I have never taken a course in writing poetry.  My dad is my teacher.  I have revised many a poem based on his comments and suggestions.

My uncle, my dad's brother, took an English class at the University of Rochester from Hyam Plutzik.  My uncle bought a collection of Plutzik's poems called Aspects of Proteus.  My dad ended up with this book, and I have read and re-read it many times.

The only other poet I read with such consistent enjoyment is Charles Bukowski.  I have several volumes of his poems.

(Bukowski Links Here).

This is not to say I don't care for other poets' work.  It's just that I haven't been driven to go out and purchase volumes of their poems.  I have read and enjoyed many, many poems by many authors, both well-known and hardly known at all.  I have been influenced by every poem I've read, as well as by song lyrics, a form of poetry.

Ultimately, of course, what funnels into my peculiar arrangement of neurons and neurotransmitters gets irreparably transmuted into the product you find on these pages.  I really don't have any other way to explain it.  But if you would like a more detailed description of the process, please refer to "Introspectus V."

t o p  o f  p a g e

where i live

views from the ivory tower

I've tried all kinds of poetic forms.  In a few poems (check "Contentment's Loss," for one) I've tried to emulate the classical masters of rhyme and meter.  Aside from the aesthetic value (a less popular aesthetic, in this era) this serves three purposes in my mind.  For one, it's a valuable exercise in discipline to choose words so carefully to fit within a rigorous form.  For another,  the lessons learned from this exercise spill over into the freer forms to inspire greater economy and attention to the sound and rhythm.  Finally (and this may be partly an ego thing) I wanted to prove I could do it.  In my view, the classical poetic forms are like realism to a painter.  Before Picasso's creative instincts drove him to experiment with cubism, he mastered realism.  Then what came from his hand was fully controlled by his mind's intention, even if his intention was sometimes to allow control to lapse in order to achieve a certain effect.

In one poem, I had fun combining an ancient meter and rhyme scheme with modern imagery and mood ("falling behind").  In another ("again no"), I tried for an Impressionist effect, sketching the meaning and mood with splotches of images and disjointed lines.

I generally try to write accessible poems.  However in some cases my intentions may not be so plain.  I don't necessarily see this as a problem.   Many times a poem can act as a Rorschach inkblot, clarifying our awareness of ourselves by showing us what we see, aside from any meaning the poet may have originally intended.  And I somewhat subscribe to T S Eliot's assertion that the words of a poem provide a distraction to the reader's conscious mind under which the poet can sneak the intended  meaning or mood to the subconscious.

t o p  o f  p a g e

the forest

take it home, dick

My poems are a vehicle to sneak my experiences and my worldview into yours.  Within the circumscribed world of my poetry, I am still King of the Universe.  You're my welcome guest.  Stroll around the grounds until you feel at home.  Help yourself to some heaven and some hell.  Buy a demon a beer, or have lunch with an angel.  You'll also find some memories warming on the stove.  Leave a note on the fridge if you want.  I might get back to you sometime when I'm taking a break from remodeling and repairs.

t o p  o f  p a g e

h o w  i  g o t  t h i s  w a y

i was hot, now i'm not

my dad, the shithead

concerning my ignorance

views from the ivory tower

take it home, dick

All poems, illustrations, and photographs on this website copyright © 1970 - 2006 by richard bryant reinertson.  The title "mud aspires to remember its x" copyright © 2004 - 2006 by richard bryant reinertson.  All rights reserved.

These works are protected by international copyright law.  No poem, illustration, or photograph contained herein may be reproduced or distributed in any form whatsoever without express written permission from the author.