Phillip Mathew Roberts is one of my favorite poets. His poetry is deep, and he uses symbolism to express his ideas and haunting thoughts that are discerned using exquisite interpretation that is not taken lightly.
Many thanks Phillip for agreeing to be one of my guests. It is my pleasure to salute your talents.
Ladies and gents here is Phillip, please enjoy his poetry as much as I do.
PMR
At the crossroads where
Sisyphus planted an asphodel
Return silently this beloved space
born of clean Euclidean blankness
succulently tongue-marred by pens
dipped deep into non-responsive pupils
brimming black ink glossy as mirrors
reflecting unmeasurable distances.
Questions that lift delicate veils
boyishly as curiosity about the shape
that presses self into consciousness
–the vibrant scream now vintage,
poured sanguine into a single cup
filled once with maternity.
Approached through ways
uncertain and unremembered.
Roads that lead to absence…
The still-locked doors
buried beneath fallen dust amassed
from feet dotting those nations
who favor the prosperous
and whose futures come in shares
as though time were linear
or could be exponentially grown.
Craggy shoulders yoked to the firmament
–azures, wisps and pastel emptiness
struggled-forth toward those urns
filled with tomorrow; lacuna
where an idea roamed
off the page.
[conclude poem 1]
__
Multiple non sequiturs recollected
in a new, still irrelevant order
Ever a somnambulist I wander
through clockwork alleles without a cog
knocking around in my cloud-wondrous cranium:
trompe l’oeils through which the sun
make-believes it’s luminous…
Ratios unfurled into parsec-spirals
though no smaller than a Planck-dot
separating dreams and nightmares
from Hamlet’s oft-palmed skull.
__
Miscreant meters carry my downy iambs
flocked gentle as lambs but the voice clarion
is hollowed into post-Ginsberg howls
echoing moon-barritones
of the great, gnarl-jawed
Canis lupus
__
Crossing diaphragm horizons
stretched lyre-fragile–a taut high wire
for my precarious steps into the night
after a final sigh leaves
with the quiescence
of angelic speech.
Your lascivious kisses blown through aeolian
harps carved out of my cadaver’s chest.
Such luscious strange songs come
from the dead–
much like hot milk
spilled from men hanged
who sway in spring breezes
like ineffectual wind chimes.
__
Receptive as coerced
my untouched pages open easily
the way children do their innocence
bent over beds–playing
games with unmentionable things
that begat their rapturous grandeur.
Leda and the Swan repeatedly…
Lost among my coveted whole-number blocks
red-blue-yellow-green and orange
(the color of vowels cradled by sight)
resting on shelves drenched in sunlight;
reveries that wing corpses
through blasé kindergarten windows
toward mellow seasons until I
never really returned,
still roaming through awe
farther into the all-possible…
__
The misunderstandings we’ve endured
now broken from loaves, some rustic bread
shared among the multitudes.
And as to those aspersions about arrogance:
Prince of knowledge crowned by epistemology
let me gently reassure,
I ached gravely–
abysses that resemble absences
patiently filled with Logos
either felt or ignored.
[end poem 2]
__
Writ between the gibbous and the wane
Unlock no more homes
whose solemn memories remain
among stoicism and quiescence;
pale winter windows without glass
where the only one spoke
a language not meant
for tongues
but horizons.
Travel somewhere without
longitude and latitude–
the minutes devoted to Aves
compelled from plaintive drum spaces
where my chest empties into the hallowed;
seconds simply counted
as between-breaths becalmed
–hoar-fog and kinetic reflections
cast like spells across tranquil water
motionless as death.
I’ve since emptied everything
including this hand-me-down luggage
passed on from my forefathers.
Tomorrow, I depart.
[end concluding poems]
__
Brief autobiography:
During an abusive childhood, Mr. Roberts learned how words and phrases open doorways into a vast escape from the mediocre and cacophonous inconsistencies common among politics and everyday existence. Grateful for what little skills he posses with language, he’s lived contentedly inside texts offered from the Greeks and Romans to the moderns and will most likely continue to write until he’s lost either his faculties or his life.
__
Find Phillip here:
Phillip Quotient <surrealimpressionist@gmail.com>
Phillip Matthew Roberts is and always will be one of my favorite poets. He is too modest, but I truly believe we are reading the work of someone who will one day be a classic.
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I agree…. Thanks for stopping by to comment. Phillip is humble and I do believe as you do…
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Reblogged this on The Salamander Chronicles – Don Beukes.
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Thanks for the re-blog… Phillip with be thankful!
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