Wednesday, 2 August 2017

Panthera Leo: New Book of New Poetry by Andreas Gripp

My new book of poems, Panthera Leo, is now available on the Harmonia Press Book Order Page. Most of the poems were written since I moved to Goderich this past Spring. It will be launched at the Wednesday, September 6th, 2017 Reading Room Poetry Series event at Huron County Library's Goderich Branch at 6:30pm. Open Mic to follow.

from Panthera Leo and other poems:

Marooning the Muse

We sat at the beach together 

but I didn’t write a thing.

I looked to the horizon

and its meeting of sky and sea

and the cerulean they both shared

at the point where we see

the world is round indeed.

You wrote of sandpipers

on the strand and the seagulls

encircling the trawler

traversing the harbour,

and I left you the metaphors

to find while I was lost in a reverie

that had Magellan meeting


on the edge of a precipice,

saying yes, it’s all an illusion,

this vortex of birds and their fish,

this looping of ships and our poems.

©2017 by Andreas Gripp

The West Coast of Somewhere

As a boy, I saw only sand and sea

and stones I pitched with a splash

beneath the shifting animal clouds

that I envisioned.

As a single young man

on a day of sun and cirrus,

I knew nothing of rocks

and waves colliding with the shore,

only the flash of skin and curves

exposed for browning.

Now middle-aged in wedlock,

ambling along the beach

beside my wife,

I see the patterns on pebbles

and the gulls that dip for trout

while the crew of college girls,

jumping for frisbees in the surf,

are supposedly a blur below

this cumulus of savannah cats

overseeing their great,

ephemeral kingdom.

©2017 by Andreas Gripp


I have to confess.

I haven’t worn

the kimono

that you bought me

for my birthday.

It isn’t

that it’s hideous,

with its pitter-patter prints

of leopard paws,

or I’d be embarrassed

to be seen

in its flow

of purple silk –

or perhaps it’s true I would,

but only because

I believe

in authenticity –

not appropriation;

that I’ve never set my foot

in Yokohama,


or any other portion of Japan;

that I abhor the thought of sushi

which is not to say

that all the Japanese

are fond of it,

eat with wooden chopsticks

(which I’ve never been able

to master),

and that a single grain of rice

is never spilled,

as if the starch

was somehow


and the utensils

simply conducive

to the attraction

of innate law;

that they all believe

in Zen,

bow to ancestral


smoke and incense

wafting through each room;

that Godzilla

haunts their dreams

and they’d flip me

in a second

since they all know martial arts.

No, I’m sorry,

but the kimono

that you got me

doesn’t fit,

is like a dress that holds

2 people,

makes me trip

when I’m on the run,

gets tangled

in my spokes

when I’m on

my bicycle,

pedalling frantically,

pretending I’m chased

by a giant lizard

stomping cardboard houses


 ©2017 by Andreas Gripp


The way our cat

sleeps on books

makes us think of osmosis,

her head reposed

on the cover’s title,

her paw outstretched

over the author’s name

denoting some kind of kinship,

as though the writer

forged a portal

for lazy felines

to stealthily enter.

I’ve heard that whiskers

help a cat to navigate

the dark,

are conductors that channel

information to its brain

in a manner much quicker

than the antiquated roundabouts

of a podium-chained professor.

Let’s wake our dearest pet

upon sufficient assimilation,

see if she spouts some Shakespeare

as none other than Shylock could –

or replace The Merchant of Venice

with a treatise of greater use

than a reprisal’s pound of flesh,

done in a hush that doesn’t disturb,

propping A Brief History of Time

beneath her chin

and await the meows

that otherwise beckon us

to feed, to stroke,

to clean her kitty


that speak instead

of cosmological aeons,

the pull of black holes,

the deep red shift in stars

much too far for us to see.

 ©2017 by Andreas Gripp

No comments:

Post a Comment