Tuesday, January 10, 2012

4 poems by graphic designer and poet Glynn Monroe Irby

Glynn Monroe Irby lives in Brazoria, County, Texas. He carries a Bachelor of Arts degree in history from the University of Texas, Austin, including earlier studies at the University of Houston, the Brazosport College, and Edinburgh University, Scotland, with subsequent graduate studies in architecture at the
University of Houston.  Irby is the graphic designer and co-author of the book, 3 Savanna Blue, the graphic and cover designer of many other books, and has displayed and marketed photographic and poetic art for homes and offices. As a writer, Irby has been published in both the Houston and Austin poetry festival anthologies as well as Sol Magazine, Borderlands Texas Poetry Review, The Spiky Palm, Galaxy Journal, Curbside Review, Poetz e-zine (New York), HIP, and others; Irby has been an invited poet to many reading venues in Texas, is a member of the Galveston Poets’ Roundtable, the Circle Way Poets, the Poetry Society of Texas, the Gulf Coast Poets, and was selected in 2006 as one of the “Bards of the Bayou.”  For many years, Irby has been a manager, buyer, and professional interior planner in his family-run furniture and design business.

Look for Glynn Irby to be a reader at the FPL Poetry Series reading on Wednesday, July 18th at 7pm.  The Friendswood Public Library carries 3 Savanna Blue. Ask for assistance at the reference desk.

Tall Grasses

Can you hear that sound
of tall grasses in the wind,
that sound of decades-hay
before the final shocks are made?
Listen to the whirling overhead
of golden crowns in the sky,
the sound of grain heads
yielding their seeds into the frantic air.
Listen to the sound of shadowy things
harbored inside the bramble,
and that bursting sound of cracking
through unyielded early stems.
Listen to the raging of change
through my soul,
the sound of breaking cane
and the shattering of my secret places
as you clearly pierce the last
of my perimeter reeds
onto the outer boundaries
of my dispersing reservoirs.

Glynn Monroe Irby

White and Grey Dominiques
               — from my father’s farm stories
When night comes, some chickens
go to the woodhouse, others fly
to branches of the apple tree.
Now and then after midnight,
the sly weasel with razor teeth,
quiet on the balls of his feet,
sneaks up along the creek,
slips under the hawthorn hedge,
and climbs the bountiful chicken tree,
takes his pick among resting hens.
Each morning when leaves
are wet with dew and I start
my long walk to the schoolroom,
I watch for blood feathers
in the clover bed.

Glynn Monroe Irby

Sailing Together

Steering our chalk-white catamaran
toward rising constellations,
we slip through the scattered sea
beneath a patterned sky,
leaving the sun in our wake.
Sailing in line with moon-tides,
cross-grain to ghostly grey passages
of young pelagic jaegers, we attend
to combinations of changing
currents and wind direction.
We listen for the cry of laughing gulls
or the whisper of a shore break
as we delight in the exuberance
of blood pressing through our veins,
engage in an echo of emotion,
experience the chorus of heaven,
and the thundering voice of God
in the sudden electric storm-rage
before morning.

Glynn Monroe Irby

Knowing the Tides

She advances straight
into my channel access,
then recedes through
the swelling sluice
toward the open sea
once again.
Still in the morning
her fresh water-beads
collect on the dew-lips
of my over-edging grasses
before slipping back
into the stream.
She’ll then ascend
into the anvil clouds
to flash violently back
into the dark waters
of the open ocean
once again.

Glynn Monroe Irby

More poems by Glynn Monroe Irby:

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