John Grey is an Australian-born poet and US resident since the late seventies. He works as financial systems analyst. Recently his work has been published in Xavier Review, White Wall Review and Writer's Bloc with work upcoming in Poem, Prism International and the Cider Press Review.
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John Grey Interview, with Nicelle Davis
I love your use of synesthesia in the poem "To Linda." How did you decide when a smell should truly be a scent verses the sound of a clock transforming into a sun?
To me, a scent can only be sweet, desirable. A smell is more ambiguous. In the context of "To Linda", it's intended to jar a little. A clock transforming into the sun suggests the mechanical, artificial world we live in breaking down into something more natural – the sun, the sea, the sand etc.
You write lovely love poems. How do you write about such a subject without becoming too sentimental?
I find nothing wrong with sentiment but, when I set out writing a love poem, I want that sentiment to be earned. Yes, there's any number of poems in my body of work that could be summarized with the simple message of "I love you" but the challenge is to clothe it, position it, focus it, differently each time. The quest is to say it in a way it's never been said before.
I find nothing wrong with sentiment but, when I set out writing a love poem, I want that sentiment to be earned. Yes, there's any number of poems in my body of work that could be summarized with the simple message of "I love you" but the challenge is to clothe it, position it, focus it, differently each time. The quest is to say it in a way it's never been said before.
Your poems are full of twists and surprises. How do you use line breaks to help readers turn the corner to find "a shark feasting"?
Line breaks and I go back a long way – a constant back and forth as to whether they should be long, short, punctuation etc. Ultimately, my aim with my line breaks is to make the poem easier to read which, in turn, makes them for me easier to write. The break offers the opportunity for a pause for both reader and rider and, also, if there is a twist like the shark or a black hood, it can make the image more emphatic.
What new poetry projects are you working on?
With me, poetry is a constant. I write every day – poetry, short stories, plays. In a sense, my life has become a poetry project and I'm more comfortable with that than at any time in my life. I probably should be doing more bundling of my work into books and chapbooks but I have been lax in that regard compared to sending to magazines.
With me, poetry is a constant. I write every day – poetry, short stories, plays. In a sense, my life has become a poetry project and I'm more comfortable with that than at any time in my life. I probably should be doing more bundling of my work into books and chapbooks but I have been lax in that regard compared to sending to magazines.
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To Linda
A clock on a sagging wall
would have done just as well
but my time was the sea,
the color of varnish,
the smell of dog's breath.
And the hour was the sun,
low in the sky,
more interested in rugged gray cliffs
than water surface,
particular to give the distant
evergreen hills their share
of waning light.
would have done just as well
but my time was the sea,
the color of varnish,
the smell of dog's breath.
And the hour was the sun,
low in the sky,
more interested in rugged gray cliffs
than water surface,
particular to give the distant
evergreen hills their share
of waning light.
Shore hollowed out by ebbing tide,
time was also salt-drenched kelp, slimy rocks,
shell and shark bone and driftwood
Time ticked off in distant breakwater.
It measured what it could
from footprints in gray stone.
I looked at my watch.
It said here's where all life began.
Where all life begins...
that's where we said we'd meet.
time was also salt-drenched kelp, slimy rocks,
shell and shark bone and driftwood
Time ticked off in distant breakwater.
It measured what it could
from footprints in gray stone.
I looked at my watch.
It said here's where all life began.
Where all life begins...
that's where we said we'd meet.
The Worshipers in Our Town
Many ways to awaiting their baby Jesus
like dumb proles in line
for the arrival of steam...
there's no urgency but
anything to be away from where they've been.
Like you and me,
back to the beach,
or the old braying woman in the doll shop...
back there somewhere.
Or your mother on her shrink's couch...
back to the beginning of memory.
And Uncle Al, eternally sauced,
backwards from his own impending death, perhaps.
like dumb proles in line
for the arrival of steam...
there's no urgency but
anything to be away from where they've been.
Like you and me,
back to the beach,
or the old braying woman in the doll shop...
back there somewhere.
Or your mother on her shrink's couch...
back to the beginning of memory.
And Uncle Al, eternally sauced,
backwards from his own impending death, perhaps.
No walls, no barriers,
to their version of a holy presence,
just patience,
relying on their body as a ticking watch
while others might see it as a rose,
or an ornament.
Religion's deep and wedged
into the bottom of what they refer to as their souls.
Beauty yes,
but in the forests above our town, they gather,
the sickness of the heart
imagining its saintly cure.
Like you and me,
been what's done
now getting on with what we need to be.
And that woman with her armfuls of dolls...
selling gratitude behind glass.
And your mother
beneath the flat circles of the hardiest sun
redeeming herself with memory
of those below the dirt and the smell.
And Uncle Al,
cured by a too rich mixture.
to their version of a holy presence,
just patience,
relying on their body as a ticking watch
while others might see it as a rose,
or an ornament.
Religion's deep and wedged
into the bottom of what they refer to as their souls.
Beauty yes,
but in the forests above our town, they gather,
the sickness of the heart
imagining its saintly cure.
Like you and me,
been what's done
now getting on with what we need to be.
And that woman with her armfuls of dolls...
selling gratitude behind glass.
And your mother
beneath the flat circles of the hardiest sun
redeeming herself with memory
of those below the dirt and the smell.
And Uncle Al,
cured by a too rich mixture.
There's people on the hilltop praying.
There's others all around them living.
Day's descending. Night's rising.
Make of it what you need.
There's others all around them living.
Day's descending. Night's rising.
Make of it what you need.
Angel
Only one way to think of her as angelic,
with her green eyes slowed,
and her red ringlets on the pillow,
flannel dream station,
waiting for the next train.
Any time of day
you can imagine her
as a shark feasting
in the parlor shoals
or a towering thunderhead
at the end of a kitchen knife
or black-hooded in the bathroom,
guillotine-side,
awaiting the next rumbling tumbrel.
you can imagine her
as a shark feasting
in the parlor shoals
or a towering thunderhead
at the end of a kitchen knife
or black-hooded in the bathroom,
guillotine-side,
awaiting the next rumbling tumbrel.
But night,
earth's death pallor,
a coffin of weariness,
her snores come to mourn,
her sleeping body to ascend you...
breath in breath
like hands held tight,
you're off to see the great god
subliminal.
earth's death pallor,
a coffin of weariness,
her snores come to mourn,
her sleeping body to ascend you...
breath in breath
like hands held tight,
you're off to see the great god
subliminal.