Tuesday, 28 June 2016

Monday, 20 June 2016

Couplets Reading w/ Koral Scott on June 24th

Friday, June 24th, 2016
Chapters, 1037 Wellington Rd. South
London, Ontario
Free Admission
Koral Scott & Andreas Gripp 
Couplets Reading Series

Sunday, 5 June 2016

Japanese Robot

Dr. Zimmer’s acquisition
caused his colleagues
to stop and wonder:

a single man, never wed,
never telling tales of
love and sex,
and now, living with this
curvy, comely being
made of wires in lieu of veins,
simulated layer of skin,
synthetic stream of hair.

Sue-Lin, her name, she has a name
he’d say, always emphasizing
she, never it,

and when we came to visit,
she was seated at the table,
greeting us with a blink,
a nod and a gracious smile;

and yes, he still did all the cleaning,
and yes, he spoke so very gently,
complimenting her,

even singing happy birthday
when we all sat down for cake
(which we never saw her eat);

and yes, hers was a separate bed,
in a separate room, and he always knocked
first, he told us, never touched her
without consent,

wrote some verse for her
in English,
awaiting her translation,
marvel she’d uncover
all his metaphors for love:

She was never really programmed
for either poetry or passion.

Andreas Gripp

Friday, 3 June 2016

As Spring Yields to Summer

I only see her when she’s out,
the woman across the way,
pushing her lawnmower
that has no engine,
the grating of squeaky wheels,
its whirling, rusty blades,
the sound of a hundred haircuts.
A fumeless, slicing symphony,
the grass wafting fresh
and green.

Day and night
through my windowsill
and all is
as it should be:

cat eyes narrow to slits
at the first burst of light,
squirrels play tag,
bumblebees collect, send static
through the afternoon,

dogs howl at three-quarter moons
and backyard Copernicans
at the shadows on lunar scars.

A couple kiss and rock
on gently swinging seats,
embrace, sigh into sleep,
and dawn comes back again,
announced by startled yawns
and singing larks.

As Spring yields to Summer,
tulips slump head-first,
vibrancy fades, reds go rose,
goldenrod yellows,
joining the ordinary
around us.

There’s my neighbour
riding his bicycle, narrowly missed
by a milk truck,
Ms. April May receiving delivery,
twice weekly, half a quart,
that, and measurements
long thought dead
still heaving
their penultimate breath.

Andreas Gripp