My first book was a poetry anthology titled Southern Light: Twelve Contemporary Southern Poets. I collaborated with two other poets to produce this volume in 2011. It is out of print now, but authors retain the rights to their work. I am pleased to present a few of my poems from that volume, beginning with two poems appropriate to the season.
Christmas Papers
I was older when I noticed
the same color and pattern
on the Christmas papers.
Christmas morning, I rose with excitement,
and opened packages with scissors,
carefully cutting tape, so I wouldn’t rip the paper.
I was older when I noticed my mother
ironing on Christmas night. She ironed
the same towel again and again.
Under the towel, Christmas papers
lost their creases. They regained smooth surfaces.
She rolled the paper we could never replace.
Choosing between gifts and new paper,
she chose gifts.
Snow
Already the snow dissolves
at seven in the morning
in the Chattanooga dawn.
It returns me to an Ohio childhood
where I dragged my sled uphill
to skid back down again.
I would conclude the days sledding
and await my dad’s return, a rabbit
in his hunting coat.
Blood and guts defiled the whitest landscape,
cleaned up by dogs.
Then my mother was busy in the kitchen
with the rabbit in a pan and
vegetables from a Mason jar.
Birdshot lead between my teeth,
I could not taste the flesh
washed down with milk.
Awakened from this dream,
I breakfast on oatmeal with raisins.
The snow has melted.
This next one won an award from the Tennessee Writers' Alliance, and I read it at their awards ceremony at the Southern Festival of Books in Nashville, Tennessee. It has since appeared in several other publications, including The Southern Poetry Anthology, Volume VI: Tennessee.
Glen Falls Trail
I climb the limestone stairs
through an arch in rock,
into the earth’s womb,
pass through to a surprise:
George loves Lisa painted on a wall.
I wonder, did he ever tell her?
Did she ever know or think of him,
raise a brood of screaming children?
Did they kiss near wild ginger above the stony apse?
Did lady’s slipper orchids
adorn their meeting place where
deer drink from rocky cisterns?
Did their love wither
like maidenhair fern,
delicate as English Lace?
The symbols have outlived the moment.
There is only today,
only the murmur of water underground,
my finding one trickle into a pool.
I never knew this George or Lisa.
The rock bears their names in silence,
names the stream forgot long ago.
This last one shows my concern for environmental quality, which began before poetry became a passion and continues today.
Moonscape
The full moon obliterates
all but the brightest stars.
She casts shadows
on urban monoliths,
home to rats and divas.
Rainbows form and dissolve:
Neon stars announce coming events.
COLD BEER
SANDWICHES
SPICY BIKINI BAR
Alleys clog with dust.
Grit polishes glass.
I shade my eyes against smoke and soot.
Wind shakes neon signs.
The full moon rules above the skyline.
Despite burning questions about combustion,
downtown is looking up.
This post previously appeared in https://rayzimmerman.substack.com, my Substack newsletter. The Substack version included a downloadable PDF with several of my Southern Light poems.
The blog on my website has a collection of fall photographs. Rather than the multicolored hillsides typical of fall photographs, I searched for perfect tiny scenes such as individual leaves and an acorn sitting in a bed of moss. https://www.rayzimmermanauthor.com/the-rains-come/fall-photos-2024.
The publisher has sold out of the initial print run of my new book, It’s Just a Phase. I am promised that a second print run will soon be available. https://walnutstreetpublishing.com/product/its-just-a-phase/.
The Chattanooga Chapter of the Joseph Campbell Mythological Society has asked me to emcee the 2024 production of their solstice celebration at Grace Episcopal Church, on December 15 at 6:00 PM. The event is not well publicized, but all are welcome. I still have a few spots open for anyone wishing to share stories of rebirth and bringing the light.
May the holiday season bring you joy and a return to your sense of wonder.
Merry Christmas,
Ray Zimmerman
Christmas Papers
I was older when I noticed
the same color and pattern
on the Christmas papers.
Christmas morning, I rose with excitement,
and opened packages with scissors,
carefully cutting tape, so I wouldn’t rip the paper.
I was older when I noticed my mother
ironing on Christmas night. She ironed
the same towel again and again.
Under the towel, Christmas papers
lost their creases. They regained smooth surfaces.
She rolled the paper we could never replace.
Choosing between gifts and new paper,
she chose gifts.
Snow
Already the snow dissolves
at seven in the morning
in the Chattanooga dawn.
It returns me to an Ohio childhood
where I dragged my sled uphill
to skid back down again.
I would conclude the days sledding
and await my dad’s return, a rabbit
in his hunting coat.
Blood and guts defiled the whitest landscape,
cleaned up by dogs.
Then my mother was busy in the kitchen
with the rabbit in a pan and
vegetables from a Mason jar.
Birdshot lead between my teeth,
I could not taste the flesh
washed down with milk.
Awakened from this dream,
I breakfast on oatmeal with raisins.
The snow has melted.
This next one won an award from the Tennessee Writers' Alliance, and I read it at their awards ceremony at the Southern Festival of Books in Nashville, Tennessee. It has since appeared in several other publications, including The Southern Poetry Anthology, Volume VI: Tennessee.
Glen Falls Trail
I climb the limestone stairs
through an arch in rock,
into the earth’s womb,
pass through to a surprise:
George loves Lisa painted on a wall.
I wonder, did he ever tell her?
Did she ever know or think of him,
raise a brood of screaming children?
Did they kiss near wild ginger above the stony apse?
Did lady’s slipper orchids
adorn their meeting place where
deer drink from rocky cisterns?
Did their love wither
like maidenhair fern,
delicate as English Lace?
The symbols have outlived the moment.
There is only today,
only the murmur of water underground,
my finding one trickle into a pool.
I never knew this George or Lisa.
The rock bears their names in silence,
names the stream forgot long ago.
This last one shows my concern for environmental quality, which began before poetry became a passion and continues today.
Moonscape
The full moon obliterates
all but the brightest stars.
She casts shadows
on urban monoliths,
home to rats and divas.
Rainbows form and dissolve:
Neon stars announce coming events.
COLD BEER
SANDWICHES
SPICY BIKINI BAR
Alleys clog with dust.
Grit polishes glass.
I shade my eyes against smoke and soot.
Wind shakes neon signs.
The full moon rules above the skyline.
Despite burning questions about combustion,
downtown is looking up.
This post previously appeared in https://rayzimmerman.substack.com, my Substack newsletter. The Substack version included a downloadable PDF with several of my Southern Light poems.
The blog on my website has a collection of fall photographs. Rather than the multicolored hillsides typical of fall photographs, I searched for perfect tiny scenes such as individual leaves and an acorn sitting in a bed of moss. https://www.rayzimmermanauthor.com/the-rains-come/fall-photos-2024.
The publisher has sold out of the initial print run of my new book, It’s Just a Phase. I am promised that a second print run will soon be available. https://walnutstreetpublishing.com/product/its-just-a-phase/.
The Chattanooga Chapter of the Joseph Campbell Mythological Society has asked me to emcee the 2024 production of their solstice celebration at Grace Episcopal Church, on December 15 at 6:00 PM. The event is not well publicized, but all are welcome. I still have a few spots open for anyone wishing to share stories of rebirth and bringing the light.
May the holiday season bring you joy and a return to your sense of wonder.
Merry Christmas,
Ray Zimmerman
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