Gregory Vincent St. Thomasino

 

 

(USA)

 

 

 
En Prise

 

From Tyre, Sidon,

To Carthage, distant Spain;

Fleeing Herod massacres, crumbling towers.

 

Europe uses us, our garnered wealth;

New ports refuse us.

Some die,

 

Some live on to ground worthy of our bone.

O, my ruby, by starlight I see you sparkle—

The pearl in your bowel is hope, is honey.

 

 

 

Murder Me

 

Morning call.  The starlings arrive

Uncountable to their range

 

Their plumage boasts green, plum-color,

Black inside the sun’s irony

 

Groundsmen rake the gardens-askew

Old fox shakes a crease off his business-daily

 

Morphe.  The curtains move.  Susurrant.

Why won’t the air relax them?

 

The postman arrives,

In each hand a dagger sheathed in white linen

 

They’ve sent me palm,

The Easter gladiolus, Belgian chocolate

 

A rabid, aching woman, her teeth wont to tear

Dissolves beneath a pale blue robe

 

Retainers take pains to collect her

She is gone to green city Oz

 

I remain.  Crystal turquoise.

Waxy lustres guard my lacquer-sheen

 

I, aporia, a plethora of word, confound prospectors’

Chip and dig, survey the disheveled forest

 

I felt their acid,

Pitting little singes as it reached hysteria

 

They could have swallowed me whole

And they would have

 

 

 

Traveling Circus

after Paul Klee

 

In my tear,

That is where they exist:

Cute magician, ventriloquist,

Fat Lady sitting asmile atop an obelisk.

 

A train of thought?

Perhaps a gist.

Swami, charmer-somnambulist,

No dream, this precipice.

 

A movie screen —

Two-dimensional, white.

Heretofore abstracted themes come alight,

And encore, encore, encore.

 

A stilted Mex,

Diver’s eye,

Bewitches a lissome trapezist.

One-ringed escapade, that get.

 

The acrobatics of smile ponder midair,

Take the sway to the fore then diminish.

The tumultuous sigh of an angry gibe

Loosed upon a vacant arena.

 

Painter,

Poet with sentient eye, ear,

If the image exists in turbidity, remain enigma,

With the Noh mask, clown’s makeup.

 

 

 

Twillingate

 

The verbena thinned

into separate purple clusters

She lay near that renascent sea

with air clear and cupidless dolphin

balancing fear anticipation her heart

swollen with apparent exuberance

 

That barnacled crust

and then that silver plush

Her head pitched at zenith

she begged the copious twinkle

into winks of falling tear

asunder they sank

 

Now aquatic almost mirthful

she bore past seashells

and torn parasols

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

____________________________________________

 

BIO

 

Gregory Vincent St. Thomasino was born in Greenwich Village, New York, and was raised in both the city and in the country across the Hudson River in New Jersey. 

 

He was educated at home, eventually to enter Fordham University where he received a degree in philosophy.  In 2009 he received the Distinguished Scholar Award from the Doctor of Arts in Leadership program at Franklin Pierce University in New Hampshire.  His work has appeared in anthologies including the language art anthology The Dark Would (Apple Pie Editions, 2013) and Stone, River, Sky: An Anthology of Georgia Poems (Negative Capability Press, 2015). 

 

His digital poetry has been anthologized in the Brazilian book, Poesia Eletrônica: negociações com os processos digitais [Electronic Poetry: negotiations with digital processes] (Jorge Luiz Antonio, 2008). 

 

His play, Come Spring, Comes a Circus, was in October 2013 performed in Tbilisi, Georgia, in the Georgian language, by the Margo Korableva Performance Theatre directed by David Chikhladze.  St. Thomasino writes for various media, including “physical theatre.”

http://www.towerjournal.com/cd/chora/chora.html

 

 

Today he lives in Brooklyn Heights, New York, where he works as a private docent.  His most recent volume of poetry is The Valise (Dead Academics Press, 2012).

 

 

 

 

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