Robert C. Knox Verse-Virtual 2016 January

January 2016

I am a husband, father, rabid backyard gardener, and blogger on nature, books, films and other subjects based on the premise that there's a garden metaphor for everything. Still utopian and idealistic after all these years, I cover the arts for the Boston Globe's 'South' regional section. My poems have been published recently by The Poetry Superhighway, Bombay Review, Semaphore Journal and other journals. Some poems were also accepted for the upcoming anthology "Peace: Give it a Chance," and a collection of poems (titled "Gardeners Do It With Their Hands Dirty") will be published in 2016 by Coda Crab Books. "Suosso's Lane," my recently published novel about the Sacco-Vanzetti case, is available at www.Web-e-Books.com.

Editor's Note: In his submission letter to me, Bob wrote: "Here are three poems on the theme of
newness — in some sense of the term. The first kind of newness is pretty self-evident from the title, 'Always a First Time.' The second addresses a new state of the world in which an enemy striking terror in everyone's hearts (apparently) is being confronted primarily by a people without a country, the Syrian Kurds. The third poem is certainly a new tack for me, a verse in the manner of a C&W song expressing a contemporary myth (or meme, even), the Good Guy with a Gun."

Always a First Time

My anima had a mammogram
Actually she was wearing my body
so I had to go
Always a first time, I thought.
'We have lots of men,' nurse said,
'We see them all the time.'
I looked around: not so much.
The questionnaire asked me when
my menses began
(still waiting)
Did I have any children
(my wife did)
The technician offered me examples,
the 'guy' who couldn't pull his shirt on and off
without pain
'He played a lot of sports.'
No sports here,
however I do have a sore spot.
A little spot,
but when you have a history,
they send you to another floor,
with another machine
and the folks who use it relentlessly,
day after day, hour after hour,
and so are able to insert a portion of your anatomy
where maybe it doesn't fit
as well as it might,
if one were somebody else.

Today, I think, I am
somebody else

Still, the picture blossomed at warp speed,
my newspaper barely opened when they called me
to the doctor (gender: f)
who saw into the heart of things
who read my insides like an open book
and ruled out any nefarious plot against my well being,
assuring my anima and me that -- he/she? -- we were all
all right (no sign of the devil cancer). Cheers!
My anima wanted to take her out to lunch
I would have to come, of course,
dragging along my surface peculiarities, fuzzy face,
head full of ancient lore, baseball stats, Civil War...
Where to?
'Ladies' choice?
Do any of these old notions make sense any more?
Underneath the skin
it's all just cells
(healthy ones,
I hope).

New Lands to Die For

They die for us in distant parts
Live their lives by ancient arts
We little know what's in their hearts
Nor can we find them on the map

Their neighbors bomb them on their way
From European hearts to sway
They little think to rue the day
The monster's paw caught in their trap

Some state seems due to those who stand
For freedom in a troubled land
and for their sacrifice demand
A seat upon the stage of time

The land they seize from terror's grip
A borderland, an ancient strip
Between the sheets of history slip
Their dreams for home in distant clime

From the Mythical Annals of 'Good Guy with a Gun'
"Almost one in 10 Americans who have access to guns are also prone to impulsive outbursts of rage."
— Behavioral Sciences and the Law

I will stand my ground
You can't push me around

If I meet a nutjob gunning for my crew
I am ready to do what I must do
Bang, Mr. Nutty, that's the end of you

I will stand my ground
I won't make a sound

If some showboat sleazes into my lane
Making me feel just a little insane
I will declare to all my innermost aim

To stand my ground
No one's gonna push me
around

If I'm caught in a storm on Freedom Avenue
As a sign from the forces of good old A2
I will carry my cross to a heart that's true

You can't push me around
I will stand my ground
And I won't make a sound

If I meet my maker on a shiny new day
When the sunlight's singing in a heart-stopping way
No regrets, no tears, no nothing to say

Just to stand my ground
You won't turn me around
And I won't lay down
'cause I'm paradise bound

Dear Heaven knows it's the righteous way
I will pay my dues and I'll have my say
And before I go make the bastards pay

I'll stand my ground
'cause I'm paradise bound
And I won't hang around