Author Archives: anthonyuplandpoetwatkins

About anthonyuplandpoetwatkins born in Jackson, The United States August 04, 1959 gender male website genre Poetry, Historical Fiction influences James M. Lancaster, Brenda Black White, Gertrude Stein, William Carlos Williams, and Al Filreis member since March 2011 About this author edit data As one of the most public lives ever lived by a private citizen, there is little about me that isn't already available at Facebook or Shelfari and countless other places. Poet, writer, construction worker, salesman, truck driver, climber into the attics of total strangers, father and husband, and all around one of the luckiest men on the planet. My luck continued with a win in the June Goodreads Newsletter Contest! What an honor! http://anthonyuplandpoetwatkins.wordp... Additional Influences: Bob Dylan, William Faulkner, Barbara Kingsolver, Gloria Naylor, Eudora Welty

They Don’t Howl No More

I saw the greatest words of my generation wasted, strunked and white wrung out with punctuation dying a slow txtng death   Used in minor+myopic+ progressive+political+positions, smoking unfiltered vowels and whoring themselves out to uniformly avante garde literary publishers.   … Continue reading

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Dear Morning Bring Me an Ironing Board

No need for an iron to press my shirt Only tea, with milk I do not drink small room six people dress eat pop tarts and tie shoes   America is always late hurry, don’t forget your books I’ll have … Continue reading

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From Some Tree this Hidden Calf (trying to escape Poe’s Raven)

  Waits and bleats and shadows brown dappled in darkness I hear it call   a cry, but a cry without hope in the tradition of a beast, whose ancestors know only slaughter.   There is surely a rope or … Continue reading

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Something There Is (or The Mending Wall)

After Frost, the poet, not weather, I built a circle wall, or rather spiral all to come to mend, wall, themselves to walk both sides and agree it makes good neighbors.   Something there is that loves a wall to … Continue reading

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Seven-Thirty Sunset

As grandmother and toddler turn to home, the Hispanic boy with gold necklace runs through a back yard and the Haitian girl tosses a worn brown basketball to her nephews   life flows out onto the narrow streets of Lake … Continue reading

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This looks like a poem, more or less, but….

How Modern a Creek, Then? The boy, careful to lay the rifle down, pointing away looking in the bed of copper leaves, layered upon layer, for signs of a snake for which the rifle was carried, then leaning in, belly … Continue reading

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Red Eye Open

I would like to say no words were harmed in the making of the poem. You see, I like words as much as some people like puppies and small children. As a grandfather, and something of a pushover I love … Continue reading

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