Hereinafter, some samples by a poet new to me. Thom Kellar is his name, and he lives in California. Thom's reference to a "white-bread world" in KIND OF BLUE is, to me, a typical liberal tilt. I abhor the politically correct, but if one were to eliminate liberal poets from one's reading, one would just have me to enjoy. At least he doesn't seem to be a communist, yet.
Another item I disagree with is his use of street epithets like "pissed away his time" in PRIMER GRAY and "you can't hit shit." in STRESS. I don't even like this sort of thing when I utilize it. (See my poem about Muhammed Ali) A poet's shock value should come from his inner eye, not his outer mouth. I have not included one poem Thom sent along, a very facile lyric titled SUGAR PINE, because I consider some of the language inappropriate for this site. One of these days, I'm going to stop using that word even when I'm angry.
Thom, in my opinion is a fine poet in spite of his liberal views. After he both reads and understands Thoreau and Orwell, he will become a genius.
(All of the following work by Thom Kellar is copyright 1998. It
is his property alone, and may only be reprinted with his permission.)
LINE OF SIGHT
maybe the angel watching over me
strikes a match along the corner of my eye
the way them TV outlaws use their cowboy boots
whenever they need to light up a smoke
or maybe the skittish ghost of a firefly
tries to engage me in blind man’s mystic bluff
I turn to look-too late-I miss it
left to ponder on what is hidden
it happens all the time beyond the borders
micro sunspot surfing the line of sight
Marlboro angel in a nicotine fit
fires up when God looks the other way
KIND OF BLUE
What Miles Davis was
to melody
John Coltrane was
to virtuosity.
black giants
in white-bread world
mixing up a masterpiece
Sahara hot-arctic cool
tornadoes and sea breezes
shouts and whispers
bold slashing strokes-straight, razor thin lines
the frenetic energy of a humming bird
the economized motion of a crow
muted trumpet-raging tenor sax
"Kind of blue"
perfect friction
heaven squared
PRIMER GRAY
Smoke ring in a windstorm
old man with blindfold and cigarette
at the university he had "shown promise"
was called a "diamond in the rough"
but the years have gotten away from him
he pissed away his time
now he waits for the phone to ring
for Gabriel to ask if he has one last request
from the beginning desire had been a map without names
never sure where he was or where he was going
change made for the sake of change
point A to point B in a car painted primer gray
he drank too much-slept too much
read too much-chased "easy" too much
never finished the book he had been writing
for the last 24 years
now the Rambler sits on blocks
the manuscript lost somewhere in the attic
he calls himself "invisible man on blue planet"
the events of his life written in disappearing ink
nothing to offer as evidence of having circled the Sun
staring at the autumn sky, chain smoking, sipping tea,
he waits for the angels to raise their rifles
and take him home
STRESS
somewhere far below
valley of shimmering Silicon
hidden beneath dying branches
of a train track Willow tree
2 Mexican V-necks work up a good buzz
drinking malt liquor-swapping lies
cross-tie compadres
with all the accouterments of the homeless
loosely thrown into a Safeway food cart
Henry laughs at Ricardo
"mas cerveza cabron"
the Hispanic boys can see themselves
in the tinted glass of a passing southbound commuter
Inside-upper deck-sits Lawrence-marketing wunderkind
studying a memo regarding changes
in the company's 401K plan
8 hours of giving corporate head and home he goes
it's Thursday night-that means pasta and Seinfeld
one more day of tap dancing and the weekend is his
Saturday he's got tickets for Jagger and the Stones
Ricardo picks up a small rock
he likes the feel of the granite in his hands
carefully setting aside the King Cobra
he cocks his arm and let's fly
too late-the train is gone-the target missed
inside the moment
Lawrence feels sharp pain to his forehead
"stress he mumbles"
ransacking his briefcase for Tylenol
(he thinks to himself)
"there's no way Susan and the kids
will ever know what I go through
to bring home the bacon"
again, Henry laughs at Ricardo
"you can’t hit shit" he says