Poetry by Ray Succre

Two poems
by Ray Succre


Dead Like This

I’ve known your wish but retort.
No Mr. Spring Poet, you don’t.
It’s empty; you cannot feel
for this thing. To be like
this dead leaf is suicide;
you can sense a forest,
a tree, a bough, but you cannot
be this leaf, romantically dead.

Imaginative children will not
play with you.

Your husk can not tumble,
it is to encounter no drift.
Wind is slated to pass it nil or brief,
and children don’t remember
their dead things for long.

This leaf: Suicide.
You walk in the human shape;
when dead, it makes the most
romantically held husk around.

--------------------

Shade and Clatter

1. When creative, he is the person,
afair weave
where some man forms a pattern
and then lives at its center, a
spidery adult
designed to eat in quick feeds
intermissed by digestion,
and sensing-hours.

2. He plays co-star to my narrative,
and I should see him short.

3. One becomes hyphenated,
unable to remain on the
origin, and said
a Courtesy-Man,
a Whipping-Man,
or the Canceller-man,
the Indigeny-Man.

4. Experience leads hard to
classification, to subdirection, and
age is a reaver of adjectives.

5. He is work, a remainder of
urge, who stands well. He
comes heavy on missionary
tracts and headaches on dials,
to these late places
where we are to meet
and whelm
in the license of learning.


Author bio:

Ray Succre currently lives on the southern Oregon coast with his wife and baby son. He has been published in Aesthetica, Laika, and Rock Salt Plum, as well as in numerous others across as many countries. He tries hard.