The Blue Devil: poems
Book Blurb:
Lean but brawny, reminiscent but edgy, these poems recall boyhood, fatherhood, and manhood. With tones of regret, dark humor, and poignant beauty, Henderson’s contemporary verse appeals to poets and non-poets alike.
Three Sample Poems
psychedelic
take one box of crayons & eliminate all but
the principal colors—not pine, sea, or olive
green—just green & collapse the z axis so
everything is flat tweezed between an ordinate
& abscissa then draw lines w/out a ruler plus
no compass curves till all things are made of fat
licorice absorb the essence of life like an egg
into a chicken no not a real one but pancake
thin from the side so put it on a felt board w/
black tacks & stare at it from three no five feet
back keep on the fix till the oil on your irises
burps & you're in the square w/ your homemade
toons & it creeps you out that one of them
is you—child crude cute & nude of all trappings
like Adam? yeah, like Adam. cool.
back into boy
mostly i remember my 60s
wallpaper—goblin goonies
driving hotrods, some connection
to cartoon characters in a Mad
magazine & by my bed my first
drum on a stand. lollygagging
i could lie on my back & feel
only my t-shirt—put my head inside
a radio & then completely switch
to neighborhood noise.
beyond my open window
lawn mowers vvvrrrooooooming
white-tailed jets rumbling
neighbor kids screaming joy—
wires swagging to rooftops
power poles humming
crop-dust air luffing
like a queasy stomach
or like waves in the coil
of a Santa Cruz shell
& during this loafing
i replayed no history
of who i was—
could snap in & out of fantasy
as easily as i would later
click into fret
about all i had not done yet
my son, Silas, playing piano
this night i sit across
the room from him
as he coaxes keys
enamored of them.
5 years, since i sat
like this—taking the time
to listen.
how does he know
how to choose
the notes?
how does he know
how to blend
the pitches?
i'm the one
w/ the stories
of bars & bands
of nights & drums
that i beat
to death.
yet it is his music
that puts an arm-wing
over me.
tonight i want
to be his fan
to approach him
shyly, place my hand
on his shoulder
but i am stuck—
stuck, again,
afraid to love fully
those i fear to lose.
oh, these sounds tonight, oh
he makes them so effortlessly
lifting notes like the moon
rolls waves. sideways ripples
that swirl & spin
& suspend wet sand—
then retreat to curl
toward another run—
wet beach, the rest,
the glistening end
of a measure—
oh, of a measure, oh
& for me the cleansing
of so many mistakes.
he played to endure
his mother's cancer,
played thru recovery
& my cowardly drinking,
he serenaded her
when she moved away,
he played for himself
when he lived w/ me,
& on one thing, oh,
he & i agree: this instrument
saved him
from all the bad choices
i passed along
to my only son
in silence