Ricardo and Isabel Nirenberg since 1998.
Poems by Tim Suermondt
This afternoon the sun, rather comic like,
is being pricked by antennas on the roofs.
I hear the noise from the vast stadium nearby
and wait for a sizeable portion of the crowd
to invade the street, either in giddy or disconsolate
fashion strictly depending on the outcome.
With wine glass in hand I usually salute everyone,
the winners as well as the losers, the shadows where
boys and girls go to keep cool, the slightest ounce
of plushness I see and invent—even the silly toast
to time and its end hangs supremely in the air.
NO USE PITYING THE BEAUTIFUL
Some people are so beautiful
they make us look at them with awe
and remind us that even in our
beautiful time we never possessed
such beauty and in those moments
the dusk tends to arrive
rimming the rooftops before
the dreams of men who cause women
not only to lose their breath
but their shoes and hats dresses
and jeans bras and panties naked
in the night with streetlights.
WE’RE ALL LOST
I’m never lost. I always figure
I’m going where I should be going.
But I really am lost—
in a country I barely know,
in a language I know even less.
And huge sycamore trees like monsters
line the narrow road at night.
If I disappear, what will my friends think—
assuming they’ll think of me at all.
No, they’ll think of me—they’re good people,
mostly, each one better than me.
I wonder if any of them will hear me calling out:
“I’m fine. We’re all lost—I just got lost
more than the rest of you.”
I wonder if they’ll imagine me happy
every time they walk down my street, enveloped
in their own happiness I’ll miss most of all.
USUALLY ON A SUNDAY
The array of the army
marches down Victory Square—
an expanse only a dictator
or the like-minded could love.
There’s no accounting for taste.
Bomb here. Bomb there.
It is a Sunday, and August.
The air conditioning is working
in my apartment. I’m a happy man—
don’t be too hard on me.
‘ROMAN HOLIDAY’ IN THE PARK
Rome in the 1950’s—
the stars poised precisely
over our couple. Everything
will be fine. Everything.
It isn’t nice to be reminded
that in his later life and career
Gregory Peck took the role
of Josef Mengele, acting
with the worst German accent
this side of sleepy Dusseldorf.
It isn’t nice…but let’s return
to Audrey Hepburn as she scoots
around the Eternal City, lovely
in the ruins of movie making,
wearing outfits my mother wore
in her dreams—my father dazzled,
calling her Princess all night long.
Tim Suermondt is the author of two full-length collections: TRYING TO HELP THE
ELEPHANT MAN DANCE ( The Backwaters Press, 2007 ) and JUST BEAUTIFUL from
New York Quarterly Books, 2010. He has published poems in Poetry, The Georgia Review,
Blackbird, Able Muse, Prairie Schooner, PANK, Bellevue Literary Review, Stand Magazine (U.K.), and has poems forthcoming in december magazine, Plume Poetry Journal,
North Dakota Quarterly and Ploughshares. After many years in Queens and Brooklyn,
he has moved to Cambridge with his wife, the poet Pui Ying Wong.
His work appears in Offcourse #51, Poems ; Pui Ying Wong's "Barn Life and Other Poems" appeared in Issue #53.