The Third Drawer

By Robert W Green

An Ogham stone and quern face my green sea. The wild fuchsia, the fern and eucalyptus tree recall your sad face. Remember it better than me. One recent day, Beth Green unearthed a bundle of papers from a drawer next to her Viking stove. The papers contained poems and musings penned by her husband Robert—some typed on an old Royal manual typewriter, and others handwritten on beer mats, table napkins, and the backs of envelopes. After deciding the poems told a fascinating story of a creative mind while detailing sixty-plus turbulent and emotional years, she decided to organize the writings and then share them with the world. Green leads others through his life experiences while vividly reflecting on a variety of relatable topics that include nature, love, the desires that come with life, the four seasons, the familiarities of gazing in the mirror, the thoughts of a dictator, an unforgettable moment between father and daughter, the sound of children playing, and much more. The Third Drawer is a resurrection of a collection of poems unearthed after years that share lyrical insight into one man’s journey through life as he observes, loves, and remembers.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Archway Publishing
• Release date: Mar 17, 2023
• ISBN: 9781665733403

Robert W Green

Robert Green was born in London on December 12, 1941. In 1989 he founded Greenwood Racing. Prior to 1989, Mr. Green was Chairman and Chief Executive Officer of the William Hill Organization. He currently resides in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania with his wife and has 5 children.

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Copyright © 2023 Robert W Green.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

This book is a work of non-fiction. Unless otherwise noted, the author and the publisher make no explicit guarantees as to the accuracy of the information contained in this book and in some cases, names of people and places have been altered to protect their privacy.

Archway Publishing

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Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models,

and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

ISBN: 978-1-6657-3339-7 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-6657-3338-0 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-6657-3340-3 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2022920974

Archway Publishing rev. date: 3/16/2023

CONTENTS

Foreword

Post 1960

Twenty-Five

Pond Square

Conservatory

Possession 1999

Shoebox

Scaffold

Smile

The Dream

Fort Dix

Wanting

January

Shoe

Haircut

Windrift 2012

For Sylvia Plath

1327 and 1985

1985

Mondrian

The Paint of Mark Tansey

First Peel (The Bricoleur’s Daughter, 1987)

Second Peel (Conversation, 1986)

Pink Straw

Tour de France

Glenn Ngealt

In my convertible

Poem for Sarah

Dead Dogs

The Watch

Ordnance Survey

Crow

The Man

Anthracite

Rose Harriet

The Magic Dragon

Easter Lilies

The Rails

London

Albert

Going Home

Gene Kelly

Morning Miracle

Kissing God

Thursday

Philadelphia

Two Photographs

the prize

Ireland

Saying Good Night to a Young Lady

The Mirror

Wednesday, September 19, 2001

Rena

Kristallnacht

Jevity

Hokkaido

Three

At the Aquarium

U.2. 1961

San Francisco

The Road to Anascaul

2002

Greenbeam

North Star Bar/Michael Kroll

Auntie Louie

Cill Airne

Flo

Melanie

Max

Finola

Metro Section

The Secretary

Millie

LA

Santa Barbara, Friday Night

Beit-Mery

Killarney

Exactly 8:35 P.M.

The Maze

For CMG, May 2001

Elegy

Frankfurt

Wednesday, September 11, 2001

Words

Empty Gym, December 2007

Funeral

Menagerie

Putin Thoughts

Hope

Virginia Tech

Sophie and Max, 11/24/21

COVID

After Christmas

Hulagu’s Prayer

The Raid

J. H.

Somewhere in Europe

The Late Poems

Listowel

Kafka

Revelations

For Victoria

Pinball

Theodicy

On the Treadmill

Atlantic City

For Eugene

Dan

Cryin’

Sentence

Sunday Afternoon

A Nice Way of Looking at It

Midnight Jasmine

The Journey

Uncoupled

Deconstruct

Mix

COVID-19

Another Sin

Overcoat

Homecoming

Tulips

The Youngest Boy

The Mayor’s Entreaty

Patrick

Ode to Alan and the Black Taxi

Once

Cookies and Candies

To Louise Gluck

Love Poem

Swim

Moore

A Sweet

Father and Daughter

Memorial Sunday, Philadelphia, May 1996

Sophie

Parting

Return

For Ross

For Sarah

Hi, Nick

Toes

Gallery

Frances

Iridescent Star

Freedom

Musings from La Calaca Feliz, 11/8/21

June

Journey

Norma Jean

Where Do You Go?

Juvenilia (pre 1960)

Tonight

North Circular

Survivors

The Circle

Landsy

Astroworld

Eleanor

The Advance

The Drummer

Spring

This Morning

The Answer

Miramare

Beach

Kids

The Fly

Andy

Hypnosis

London

That’s How It’s Gonna Be

October

Modern Jazz

The Bank

1960

The Stairs

Locusts

Nets

Some Thoughts at Christmas

Springtime

Italy

The Wall

Two Poems for Kids

The Rat and the Cat

The Fight

Postscript

Trailer for the Rematch

FOREWORD

My name is Beth. I met Bob in 2012 and we were married in 2018. We have had over 10 years of a wonderful life together. This book is entitled ‘The Third Drawer" and it derives from our kitchen. As Bob is the main cook here, I rarely stray too far from our dining table but one day last year, I was looking for something and I happened to open the third drawer, next to the Viking stove. Inside, I found it stuffed with a bundle of papers containing poems and musings - some typed on an old Royal manual typewriter, others handwritten on everything from beer mats, table napkins and backs of envelopes. I took it upon myself to put them into some sort of collective order. And here they are. I think they tell a story that should be shared. A story of Bob’s creative mind and a slice of history over sixty turbulent and emotional years. For the record and in case it’s not clear, I love this man - as do many others.

POST 1960

TWENTY-FIVE

I am twenty-five minutes old.

There is blood around my ears

and the side of my neck.

The tissue at the crown of my head

is soft, almost fluid.

People peer in,

watch my mind at work.

My curled body

and bruised face,

my tiny fingers and toes

deceive them all.

I am twenty-five minutes old.

Already,

it has started.

POND SQUARE

Out there,

the square is clear.

So little movement.

A cloud interferes,

with a blade of moonlight.

There is

a slight tightening

of windows.

In here,

nothing moves

that can be seen.

Sounds, amplified

by the cold,

live their own life.

A soldierly tap drip,

the resonant breathing

of old furniture.

Isn’t this

a calm account?

An iron description

of a secular night.

The flat language

of needs

embedded in objects.

Trees footbound

in asphalt

and my effects,

my locked mouth.

For an icy moment,

let us admit

to a fractured heart;

your thumbnail

mechanically

scoring

a tinsel frost,

the veinless surface

of my mirrored back.

You won’t hear this.

So come back;

please come back.

CONSERVATORY

I am a

banded peacock,

and I have

to get out

of here.

Eleven days

to live,

a third

of my life

already gone.

I’m on high alert

for the tiger

buzz wings—

the black and gold,

mad marauders.

I’m already sick

of Jatropha,

milkweed,

and watermelon.

The mating caw

of the pink flamingo.

The conservatory

has doubles

of everything.

Doors, glazing;

curved ceilings -

so escape

will be difficult.

I must find

a floral,

turquoise

short-sleeved

shirt

to attach to.

Hitchhike

on a human

shoulder

to the bars

of Duval Street

and freedom.

One thing

for sure,

I won’t need

a tattoo parlor.

POSSESSION 1999

I have bought a row house

mansion

on North Sixth Street.

The number is

nine hundred and

ninety-nine, and

it is all mine.

The endless rooms,

the dark Victorian fixtures,

and the ghosts

of dead women

belong to me.

What shall I do?

Set them free?

Fold away

the brass stirrups

of the gynecological chair

finished in red velvet,

where the portly

Doctor Strittmätter

perched on his stool

and peered

into pink forests?

Perhaps

I will put in air-conditioning

and paint the walls white.

Play seventies punk

at full blast

in the George Washington room,

with Sid Vicious singing

"God Save the Queen—

you know what I mean."

But this is all

fanciful.

In the gloom

of an autumn afternoon,

I will nod

to my old, black neighbor

sat on his porch,

and creep quietly

through the double doors

and sit at a desk

made from oak,

salvaged from

the frigate Augusta,

and listen

to a mournful symphony

by Tchaikovsky,

pretending

that a whole century

has passed me by.

Then I’ll get a cold one

from the fridge

and turn on the news.

SHOEBOX

You must burn the shoebox.

The little bits of me

you saved for posterity.

You are twenty-one,

what’s the use?

Things we might have done,

sun goblins, everyone.

Burn the shoebox;

start a new