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By Ryan Keating
(Instagram: @ryankeating77
Twitter: @keatingr)
—Evading Time—
Nothing is simultaneous with this poem.
It happens with or without you,
although it isn’t infinite or uncreated.
It isn’t coeval with anything either,
which is just another word
for the same vain attempt to trap me.
It isn’t contemporaneous with other things,
not even coffee, not even this coffee.
It’s short and finite and
above and beyond before and after,
not coinciding with whatever
you’re imagining,
and definitely not coterminous.
And now it’s finished.
—Darkle—
I imagined a real poet
had to use the word “darkled”
at least twice. I was sure I was ready,
so I stepped down into the shadow
corner of my mind
where the machinery runs.
The pistons and wheels chugged
faster while I shoveled
chunks of coal into the furnace.
The red glow from the fire
spread to the metal door
and the machine
and the floor
and my face.
Nothing darkled.
I spent a few minutes leaning
against the wall,
sweating on the shovel handle,
discouraged at my failure-
the diminished pile of coal
gradually faded from view
in the afternoon light.
—Enso—
I painted myself outside
standing a few steps away
from one of those perfect circles
that traditional Japanese artists
draw with a single brush stroke.
I’m leaning awkwardly on a bench
in a green park with other passers by
watching the artist in my painting
close the circle with a streaky flourish
on the sidewalk where I might have stood.
Now, looking at myself in the painting
Looking at a painter painting circles,
I wish I had made the circle big enough
to include me, or at least left it open.
—This Weird Garden—
Meaninglessness runs like razor wire
along the edge of reason’s wall.
If anything is meaningless
everything is — excluding nothing
from its bloody isolation.
His sacrifice and her tears
Broken sunglass frames saved in drawers
Diamonds on the souls of her shoes
Ice cream that fills the cone
And Hopkins’ Windhover
But once it has breached the broken wall,
Meaning floods the field undammed
Either everything is meaningless
Or nothing is- including anything
That sprouts in this weird garden
Shoulder freckles
The stickiness of dried apple juice
Leaves of grass, mosquitoes
Spinal meningitis
Every mile on the odometer and Me.
First appeared in Ekstasis Magazine
First publication date (June 2, 2022).
About the Author:
Ryan Keating is a writer, teacher, and winemaker on the Mediterranean island of Cyprus.
His work can be found in publications such as Saint Katherine Review, Ekstasis Magazine, Amethyst Review, Macrina Magazine, Fathom, Dreich, Vocivia, and Miras Dergi, where he is a regular contributor in English and Turkish.
You can follow Ryan Keating on his social media:
Instagram: @ryankeating77
Twitter: @keatingr