Friday, September 13, 2013

John Lambremont. Sr. - Poet

September 12, 2013

Well, this is my first blog entry since February, but that is not to say that I have not been involved in poetry; quite the contrary, in fact. The most recent and exciting news is that my second full-length volume of poems, Dispelling The Indigo Dream, will be released shortly by Local Gems Poetry Press of Long Island, New York. The release will be followed by readings and appearances in the Gulf South region this fall and in the New York City area in general and Long Island in particular. I will post a link for the purchase of my new book as soon as possible, and your support would be greatly appreciated.

Next, I have had a number of poems accepted and/or published since my last post. My poem Dummy appeared this summer in The Minetta Review, the undergraduate literary journal of New York University. My poem In Quietude, which appeared in an earlier post, was published this summer in Lilly Press/River Poets Journal's Tales From the Matriarchal Zone anthology. My poem The Woods Grow Silent will appear soon in Snake Nation Press' Gulf Stream Poems anthology, and my poems Triple Negative and Nightmare appeared recently in The Ampersand Review.

I also published a paper in this year's edition of Cantos, the literary review of Missouri Baptist University. The paper was titled "So You Want To Be A Poet?" and was a primer for beginning and developing poets on how to write, submit, and publish poems. I was also invited in March by Dr. Michael Alleman of The Louisiana Review to give a reading of my poems at Cafe Mosaic in Eunice, Louisiana, which was a lot of fun.Video was shot of the reading, and I'm trying to get a link to it, which  I hope to post soon.

Finally, I have completed and published print volume one of my Big River Poetry Review, of which I am very proud. The print volume is 185 pages of outstanding contemporary poetry, and includes every poem we published on-line in the Review between its inception in late May 2012 and the end of December 2012. Please support the Review by purchasing a copy or two (it makes a great gift!)on-line at Here are some pictures of the launch party we had for the Review at Teppanyaki Restaurant in Baton Rouge on August 24:

Now for some poems. This first was nominated for The Pushcart Prize in 2009 by A Hudson View of Manhattan, NYC, after being rejected by several other journals. Special thanks go to editor Victoria Valentine for her vote of confidence in that regard.



Sperm with no song,
sea plum trumpet,
now can you play?
Just one of those magic moments
you can never get back.

“Fire is the power in this patrol;
here return your bricks to home,
in travel and in stone.”

I’m adapting to not adapting.
Woo me with passion, Mary Diamond,
I want it after the dirt.


“Of course I can’t tell
what this snap-out is made of,
but seeds sink into the loam
and lurk.” 
I see them in my mind
at the ten mark line;
I’m sawdusting into the floor
My eyes want to be
a pair of hands that touch.
Let’s try to war, it’s called
a plot of goo.
“Naturalism and diversity, is that correct?”
Pantomime flea stick tick dip?
The old cash register empty,
nothing that some money couldn’t fix;
I’m a four-wheel chair on a five-wheel ramp.

“Want some smiley, some cerviche?
I head shake, pensive in noodle soup.
Can I get some kind of bread,
just some kind of bread with this:
“That’s no kid, that’s a midget in spywear."


“You’re putting that in your navel?”
Oh, it’s filling in nicely, I think.
Master of the breakfast table,
you can feel the fire in my stove.
The sausage is not in the sink.

We’re staying down at the Cure-O apartments;
we need someone to re-mail these units.
“Ah, now I’m getting light-blinded;
I’m going to have to blink.”

We’ll check into
the gaudy pass-out truck,
assuming it’s bawdy enough.

I might try the sticky round-up
and the parents’ meeting,  
to see if that will oppose,
as opposed to rope.                                                                                                                                                    

“Now we go a-quarter hole digging,
nineteen holes, breast implant enhancement.”
I see your view over the pushman leggings,
and it was short.

I will be pursued by your Rondo, even though
while I may move faster,
he will pursue faster also.
I will know the fullness of the river
when I feel the cool nest of the springs.

But the high tides of July
abound about the nineteenth,
encircle my gull cries,
as I might become extinct,
a last night’s sojourn
as the moon turns full.

One thing I preach as a poet, editor, and commentator is to never give up on a poem you truly believe in, keep polishing it and re-submitting it until it finds its way into the right editor's hands. That was the with Suburb In Rondo; it was rejected at least five times before it was accepted. 

This next poem is the last in the series of three poems I had published in Romania in Nazar Look's Extraterrestrial Life anthology:


In the darkness between
the setting of the large moon
and the rising of the small one,
he slips into the women's chamber,
idly, without thinking.
His brother's wife sleeps separate
from the women lined on pallets.
She has assumed the waiting position
in the ritual rope bed,
half kneeling, half crouching,
arms extended, hands on the supports.

He sees she is sleeping lightly,
her lashes flutter slightly,
and he wonders why his brother
has not taken her;
two days have passed
since their vows were exchanged,
and she is a handsome woman,
beamy, roomy, and able.
He had wanted her for himself,
but she had favored his brother,
said the village chief,
and he could not understand this,
as he and his brother were identicals.
He sensed the presence of politics,
since his brother was a sitwa in training,
soon to be pressed into service
to the Sajan.

He stands above her, longing,
then pulls a small stool over
to the head of the bed.
Standing on it, he sees an opening
between her arms and chest
big enough for his slim frame.
He steps gently over the supports,
and slides slowly beneath her,
then realizes immediately
he is trapped.

She feels him pressed against her, and stirs.
A pleasant hum escapes her
as she embraces him,
and he buries his face
between her heavy breasts
in case the dark
does not allay detection.
Every part of him is petrified,
including his maleness.
She pulls aside her bed robe
and loosens his loincloth,
lowering herself onto him.
She moves slowly on top of him,
kissing his long neck
to muffle her moans.

He hears a sound above them,
and looks up in the soft light
of the rising second moon
to see the face of the elder vesper,
who watches without expression.
Again he hides in the bosom
of his brother's wife, until
he hears the vesper clear her throat
quietly and leave the chamber.

His brother's wife has not noticed,
so deep is her passion,
and he is soon astonished
by the quickness and force
of his climax. She removes herself,
and lays back on the bed
in the rapture of the moonlight,
her turrine at full brim.

In the early morning,
he enters the meal chamber,
and sees his brother's wife
smiling and making love eyes
at his brother, who ignores her
as he dines with his fellows.
At the head table, seated
between the chief and the elder vesper
is the Sajan himself.
The Sajan has a smile for the villagers,
but peers at him intently,
no laughter in his eyes.

And finally, to close this session, here's the next installment in my series about The Holy Grand Poo-Bah, the diminutive alien despot of a far-away planet:


    Grand Poo-Bah next heard
    from the Poo Pledgeslature,
    and they were not pleasant,
    but harsh in their nature;
    the Grand Poo-Bah grinned
    at a list of his sins,
    a war so deplored, and
    most Boo-pahs now gored;
    a Flea Market panic,
    and the Ant Market frantic,
    with nobody spending their
    Poo-Bahlese yin;

    His personal excesses so justly exposed,
    the IV Sambuca, the hose up his nose,
    plus games with Boo-Pahinees
    dressed in pink hose.

    Grand Poo-Bah then summoned
    the whole Pledgeslature;
    he begged for forgiveness,
    his winces convincing,
    he said his behavior
    was Holy Poo Nature:
    “Oh, well! What the hell;
     Dispatch all the Pledgeslators  
     straight to Hell!”

That's all for now. I'll try not to let seven months slip by before my next post.

My best, and yours in poetry,

John Lambremont, Sr.