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Posts Tagged ‘J. R. Solonche’

In a Public Place – J.R.Solonche

Posted in Imagery, tagged , , , , , on August 28, 2026| 2 Comments »

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[ 3, no, 4 poems by J. R. Solonche ]
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At the Reflecting Pool
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one (there are many
gathered now in the closing minutes
before the play’s beginning) pretends
 . 
to jump in, mugging for his companions,
as so many have done,
as so many will do.
 . 
“It lacks an emotional center,
a focus, a heart.” (But this will be later,
on the steps inside, coming down,
 . 
the hand brushing the brass banister.)
None mistake it for the sky,
as none mistake the secret pool of their desire
 . 
for a loop in time, as none
mistake themselves for others,
as none mistake more of the same for more room,
 . 
as none mistake life’s rules
for the lures of explanation or life’s raw deals
for the leadenware on the tables of their hearts.
 . 
J. R. Solonche
from In a Public Place, Dos Madres Press, Loveland, OH; © 2019
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❀    ❀    ❀
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Saturday
 . 
On the street in town,
everyone is carrying something,
everyone’s arms are full.
 . 
This old man is carrying
fifty years of newspapers.
Each year is a bundle tied in string.
 . 
His back is bent from the weight.
This wife is carrying her past.
It is made of glass. It is extremely fragile.
 . 
She carries it in a velvet pouch
inside a wooden box inside a metal case
inside a leather satchel with two straps.
 . 
The husband is carrying Monday.
He holds it like a dozen roses.
He holds it like the wheel of a fast car.
 . 
This teenaged boy is carrying three futures.
They are light as feathers, as bubbles.
He tosses them up before him as he walks.
 . 
This old woman is carrying death.
She holds it in her arms like a newborn.
She is singing it a lullaby under her breath.
 . 
I am carrying myself on a tray.
I am a waiter delivering the meal.
Arrogant and aloof, I balance myself
 . 
on my right hand, over the heads
of the others. My left arm swings freely.
It clears my way to your table.
 . 
J. R. Solonche
from In a Public Place, Dos Madres Press, Loveland, OH; © 2019
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❀    ❀    ❀
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America
 . 
I am sitting on a bench in front of the Department of Justice,
thinking, under the massive magnolia tree,
of the meaning of justice, when the sharp,
metallic smell of the homeless man
across the avenue mingles with the aroma of the blossoms.
Such a strange perfume.
Let us call it America.
 . 
J. R. Solonche
from In a Public Place, Dos Madres Press, Loveland, OH; © 2019
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❀    ❀    ❀
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Zhao Li realizes that he has been writing poems for so long a flower is not a flower anymore, a bird is not a bird anymore, a cloud is not a cloud anymore. A flower has become a poem, a bird has become a poem, a cloud has become a poem. He is very sad about this. He also realizes that Zhao Li is not Zhao Li anymore, for Zhao Li has become a poem, so he sheds a tear for the flower, he sheds a tear for the bird, he sheds a tear for the cloud, but he does not shed a tear for himself, for he has always wanted to be a poem, even if it is one written by himself.
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J. R. Solonche
from The Lost Notebook of Zhao Li, Dos Madres Press, Loveland OH; © 2022
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❀    ❀    ❀    ❀    ❀
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Carnegie Hall. Poe Cottage. A parking lot. The Metropolitan Museum of Art. West 64th Street. Washington Square. A mall. Some hotel lobby. Planetarium. Botanical Garden. Shoprite. The Brooklyn Bridge. Panera. Starbucks. The Department of Justice. The Vietnam War Memorial. Public places all. As perfect a place for writing a poem as the garret overlooking Montmartre, the round tower of the medieval castle on the Irish Coast, any prison cell anywhere. The poems are not about the place but are in the place. The places are in the poems. The moments in the places are in the poems, those moments spent walking, reading, observing, thinking, all while in a public place. And then each poem brings the poet’s mind into a public place where we readers can be in the moment with him.
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When I sit on my porch and read poems by J. R. Solonche, do I really begin to notice bug song in greater clarity, a brighter spectrum of sun dapple on the leaves? Or do I only imagine that I do? Wait, are you going to try to tell me that imagining something doesn’t make it so?
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❀
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Both In a Public Place and The Lost Notebook of Zhao Li, as well as six other books by J. R. Solonche, are published by Dos Madres Press in Ohio, which notes that the small press is essential to the vitality of contemporary literature, and which is dedicated to the creation of fine books pleasing to the eye and hand.
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You might consider spending a moment with Dos Madres at
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You are also welcome to consider these other poems by J. R. Solonche at Verse and Image:
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Thank you for visiting Verse and Image:
. . . . . every Friday I present one or more poems I’ve read this week that particularly speak to me;
. . . . . some Saturdays I present one or two poems submitted by YOU, my readers.
 . 
If you would like to offer a poem for consideration, either by a favorite author or your own work, please view these GUIDELINES for Saturday Readers Share:
 . 
 . 
If you would like to receive an email each time a post appears, please SUBSCRIBE to Verse and Image using the button on the Home Page.
 . 
If you have a hard time finding the SUBSCRIBE button on this WordPress site, you can send me your email address and I will add you to the subscriber list. Send your request to
 . 
COMMENTS@GRIFFINPOETRY.COM
 . 
Thanks again for joining the conversation.
 . 
– Bill
 . 
 . 
2020-06-11a Doughton Park Tree

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Alone – J. R. Solonche

Posted in Imagery, tagged , , , , , on August 7, 2026| 1 Comment »

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[ 4 poems by J. R. Solonche ]
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Only
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“Why do you not sleep?” the goddess asked.
“They are only years.
Only years.”
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“I do not sleep because they’re only fears,” he answered.
“Only fears.”
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“Why do you weep and weep?” the goddess asked.
“They are only fears.
Only fears.”
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“I weep and weep because they’re only years,” he answered.
“Only years.”
 . 
“Why do you keep and keep?” the goddess asked.
“It only disappears.
Only disappears.”
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“I keep and keep because it only appears,” he answered.
“It only appears.”
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J. R. Solonche
from Alone, David Robert Books, Cincinnati OH; © 2023
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October
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It’s a beautiful day.
It’s just about perfect.
Why just about? Why not?
Why the hell not perfect?
The temperature’s in
the sixties with an easy
breeze. Clouds, not too
many, in the blue sky.
I walk my property,
talking to myself. “These
are my trees,” I say.
“They belong to me. Every
branch, every twig,
every tree, small or big,
is mine. Every bird
that nests in my trees are
mine. Every worm that
crawls in my warm soil
is mine. Every blade of
grass that grows in my lawn
is mine. Every breeze
that blows through my trees
is mine.” Ah I would
give, I would give, I would
give all that is mine,
all this that is mine for
the girl I saw on the train
when I was seventeen.
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J. R. Solonche
from Alone, David Robert Books, Cincinnati OH; © 2023
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❀    ❀    ❀
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Thought
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I thought I had a thought.
I was wrong.
It was not a thought.
It was something else entirely.
I know a thought when I think one.
I have had many thousands of thoughts.
What I had was not a thought.
It was a feeling.
It was an inkling.
It felt like ink running down the back of my neck.
It was an itch of ink.
I scratched it until my fingers turned blue.
Then I wrote this with it.
This is not a thought.
This is a poem.
I think.
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J. R. Solonche
from Alone, David Robert Books, Cincinnati OH; © 2023
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❀    ❀    ❀
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Today We Fly Over You
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Today we fly over you,
said the geese with wings as wide as vowels
as I looked up to see them fly over me.
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Remember us or not,
said the last of the geese in line
as it disappeared from sight.
 . 
Everyday I fly over you,
and everyday you do not notice me,
said the empty sky
 . 
as I looked up at the empty sky
filled with ghosts of geese,
their wings like soaring smiles.
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J. R. Solonche
from Alone, David Robert Books, Cincinnati OH; © 2023
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❀    ❀    ❀    ❀    ❀
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In this collection Alone, by J. R. Solonche, the poems in Part I and Part III are indeed alone, one single poem lingering within each section, and these two lonely poems are each titled Alone. What then might I, as reader, expect from the eighty-five poems that jostle together to fill Part II, that wide open expanse of poems in between the opening poem and its brother poem at the book’s far shore? None of those eighty-five at first reading seem to tackle head on the question that opens the first line of the first poem in the first section of the book: How does a man get used / to living without a woman? Not head on, not at all, but perhaps tangentially and discretely? And when they seem to wander, is it really without aim or purpose? What in the world is their purpose?
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What is the purpose of any poem, after all? If it is written to a purpose isn’t it really an essay or a polemic, even if disguised with linebreaks? Maybe the poem finds its purpose in simply being alone. There it reclines on the page, its shape or shapelessness an undecipherable incantation by the writer of it. There the poem stutters its grammar into being, a Rosetta stone to be picked up and picked at by the reader. Namely me. I, who have chosen to sit alone with the poem for the passage of moments it takes to read it line by line. Then probably read it again because a single passage through those curls of letters like lines of foam on incoming waves is not enough to really feel the tug of undertow.
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And then at the end, after crossing the sea of the entire one+eighty-five+one poems, I arrive at the far side. Time has coalesced, an infinite sequence of points becoming finite. The words have gathered themselves and bestowed whatever my momentary mentality has been able to glean. The poems have become my past, my present, and even my future (this is getting tense). I don’t know the explicative answer to the poet’s question, How does a . . . , but I know I myself have spent alone time with these poems. We have been alone together. I have a feeling. I will write it down, my own question. Maybe sometime later when you and I are alone together, I will share it with you.
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Perhaps the answer to How . . .? is Keep writing. The sensations, observations, recollections converge to become the unifying moment. Or diverge into companionship with the cosmos. My inklings and I, we are never alone.
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Read additional poems by J. R. Solonche at Verse and Image:
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Moon
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❀    ❀    ❀    ❀    ❀
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Thank you for visiting Verse and Image:
. . . . . every Friday I present one or more poems I’ve read this week that particularly speak to me;
. . . . . some Saturdays I present one or two poems submitted by YOU, my readers.
 . 
If you would like to offer a poem for consideration, either by a favorite author or your own work, please view these GUIDELINES for Saturday Readers Share:
 . 
 . 
If you would like to receive an email each time a post appears, please SUBSCRIBE to Verse and Image using the button on the Home Page.
 . 
If you have a hard time finding the SUBSCRIBE button on this WordPress site, you can send me your email address and I will add you to the subscriber list. Send your request to
 . 
COMMENTS@GRIFFINPOETRY.COM
 . 
Thanks again for joining the conversation.
 . 
– Bill
 . 
 . 

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Like Grass – J. R. Solonche

Posted in Imagery, tagged , , , , on July 31, 2026| 6 Comments »

E&A flora hawkweed bee
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[ 4 poems by J. R. Solonche ]
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Hay Wains
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They sit, a long-married couple,
side by side, in the unkempt, dusty
grass of the field, which they have
forgotten. The field has not forgotten
them. Neither has a crow, a dark,
folded thing, like a thought, perched
on the red one’s shoulder. They have
the quiet of things that have been
put away for good, the resignation
of the neglected but dignified old.
A chain, rusted into a circle, sleeps
in the weeds like a loyal dog. And
the air around them, full of the slow
humming life of roots and insects
and small burrowing animals, moves
in and through the empty spaces
where their souls used to be.
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J. R. Solonche
from Like Grass, Like Atoms, Like Years, Serving House Books, Raleigh NC; © 2026
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❀    ❀    ❀
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Better Glue
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His son wanted to fly. His father
knew how to make wings. He said,
We won’t use wax this time. He used
glue. Strong glue. Industrial glue.
The kind they use for airplanes.
The son said, What about the sun?
The father said, The glue will hold.
The son said, What about the sky?
The father said, The glue will hold.
So the son put on the wings.
The father said, Don’t fly too low.
Don’t fly too high. The son said,
Don’t worry old man. The glue
will hold. And it did. The son flew.
And the father watched. And he
flew. And he flew. And the father
watched and watched. The son flew
away. He got smaller and smaller.
And the father watched until he
could no longer see the son in the far
distance. He is probably still flying
now, the son. The father sighed.
He almost wept. Perhaps he did weep.
No one knows for sure. The glue held.
The wings held. The son didn’t. He
wasn’t supposed to. It was good glue.
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J. R. Solonche
from Like Grass, Like Atoms, Like Years, Serving House Books, Raleigh NC; © 2026
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❀    ❀    ❀
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The Difference
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The breeze is what we invite.
It comes in the window with
the scent of newly cut grass
or yesterday’s rain. We smile
at the breeze because we have
asked it in. We want it to stay
a while. The wind is different.
It’s a bad relation. It has a record.
It comes with a warning. It rattles
the glass. It has something to say
that we would rather not hear.
The wind is not invited. We do not
smile at the wind. We can’t. It
would wipe it right off our faces.
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J. R. Solonche
from Like Grass, Like Atoms, Like Years, Serving House Books, Raleigh NC; © 2026
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❀    ❀    ❀
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USE
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The woman at the hardware store
said, “Can I help you?” as I wandered
down an aisle of paint brushes. “No,
thank you,” I said. What I really needed
was a different kind of brush, one that
could cover the cracks in my memory.
She moved on to another customer,
someone who actually knew what they
came for. But the question stuck with
me, a fleck of paint on a thumb. “Can I
help you?”Help with what? The years
piled up, drying paint cans on the shelves
of my brain, and none had the right color.
Some were labeled, The Summer of ‘82.
Others, My Daughter’s Laugh. Most were
just a vague, unhelpful shade, like “off-
white” or “beige.” I picked up a brush,
a cheap one and held it up to the light.
It felt useless. I felt useless. I bought it
anyway just for the sake of having done
something. “I see you found what you
were looking for,” she said as I paid.
“Yes,” I said. Her smile was useful.
It was exactly what I was looking for.
 . 
J. R. Solonche
from Like Grass, Like Atoms, Like Years, Serving House Books, Raleigh NC; © 2026
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❀    ❀    ❀    ❀    ❀
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Truth is a tiny bee visiting a flower. If there is something sweet, she takes a sip, then flies off with the pollen of truth sticking to her. Does she notice that burden? Maybe only later when she feeds the grains to a companion bee (or to her larva, cute). Such are the truths of J.R. Solonche’s poems – airy and peripatetic as that bee, sweet sometimes and sometimes sticky. Able to sting, yes, but so beautiful when you lean in close. It would be a crime against poesy to weigh these poems down with any grave pronouncement about them.
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So can you see me smiling as I arrive at the last line of each poem? Can you see me alight at its edge for a moment before I fly to the next? Like Grass, Like Atoms, Like Years is giving me permission to take a deep breath and be still for a minute. It is revealing the biggest things in the smallest things. It is leading me in close. The facts of that closeness confess their troubles, but they also spin my soul out into the cosmos.
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And there is some joy out there. I’m on my way. As J.R. says, . . . I wanted to / know the universe like the back of my / hand. I did not become an astronomer. / I wasn’t good enough at math. I became / a poet, and I came to know the universe / of the back of my hand.
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J.R. Solonche is a long practiced and prolific poet. I tried to count his poetry books listed in this latest collection, Like Grass, Like Atoms, Like Years, but I ran out of fingers and toes. He has received many awards, nominated for the National Book Award, the Eric Hoffer Book Award, and three times for the Pulitzer Prize. He is still writing. Perhaps he is taking his own advice:
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. . . You may not know
what you are doing for a very
long time. Don’t worry. The 
words do not know either.
They’ll figure it out together.
Like old friends with nothing
new to say to each other until
they realize they do. . . .
from More Advice to a Young Poet
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Discover more about J. R. Solonche HERE,
and so that you can immediately love it like I do, please purchase Like Grass, Like Atoms, Like Years HERE
 . 
And – read one more poem by J.R. Solonche at Verse and Image here
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E&A flora hydrangea bee
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❀    ❀    ❀    ❀    ❀
 . 
Thank you for visiting Verse and Image:
. . . . . every Friday I present a few poems I’ve read this week that particularly speak to me;
. . . . . some Saturdays I present one or two poems submitted by YOU, my readers.
 . 
If you would like to offer a poem for consideration, either by a favorite author or your own work, please view these GUIDELINES for Saturday Readers Share:
 . 
 . 
If you would like to receive an email each time a post appears, please SUBSCRIBE to Verse and Image using the button on the Home Page.
 . 
If you have a hard time finding the SUBSCRIBE button on this WordPress site, you can send me your email address and I will add you to the subscriber list. Send your request to
 . 
COMMENTS@GRIFFINPOETRY.COM
 . 
Thanks again for joining the conversation.
 . 
– Bill
 . 
 . 

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