Category: Poetry

I think I shall never see
A Poet who surpasses me;
And yet there is this crushing thought:
Some few are paid, while I’m unbought….

by Ray Romine Wednesday, September 24, 1947

“Just what do you see in this poetry?”
But he himself liked to fish;
He could linger for hours in the shade of a tree,
And watch the clouds, and wish.

“What is it you like in this poetry?”
But she herself liked to dance,
And music and rhythm and harmony
Reflected her happy glance.

The sun’ s on the snow, but this glare (to me)
May color your world today;
For , ever and ever, the poetry
Within us will find a way.

by Ray Romine Wednesday, January 10, 1945

All his life he’d thought that Heaven
Was a place where he might write
Stories, articles and poems
Undisturbed by day and night.
Then he found him at the Portal
Where Saint Peter wished him well,
Gave him desk and reams of paper,
Said, “Now write!” –and it was Hell.

by Ray Romine Thursday, April 26, 1951

Please, I ask, don’t call the type
Of poetry(?) I dish out “tripe”.
I admit it’s somewhat mixey:
Voice of greatness, then of pixy;
There are times when I’ll cronfess
I regard it as a mess.
its origin may be, without
More ado, in gravest doubt;
It’s half-done, or over-ripe–
Okay then, the stuff IS tripe !

by Ray Romine Saturday, September 15, 1951

What makes a poem great, or even good?
Technique? Its rhymed perfection? Length of line?
Its stanza pattern? Rhythm? –All these should
Be checked and double-checked in our design
Of course But these are quickly learned: What then?
Our answer is in every reader’s face
Who takes on eagerly a specimen,
But , frowning , drops the poem in its place
In favor of another. Now, he feels
A quiet thrill that works along his spine:
“This one was written for me. It reveals
My very soul- – I call this poem mine.”
To us, no matter how the critics rate
Our poem, if one reader thinks it greet!

by Ray Romine Friday, February 18, 1944

Man, upon his narrow earth,
Has little he can cling to;
So cherish all the solid worth
Of Beauty poets sing to.

by Ray Romine Tuesday, October 19, 1948

It Is such a time-worn hollow phrase
Expressed so many hackneyed ways;
And yet I am surprised how trite it
Comes out when I try to write it!

by Ray Romine Sunday, December 7, 1952

I love your lauding as I should;
Your criticisms bore me;
So praise, please, when you think I’m good–
But when I’m bad: ignore me!

by Ray Romine Thursday, July 26, 1945

One is forced to admit, sometimes,
There are easier things than rhymes.
Couplets and quatrains won’t form. Instead,
Everything else runs through the head:
Things that bother me, folks I owe;
Debts and troubles from years ago;
Food and my over-weight together;
Lousy politics and lousier weather;
Stars and planets and children’s needs;
How the Greater Tasmanian Bullfrog breeds;
Bathroom fixtures, flowers in a bunch;
Baseball, genetics, and what’s for lunch.
Yet it must be these, though he may not show it,
That make up, finally, any poet…..

by Ray Romine Sunday, December 16, 1951

Grant me, God, a little boon:
Let me sing a different tune.

Don’t let me laud the lowly rose:
Instead, some posy no-one knows.

Steer me clear of Mays and Junes
And lead me not to corny moons.

Keep me off of gardens; grass–
I’ll write of anvils, thread, or brass.

Take me out of fields of clover–
Let occult and weird take over.

Children, dogs, and all that hooey?
Sic me onto something screwy;

Something rattle-brained, obscure–
And nothing simple, nothing pure.

Yea, let me skip that stuff of home ,
And so construct a different pome;

Say of my verse , if man has banned it–
Only God can understand it!

by Ray Romine Wednesday, July 14, 1948