Coming soon to your poetry slam


Our resident poet and, oh yeah, web manager Dale Hobson shared this link on our Facebook page today. It’s a story from NPR about some of the more exciting poetry expected to be published in the coming year. What really caught my eye was the Frank Bidart volume, Metaphysical Dog: Poems. Probably very little to do with dogs in this new book from one of our country’s most revered poets, but the dog got me.

Also reminded me of a longstanding favorite collection edited by Clarkson professor, poet, translator and occasional Readers & Writers co-host, Joe Duemer. It’s called Dog Music and I still keep it on the shelf above my desk so I can open it from time to time.

As always, your suggestions encouraged and welcome. Which poets, particularly living poets, are among your favorites?

  1. Mr. Wakiki says:


    i write a pretty bad poem
    but there is nothing i can do
    it is hard to make bad good

    and of course
    there are the good poems

    the words line up like a defensive end
    on a play that no offensive tackle
    is going to stop

    but on the best days
    i write a little gem
    that is in my voice

    and the sentiment comes across
    like the temptationof magic brownies
    sold 12 miles out of negril

    after three or four red stripes

    and before the desire is uncovered
    with a ceiling fan circulating
    the ocean breeze onto your torso

  2. Mr. Wakiki says:

      standing in the way of cool

    walking to the printer that
    exist here in the shaddows
    of the end of a spring day

    walking through the sunshine
    that was hidden for a week

    the temperatures are dropping
    but still there is warm on my

    as if you had laid your head
    onto me to show affection

    this day is the day that
    all teachers use
    to start counting

    25 or so to go to the bliss

    of no cares

    the time when you are
    in your garden

    and if it is hot enough
    you will work in your bra

    and bees will dance around
    the lace

  3. Mr. Wakiki says:

       sheets in the wind xiii

    there are
    clouds lost
    in the blue sky
    searching for
    the horizon

    floating like white
    rubber ducks in
    colbalt water at
    the county fair

    a gentle
    laundry day breeze
    nudges the clouds
    in a sleepy ballet

    and sailboats
    reminiscent of clouds

    languish like lusty lovers

    on a beautifully
    sunny day that
    all my desire is
    hung out to dry

  4. Mr. Wakiki says:

       sheets in the wind viii

    with scientific design
    i place my hands on
    the evolution of your hips

    pulling pantie elastic
    through the cleats

    trimming the sheets
    fluffing the luff and heeling
    to a comfortable slant

    using geometry to find
    your tangents

    then finding a way
    from point a to point maybe
    and from maybe to honeycomb

    using a compound fractions
    to divide your resistance

    using a slide ruler and
    a slice of pi to calculate
    your moral instability

    a sweet little story how
    first there was an ape
    then ape crazy desire

    and there i am to lumber
    up and down your planks

    like a missing link on a
    chain of events

  5. Mr Wakiki says:

    trout fishing xx

    stringing up the reel
    sliding the rod together

    sorting the flies
    and streamers


    for the nibble
    the action of your kiss

    dreaming of tan lines
    and bug spray

    of rubbing lotion
    on your back and
    not stopping there


    for the adrenaline
    of the catch, the tension
    and the release

    of desire

  6. Mr. Wakiki says:

    trout fishing xv

    the poems
    have no limit
    but i believe in
    catch and release

    though i harbor
    of hooking one

    that i roast over
    a camp fire built
    on a rock beach

    telling stories
    about second graders

    with your laughter echoing
    like a loon from one shore
    to the other

  7. Mr. Wakiki says:


    the word
    floats on the page

    descending inside
    thoughts that now
    like the space between
    the ringing of a bell

    there is, but might not
    be a deeper meaning

    it is you who must
    scrap the etching from
    the page and dust the grains
    that remain

    into a pocket
    you keep all your
    building blocks for dreams

    and affirm what the future
    of though must be

    when it is exploding from
    the context of

    the word