March 2017
Joel F. Johnson
joelj339@gmail.com
joelj339@gmail.com
I'm a businessman and chronic English major who began writing poetry about ten years ago. Sometimes, I find myself switching back and forth between a spreadsheet and an unfinished poem. My first book of poems, Where Inches Seem Miles, was published by Antrim House at the end of 2013. In 2014, Kirkus Reviews selected it as one of the best books of the year in the Indie category. I've benefited from workshops at the Concord Poetry Center and from the journals which have published my work, including Rattle, Blackbird, and Salamander. My website, joelfjohnson.com, includes a few videos where I've attempted to combine a reading with appropriate images.
Dear Camille
Words belong in rows, even plain and clear,
a casual font on an ivory sheet.
I write because I cannot be sincere.
Better to trust the mail than have you here.
With you, I ramble, stammer, stop, repeat.
Words belong in rows, even plain and clear.
No, your voice alone, its sound in my ear
unsettles arrangements ordered and neat.
I write because I cannot be sincere.
I’ll keep clear the proximity of tears,
your elegant limbs, their elegant heat.
Words belong in rows, even cold and clear.
Letters can be calm, rational, austere.
One says what’s necessary and retreats.
I write because I hate to be sincere.
A letter, rewritten, is engineered
to mix the salt and sour with what’s sweet.
I write because I loathe to be sincere.
Words belong in rows, even, hard and clear.
Dear Camille
Words belong in rows, even plain and clear,
a casual font on an ivory sheet.
I write because I cannot be sincere.
Better to trust the mail than have you here.
With you, I ramble, stammer, stop, repeat.
Words belong in rows, even plain and clear.
No, your voice alone, its sound in my ear
unsettles arrangements ordered and neat.
I write because I cannot be sincere.
I’ll keep clear the proximity of tears,
your elegant limbs, their elegant heat.
Words belong in rows, even cold and clear.
Letters can be calm, rational, austere.
One says what’s necessary and retreats.
I write because I hate to be sincere.
A letter, rewritten, is engineered
to mix the salt and sour with what’s sweet.
I write because I loathe to be sincere.
Words belong in rows, even, hard and clear.
©2017 Joel Johnson
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