By John Timothy Robinson
In pages from conclusion, word’s trough,
here with lines the pen-stroke sloughs;
by ink’s bad proof of mottled mind,
one crude form’s finding of spine-settled kinds.
I dredge words from roughened life,
form’s true wholeness held in a sigh.
Recall your words from heart’s remembrance,
unscripted notes revised in tension.
One’s lucid vision in near-dark, reading,
seeing this muted luster of things receding.
Defined like a fossil compressed in stone,
the stacked flare of a bristled pine-cone.
Slogged from this gesture, thoughts yet grow.
That furrow opens, a holograph manuscript glows.
John Timothy Robinson is a poet from a steel mill town in the state of West Virginia. His poetics was developed in the tradition of James Wright, Rita Dove, Donald Hall, Marvin Bell, Maxine Kumin, WS Merwin, Tess Gallagher and Robert Bly, among many others. John’s works have appeared in eighty-three journals throughout the United States, Canada, the United Kingdom, and India. He is also a published printmaker with sixty art images and photographs appearing in nineteen journals, electronic and print in the United States, and Italy. His work has appeared in The Shallows, Plainsongs, The Broadkill Review, Freshwater Literary Journal, Quail Bell Magazine, The Road Not Taken River Poets Journal, and Old Red Kimono, among other journals.