BOOKS
Excerpts
Corn Maze
I woke up early, walked out into the tall corn,
looked a rabbit in the eye, and it was gone.
I moved deeper.
The stalks shushed me in the near dark.
The mocking crow cast curses from the east
as a sun drew the salt from my brow.
I changed rows and directions,
retraced footprints over and over.
Trying to find the spot where I began,
I broke out in vertigo,
prayed for fire,
and walked calmly.
Each step was a mile; each mile a year.
As the sky darkened,
I found a new clearing,
stepped out in terror,
my shirt, damp and dirty.
The wind pulled the cloth
away from my skin,
and again,
I stood with cold fever.
I saw the rabbit from my youth,
looked him in the eye
as he lay lifeless in the clover.
My shadow appeared
as an anonymous giant,
expanding with my
relation to the pacifist sun.
I walked before him, returning
to the tall corn.
Each breath was a mile; each step a year.
I walked further still,
and the shadow weaved
the stalks behind me,
so no one would know
I was gone.
Stratus
I breathe deep to break my fever.
It washes out the bile and leaves
me almost numb. When the air gets
metallic enough, I go outside.
Pale sheets sway. Clouds pass
over the sun, leaving me to my deeper
color. Shadow upon shadow of sheets
and clouds, trees with jagged branches
in an empty field, my limbs wither.
Standing fruitless, I pray the rosary
with empty hands.
The closing of an eye is too extreme.
I need anesthesia to feel safe,
and safe doesn’t feel like anything.
It’s Novocain without a needle.
I don’t flinch—only survey the sky.
Kite dragons swirling in grey,
reminding me of a china vase.
The jar, now sealed, full of shadow.
It waits for the clouds to unveil the sun,
for the sheets to dance in white flames,
lucid to the point of being invisible.
They brush against me.
I feel them move.
I breathe deep to wash away
the melancholy. Air moves
leaving me in the shadow of
a cloud. My weight times density
sinks to the ground.
Checking the clock for numbers,
I tear a page from the year—May, June,
July, now paper airplanes
gliding above the wastebasket.
Once again, I breathe deep
through hours of praying
the rosary with empty hands.
Savannah sings of angels, but
I don’t believe in songs today.
My limbs move slow.
Submerged in mercury,
saturated in ozone,
molten lead seeps
through my pores.
I touch my forehead
with cold hands.
Breathe to break this fever,
sway like the plum tree branches
heavy with bitter fruit.
Litany
Each breath, a slow blues releases gold.
The trumpets now cut loose in New Orleans—
the sad gravedoll knows today is spent.
Chronology of hours all turned over.
And I wish I had a drink,
or a reason to drink,
or someone to drink with.
But, I’m a hopeless case
of sobriety.
Lines before me, all too clear.
The train whistle blows
as if west still means progress.
I wait for sleep like Tylenol P.M.,
a feline tattoo,
air-conditioned silence in summer’s ember.
Steam ascends from the street
as spirit leaves flesh.
Crucifixes bloom in the mausoleum.
I think of “Go Down Old Hannah”
the way Leadbelly sings after years in the Angola Pen,
callused hands, twelve-strings, machete hacking sugarcane.
He field hollers in a beat baritone.
There are no stars.
He wants the sun to wither.
I bid it adieu with half a smile.
Lights recede like water.
A swallow swings lower
fishes a minnow up
where waves patter clay.
I focus on river grass,
on Lake Pontchartrain.
Close my eyes,
and let fatigue claim me.
Murky reflections wander
to the shore where I was born.
The window blurs,
and the dove warbles murder ballads.
I hope that sleep would
drift in with such form,
lilting and final.
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In Descending to Blue, Robert A. Morris is a poet of straightforward lyrical narrative, of the dialects of jazz, of various landscapes both real and surreal-like, of loss and how to survive it, and how we are to prevail in rare moments of grace. His lively and original diction keeps us alert, anticipating the next alchemical conjoining of the unexpected which allows an artful yet honest satisfaction, if not an easy peace. The lofty intensity of emotion reminds me of the struggle and victory of a poet finding his corner in the mansion. As in “the way the bee chooses the real honeysuckle over its imposter," Morris concocts the clash of images and concepts that assures us he will find a way out, though “the hooves and disasters close in behind."
—Peter Buttross Jr. author of Stella’s Echo
While reading Robert A. Morris’ Descending to Blue, it takes only a few poems to learn that this book is something special. Morris digs deep with his poet’s shovel into both the NOW and the THEN but shapes it all with a controlled and fine-tipped pen. These poems are personal but never seem to cross the line into confessional. They are metaphysical in their ruminations of what it is to be human now and what it took to be human in our past. He tackles classical themes in ways that make them both contemporary and familiar. His language is lush, his rhythms are both driving and syncopated, and his crafted use of assonance and consonance brings music forth from the page. These poems are alive, they sing, they take us both into and out of ourselves in the way we all hope poetry will.
—Shawn Pavey author of Survival Tips for the Pending Apocalypse
Robert A. Morris writes quiet narrative observations of memories, people, places, and life, and his work carries echoes of Ted Kooser, Connie Wanek, Jim Harrison, and even Robert Frost.
Morris reminds us where we come from, reminds us who we are. He slows us down in this severe manic civilization we find ourselves in. He takes us by the arm to show us an old sun-stained Polaroid that he found in the back of a closet somewhere. And we do slow down and breathe a little easier, and we thank him for it.
— Nicholas Trandahl author of Good Brave People
To read Robert A. Morris’ Descending to Blue is to lie awake with the window open, hearing a plaintive trumpet down the street, ringing solo of a South few people will ever know. Full of heartbreak and blues, the music in these poems never stops. Tender, muscled and wise, they refuse pity and earn their faith on the wages of doubt. They are a pleasure to read.
—Jack Heflin author of Local Hope