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Rod Roland

Updated: Jan 23

Rod Roland was born in Natchez, Mississippi. His books include The Playgroup (Gas Meter), Thrasher2 (Gas Meter), Best Loved (Old Gold), No Right Words (Ugly Duckling Presse/Bird & Beckett) and Record of Records (fmsbw). His work has appeared in the following journals, catalogues, and ephemera: Amerarcana: A Bird and Beckett Review, VOLT, The Recluse: The Poetry Project, The Emerald Tablet, Shuffle Boil, Left To Impress, Zocalo Public Square, Brise Marine, Bronze Chimes, Censer, Big Bell, As Of Late, High Noon, Studio One Reading Series Anthology, Ukiah Haiku Review, No Where and No one: The Art of Ed Loftus.

 


 


Poet of the Mind


out of the grass of the womb

Rod Roland from Mississippi has written what he’s seen

I love some of his hardened dreams

escapes emotional as a carriage house drawn novelesque

the brain of heaven

he is the cosmos

the secret in the box

an unsheathed sword stabbing at vulnerability

form of vision mostly shaded sometimes jaded

his world is the word

from mars and beyond

a helmet of polished metal

a dry desert carrot

take his moisture

he has himself

patient and doctor

to reveal the truth

the misunderstandings

everyone experiences

 

OPENING THE EYE OF KIM


If we had taken proper care of her

visited her more frequently

she would at least have had a happier last few years

but this is less about her than ourselves.

We were in something of a crisis when we first encountered her

we were at an emotional brink.

We were relieved of our duties and told to rest.

The cause of our distress is not spelled out

but the obsessive themes of our interior monologue led us to some speculations.

The most obvious of these was guilt over Kim's death (exacerbated by her habit of speaking

in her mother's voice).

Enmeshed from the outset in our spiritual crisis are issues of intimacy and sexuality.

Kim provided the palpable field: she crossed in and out of her vagina

spoke incessantly and crudely of sexual matters

was suspected of desecrating the image of the father and so on.

As before, however, it appears to be our anxieties that are at stake.

The nature of these anxieties is hinted at in an earlier scene.

When Kim hurled herself through the window to her death on the street below.

Our concern here is not with whether Kim is or isn't

or has or hasn't, or hasn't but could.

It is rather with the fact that our spiritual reawakening is cast in the language

and imagery of opening up, of letting things in.

So wasted was the thing that was Kim.

We saw that Kim was about to die and dared the devil to exit her and enter us instead.

To fall to our death through the same upper-story window.

Presumably by the force of the devil's entry

and Kim was to live on

as she has much to learn about what she is meant to conceal

from what she is meant to represent.


 

The Sermon of Gladness


It is January 23rd, four days before this is to be read

9:51 PM in San Francisco and it’s almost 1 AM in New York.

You can’t imagine what it’s like here, or maybe you can

because there’s a piece of me in all of you

and when you marry, you are marrying two pieces of me back together.

Is that making it too much about me?

Maybe all three of us are getting married.

I wanted to call this “The Sermon of Gladness”

after a Lew Welch poem read at Glide Memorial.

I also read a few poems about death for inspiration

the language is all the same:

come into the light and hold my hand

come take it, this is the way out.

Now we are remembering

there’s a little fiction

it’s easy to see when you listen

you can hear words so clearly and instantly.

I am with you, now we look out the windows

seeing shadows of ourselves.

When I said I was mad, you listened, intimidated and excluded.

We were made of stone and had the warmth of rats

busy buzzing by the sunrise on Bernal Hill.

I have to write all this to get it out of the way.

The real wedding poem is coming or is it?

I can’t seem to get love the right way

there is no right way to love.

Sweet intellect and pleasure I have entered your air.

You have steered me.

I am old-fashioned, pure and peaceful

ready to die without resistance

we are all Antigone

a lot of friendly faces in the crowd.