the poetry that matters

Roger Williams

Roger Williams lives north of San Francisco where he taught (mostly French) at San Francisco State University until his retirement in 1987. A long time before, he studied poetry with Ted Roethke and Louise Bogan and, for some forty years, set poems to music---Wilde, Patchen, Creely, Merwin and many others. Now he writes these poems, but he does not set them to music.  His poetry appears in: UDP 6x6,#25, and a broadside; Experiential-Experimental Literature; Counterexample Poetics; Otoliths,#26 (and coming issue); Ygdrasil; Eskimopi.


                                                                Even-ing Lab



                                                                Startle amorce

                                                                all the fellow following purr

                                                                means to state whose puttee

                                                                continues to salute

                                                                palm through mats




                                                                Small left come out

                                                                for walker to cry


                                                                No startle change"


                                                                Rocks a-sway

                                                                pork or tree-trust

                                                                awayyy awayyy









                                                                Lux toots mere hat 'im scrounge

                                                                Blatter infer slight sorts wall up

                                                                before as said comin' pouring huge chant-a-free

                                                                spills apt it crowned mutt'ring slept

                                                                but loud an' you in cyst seemingly


                                                                Where it's wax its tease hover/spawns

                                                                laying knit crumped up bounding to'm whereon

                                                                ought or jest plain míssenting tips core ápud

                                                                lies thus rufus to bring color to why seeks

                                                                an' there both claims it a bent kind o' which is






                                                Then has---



                to be "Ah" when you gave off stilting

                frankly was it to?

                At any rate turbid has to have been poignant in one

                sense yes

                then gathered under mi-boughs tacking up an' down fuming

                so sots did a mile

                would say you call us interwhined or another cling poised?


                A lot more could be "O" whom a grace of shivers vouched that

                ratty's motive

                (more moored)

                deemed you ought to let drooping loop into fractiles

                come back feckless or if none (groping says)

                catapult it slowly

                hand-over over-scissors-stone-lapidary


                But you needn't


                You could but in defense dote somewhat lavish

                push an' grind

                so all cracks hew to whimper

                can alter/halter

                about its that





                                                 I Dix It Donny



                                What erst bees a bloom trader alter hymn

                                'n knees pout

                                'n norm whose mallet swells it sore stanting

                                pulls da'h high shorn boom

                                putts toady pity shim

                                scats a skimpy door

                                scattering vroom gladder

                                stalling mónocreeátaboom


                                lets on to be(e) seen cranking its full thrill wider

                                limballing lordstinting foal-flung at heest

                                do dun con up else

                                a bitty pedat star-gaze fripps later tall bees

                                nunc an' nunc dim it a gall

                                trips on dim till it drops










                                                                You may

                                                                in fear

                                                                trouble the morass

                                                                by snitching on it

                                                                etching how you got this

                                                                far in such a night

                                                                as the 'straordinary forest cracks

                                                                and view behind its forehead

                                                                coming inactions

                                                                you choose not knowing

                                                                what wealth is graven on its knave



                                                                I'd like that

                                                                but appear inchoate to its shape and cause

                                                                (be it small so-ever)

                                                                I have not caused its chosen

                                                                shape as thought is no matter

                                                                mother's tears and almost drowned

                                                                in my faithful exclamations

                                                                (tawdry self-centered lute!)

                                                                to "Come out

                                                                wherever you are!"

                                                                on the superb scale

                                                                others wander

                                                                waiting up---


                                                                maybe ought so





                                                                Why Nots Say



                                                                In an' grow twos' per

                                                                amp on swish "Golly!"

                                                                stops a wrinkle "Do!"

                                                                inner steps ago

                                                                awfully rummy



                                                                Other bothers? or

                                                                slit your mattering

                                                                as if will'd's come up?

                                                                when "ask it" begins

                                                                sputtering a cloud

                                                                implacably looped


                                                                Better said:


                                                                Ending gore

                                                                the but/and/or


                                                                thing is understand-

                                                                ing stands up says





                                                                Clone!" a---





                                                                Worry? Me?




                                                                round is pure turn

                                                                no better

                                                                when pity combs

                                                                to track us

                                                                up on the felt


                                                                Lilly calls out

                                                                "I hátch-you!"


                                                                Yet not whom

                                                                shivers the bit

                                                                least of all

                                                                glad mockery

                                                                I having shown

                                                                radic'lly naked

                                                                we could not




                                                                But no now


                                                                shook took it psst

                                                                or so time

                                                                we dub watching/waiting

                                                                of course has lost

                                                                what got it

                                                                you will see

                                                                went on like this


                                                                and here took it where

                                                                in the first place





                                                                 In the Pen



                                                                Port smacks chic!-ory


                                                                Batten who catches


                                                                Flings and zings


                                                                Pointed in mid-arc


                                                                So belongs along sunstroke


                                                                and even cloth fails



                                                                Pray on the muffin with buttermilk


                                                                Return the Ganges



                                                                                                         December 20, 2013