115th Annual Conference - Honolulu, Hawaii
Friday, November 10 - Sunday, November 12, 2017

Some Poems

Steven A. Robinson, Hawaii Pacific University

Steve Robinson recieved his MFA in Creative Writing from CSU Chico in 2002. Instead of trying to make a living as a poet he has been teaching first year composition classes at Hawai'i Pacific University since 2003. He lives with his kitty Siboney in a 1930s house that has views of Diamond Head and downtown Honolulu. There are worse things. He also likes to mess around with wood.

Proposal: 

Longer Bio: Steve lives with his kitty Siboney in a 1930s house that has views of Diamond Head and downtown Honolulu. There are worse things. He writes when the constant cacophany of frosh essays leaves his brain long enough for there to be some sort of clarity. He also likes to mess around with wood.

2 poems...

Nursery

We walk through rows of potted plants,

past racks of seed packets.

The lattice overhead casts criss-crossed shadows

on the wet concrete where we walk.

The bulbs are finishing up and you say,

“We need something to follow them

or the planters will look naked.”

 

We buy a sack of Supersoil, three potted African Daisies,

violet, white and blue, seeds for purple Columbine, Speedwell,

Alyssum, Coral Bells, Meadow Rue, Lupine, English Daisies,

Torch Lilies, and “Please,” I say, “Forget-Me-Nots.”

All shade and semi-shade for our sun-deprived garden.

 

We take them home, unload the car, we make ourselves some lunch.

I tuck the receipt into the box, forty dollars, try to figure

why we are doing this. We’ll be gone in another two months or three,

another renter will move in, maybe not even a gardener.

Most of these won’t bloom by then, and even if they do

we won’t be here to see them. But this is how we work

to stay together when everything around us runs to wild.

 

 

Pomegranate

There is no other fruit like this, the red

and cream of the peel, the red juice

so sour and sweet, the white pith

so bitter. I want to eat them like apples,

biting off huge chunks, filling my mouth

and feeling the juice run down my chin.

 

But pomegranates are for disection,

the cut to open, the slow pulling apart,

the seeds spilling red and sweet and tart

on the white saucer. They bleed and stain

me red, mouth and fingers, blood

from an open wound and the fiber

that holds them together, bitter.