Poems by J.R. Solonche

DRIVING STANLEY KUNITZ

As we were approaching 
the George Washington Bridge, 
the late morning sunlight 
was hard on the towers,
hard on the long span 
between the towers.
On the West Side Highway, 
glad to be free of the noise 
and the traffic of lower 
Manhattan, I said it was 
a majestic sight, 
and I asked him if he knew 
of any poems about it.
He didn’t. He knew several 
on the Brooklyn 
Bridge but none at all on
the George Washington.
Then, after a slight pause, 
he said that if he were 
to write one, it would be 
dreadful. We laughed. 
Soon we were well north 
on the Palisades Parkway,
and I asked him if he knew 
William Carlos Williams, 
for being in New Jersey 
made me think of him. 
He did, but not very well. 
He had read with him once.
He was a judge the year 
he got the Pulitzer 
posthumously. 
Then he turned to look 
out the window.
I stopped asking questions.
We were silent the rest
of the way. I regret now 
not saying what I wanted to, 
that I didn’t believe it 
would have been dreadful,
that poem on the George
Washington Bridge.
No, not at all dreadful.

 

TWO FARMS

I often drive on a road
that has two farms.
They’re about a half mile 
apart, one with horses,
the other with cows.
When I drive to town
that way, I see the horses
first and then the cows,
and when I drive the other
way to go back home, 
I see the cows first, then
the horses afterward,
and for some reason,
they do not look the same
as they do the first time
I pass them, the horses 
and the cows, the cows 
and the horses. The cows
are more noble, the horses 
still noble but more modest,
more sadly so.

 

 SONNET OF THE FIRST SENTENCES OF THE NOVELS I NEVER WROTE

All of this happened, no more, no less.
One morning, a cockroach woke up to find it was changed into a salesman.
I am an all too visible man.
It was hate at first sight.

The morning was sunny and calm.
For a long time, I went to bed as late as I could.
There was every possibility of taking a walk that day.
What the hell do I know about families, happy or otherwise?

A whispering comes across the ocean.
I am a healthy man… I am an empathetic man.
No one I know died today.
This is the dumbest story I have ever heard.

I have never begun a novel with more optimism.
Call me tomorrow.

 

 VANITY

I’ve been walking around
mumbling the word vanity.
I can’t get it out of my head
or off my lips. “Vanity,” I say,
shaking my head, when I see 
the cardiologist drive off in his 
new Mercedes. “Vanity,” I say,
shaking my head, when I watch 
the woman in the supermarket 
ostentatiously display her Gucci 
bag. “Vanity,” I say, shaking my 
head when the teenage lovers
walk down the street wearing
matching Jordans and aviators.
“Vanity,” I say to my reflection
as I pass in front of the book
store window. “All is vanity,”
I say, shaking my head.