New Poems: 2009 to 2014

By Domenick J. Yezzi

Dom Yezzis only other book of poetry, Collected Poems, was published in 2009 to non-existent critical acclaim. This new hesitant collection delves into amorphous topics no other writer today, or at anytime in the past, has either cared to, or felt the need to, dissect ad nauseam. Neither overly elegant, nor sufficiently catchy, these halting poems seem to be equal parts overactive imagination and unnecessary psychosis and are unlike anything else this critic has ever been tasked with digesting before, including Aunt Bethels Thanksgiving Dinner. The halting rhythm juxtaposes with the accidental rhyme to give the overall impression of an elderly drunk stumbling into a dark alley singing Peg of My Heart with a girl on each arm. The inexplicable references and tenuous leaps in imagery challenge those not properly stoned in preparation for taking this journey. Little else can be said that the actual poetry itself doesnt relate either explicitly or by innuendo. We await his next collection with battened-down breaths.

The East Hobroken Sentinel of Criticism

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Jan 23, 2015
• ISBN: 9781503536043

Domenick J. Yezzi

Dom Yezzi grew up in New York City and has been writing poetry since high school. This effectively kept girls at bay but if one ventured near, reciting a few verses proved to be an effective antidote. In his formative years, people would look at him strangely when he would be reading poetry on the bus on train. For the most part, his poetic career was effectively stifled by work and raising a family. Now that these concerns are behind him, there’s no barrier to protect the world from his ruminations.

Book preview

AT THE BOTANICAL GARDENS

At the botanical gardens

I framed in my mind

the perfect picture of you,

inspired by the exotic plants,

and had you pose

in front of their showy display

moving about and focusing

to get the perfect angle.

But when I printed the picture

the exotics disappeared

behind your breathtaking, beaming smile

and loving, laughing eyes.

Only then did I recognize

how unfocused

my original framing had been.

How I wish that smile were permanently on your face

so a frown I would never have the need to erase.

BASEMENT FASCINATIONS

My grandparents’ basements held fascinations.

On my mother’s side, the basement of paneled walls

had recessed latches that lead to hidden storage

of carefully sealed and marked boxes full of memories.

(But the memories were theirs, not anyone else’s,

so when they were opened later, the memories escaped

like ghosts in a Casper cartoon.)

When I scanned the slides in to make a DVD

the images looked faded, pale brown and upset

that I had disturbed their slumbering peace.

The large, old furnace in the laundry room

had a life apart, burping, hissing,

demanding my grandfather’s flashlighted attention

when it was thirsty. And the toilet in the closet

somehow flushed, even being below ground

and the special nightly retreat for my grandfather

and his newspaper.

The boogey man hid down there in the dark,

waiting until nightfall,

when he would come out to climb the tree next to the driveway

ready to pounce on me should I pass by.

He had a back full of embedded knives

that didn’t seem to bother him in the least.

When the time came, Maryanne and I would dance down there

to Harry Bellefonte singing Matilda.

On my father’s side, the basement was a work of art.

The main room was large, finished and un-interesting.

The closets held huge portraits of ancient ancestors

guessed-at, who gained notoriety

as more and more knowledge of them was lost.

Above the workbench

was the Betty Grable bathing suit pinup from The War;

even I was fascinated how women can be attractive

regardless of the fashion you foist on them:

Burka or Nun’s Habit, anyone?

The storage rooms around the furnace sported glass blocks;

my Uncle Lou’s war souvenirs were stored in one.

Thank god time and comic books made them more acceptable.

But the most important room in the basement

was the kitchen and pantry

with the table where my grandmother would

roll out the ravioli for the holidays.

She had a stature just slightly below Father McNulty,

although they both could hold their wine.

More about her another time.

What had they thought when they designed these subterranean worlds?

They became a playground for me, my cousins and The Girls.

BLUE-DRAPED SURGEON

Blue-draped Surgeon:

You wish eagerly to cut me open

to understand the parts of me that aren’t like yours.

But specimens die even when cleverly butchered:

the segments preserved in examination jars;

the connections severed, the whole lost.

And what will you do with the jars begging for

a specimen when your scalpel finds all that’s left

are packing crate peanuts that cling to you

no matter how many times you shake them off?

But I can tell you that my ignorance runs deep.

How high can I leap from the low plateau

of my effortless upbringing?

The immigrants brought us knowledge and diversity;

Elvis was Italian, right?

As drippings from the frying pan

are only so useful,

limited intelligence ably deployed,

gives the impression of greater heights,

like a handyman who grasps the situation

without knowing the schooled solution,

but rigs a solution of his own that works for a while.

Technology has taken all the decisions out of my life;

I need not turn a crucial eye.

I snap all the pictures I want,

it no longer costs a cent.

Something will come of it.

And I can also tell you that

my stage isn’t wide,

nor my audience large,

but the adoration of a few,

rather than the curiosity of the many,

is more than sufficient for my well-being.

Spider webs are strong traps it’s true

but they make beautiful bridges,