by Paul B. Roth
In Moments in Place, Paul Roth, with acute perception, threads the reader right through the eye of his natural surroundings, where he not only allows us to witness nature but become part of it. One can feel the moon on his lap as his hands “let go their grip on its craters and soft textures….” Or how his blood “…flowed its greenest red through a rhubarb stalk’s arteries.” We join the poet in his contemplative study of understanding and existential awareness “….as if after billions of years and through the vastness of this nothingness, our temporary lives were contrived.” He considers aging, time, loss of memory and the desire to speak with the dead and realizes “…just to see them/takes the same/speed of light/only our dreams/can achieve.”
—Patty Dickson Pieczka, author of Beyond the Moon’s White Claw
Over the decades Paul Roth has written a major corpus of poetry, finely attuned to the minute details of nature, yet always granting them their universal weight. By effacing himself in rapt observation of the red on a blackbird’s wings, or the sheer veils of snow on grey rock, he has enriched his poetic voice all the more. The Earth speaks through his words, in all its intimate particulars—but also as a blue sphere lost in space, moving through a cosmos beyond our grasp. His extraordinary new book, Moments in Place, invests his vision with a further note of clarity: the vantage point of old age, when life 'narrows us down through a thinning passageway to a life expectancy of zero.' Many of the moments here are memories, though he brings them into our present place without nostalgia, much less metaphysical delusions. In his work we are always gratefully aware—to paraphrase Oppen—of the reality that we confront.
—Hoyt Rogers, author of Thresholds
Paul B. Roth has been published widely in the United States and his work has been translated and appeared in journals from Japan, Peru, Israel, France, Bolivia, Italy, Ecuador, India, China, Mexico, Italy, Syria, Romania, Estonia and the UK. In both 2018 and 2020, he was nominated for a Pushcart Prize. He is the author of seven collections of poetry of which his most current are Cadenzas by Needlelight (Cypress Books, 2009), Words the Interrupted Speak (March Street Press, 2011), Long Way Back to the End (Rain Mountain Press, 2014), Owasco: Passage of Lake Poems (Finishing Line Press, 2018), and Weightless Earth (Bitter Oleander Press, 2022). He lives in Fayetteville, NY where he’s served as editor and publisher of The Bitter Oleander Press since 1974.
by Paul B. Roth
The Pebble and the Turtle
Underwater lay a smooth pebble never glowed upon at dawn from depths well below this sea’s sand bottom for who knows how long until recently when startled by a tsunami it became lodged, quite by accident, between a Loggerhead turtle’s shell and its hind legs frantically paddling to the surface where, loosened by waves washing over it on shore, and beside its own egg cluster, it’s deposited deep in sand shaded by tall grasses in whose midst leans a crooked no trespassing sign
Art/Life
After squeezing this soft clay face hard with fingers clenched as tight as can be into its skull’s empty sockets, I quickly realize it’s not clay, not the soft giving texture my fingers expected, and so relaxing my grip, I watch as this face fills back up with not just the color of its blood but with the exact same expression of fear it’s worn the entire time
A Wishful Moment
While night turns sideways along this half of the Earth, anticipating moments that come and go without much notice, I reach out to that one particular moment when, instead of stretched out to meet me, it snaps back in my hands as a reminder of the way the sun once shot a single ray of blinding light precisely through my nursery door’s keyhole, spelling my name for the very first time without any well-known letters’ help
Sequential
Handed me in another dream, a delicate white cup, spattered with muddy red flecks of color as though lifted off the shell of a cardinal’s egg, and filled with a warm, aromatic, tantalizing liquid, keeps slipping away each time my lips try sipping from it, causing my teeth to bite down hard on its rim, savoring only the porcelain dust this entire dream’s made of
A Dead Future
We won’t know
there’ll be nothing
left to do
when we’re dead
We won’t know
the Earth around us
any better than
when we were alive
Only those who gather
around us at the end
holding nothing’s
weightlessness
in their empty arms
as a final offering
understand
this sudden silence
that the rumors
of our deaths
have already spoken
After It’s Done Starting
What awaits my absence
stranded by the life
that’s buried me away
may be this empty desk
on which no one else
will ever again
place paper or pen
will ever again
write in praise of creation
using so many rescued
or discarded words
or ever know
it might have been
more than enough
to have left
just a few remnants
engraved forever
on such indelible whiteness
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