Again, Again, Again

A Collection of Poems

Conor Grogan

Acknowledgements I am grateful to Seth Livingstone for the concept of the “Nano Poem,” which you will see in Section III of this text. The Nano Poem is a form originated by Seth, intended to be a short, contained poem consisting of 4 lines, the last of which is meant to be indented.

Copyleft Conor Grogan, 2011 This work of art is free, you can redistribute it and/or modify it according to terms of the Free Art License. You will find a specimen of this license on the site Copyleft Attitude as well as on other sites.

This book was published in the United States by me, Conor Grogan, under the guidance and advice of Natty Pilcher.

This book is dedicated to my friends and family. Specifically Tom McOscar, who helped to spark my passion for poetry; Seth Livingstone, whose poetry has acted as a constant source of inspiration; Sarah Brewer, who has always been there for me; and Natty Pilcher, without whose knowledge, advice, and friendship this book never would have come to be.


Suggested Music for Reading these Poems City and Colour Andrew Bird Johnny Flynn Sufjan Stevens Josh Ritter Modest Mouse Paul Simon The Tallest Man on Earth Mumford and Sons Bon Iver .


Art. or. My Father Always Buys Me Candy When We Drive Somewhere love Birds On Taking a Creative Writing Workshop at The Beach topics for conversation Whistle me a Lullaby Bloody Summer Air Organs. 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 Autumn Untitled herbs from the garden Lightning. God. and Other Church-y Things vacation my name feels safe inside your mouth Again. Again. Again vii . and Love Letters Magnetic Poetry Baking.Contents I.

II. you will know me by Whitman's love for Nature moonlighting habiting Dismembered Far Away with Words as with Paints viii 35 36 37 38 40 41 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31 . Nano Poem (I) Nano Poem (II) Nano Poem (III) Nano Poem (IV) Nano Poem (V) Nano Poem (VI) Nano Poem (VII) Nano Poem (VIII) Nano Poem (IX) III.

one of whom moved out west) to help you sleep at night. is for You. IV. ix .42 43 47 The way we grow up Letters (between ex-lovers. too. 51 52 54 55 56 57 58 59 a community everything i own To Ginsberg a Prayer On the end of August 2011 in the Morning how often have i loved you aloud? This.


~A. Housman .. Perfect understanding will sometimes almost extinguish pleasure. as it usually has.Even when poetry has a meaning. it may be inadvisable to draw it out..E.


Again .Again. Again.


only abandoned. A poem is never finished.I. ~Paul Valery .


5 . I want to sit on this hill watching you. burnt red and orange dashed out across the sky. Novemburst of colors precedes twilight. watch the sunset.Autumn Autumn evening.

i don't know any better. III. Don't wait too long to open it. What do you say to a lover who is leaving? Take care. i like this and that of you.Untitled I. don't let him fall too far [from grace. When you've drowned out every last hope of reprieve and everything is a no more is leaping out the twelfth story window of this apartment building nobody will survive but– we'll all be safe. IV.] II. She handed me her heart and said I've saved a song for you. but i wish someone were praying for me. How could she think i would take good care of this? How could she know that i wouldn't break it? 6 . Her heart was an apple i lifted to my lips thinking. We have – everything – to lose. holding my breath into that eternal approaching night while i wait for you to find me here in the churchyard by the warehouse where all your dreams are hid. i like the way your hair falls on your shoulders. too.

herbs from the garden and so many beautiful eyes are what i want to bring you -whenyou sleep at night. 7 . herbs from the garden and bowls full up with my tulips are what i want to bring for kissing you into the morning.

Where are all of our tomorrows? You would think that sounded corny. My father always used to run back into the house just to make sure he hadn't done this. But I like the uncertainty of it all.Lightning. 8 . this is the way in which you love me. Think of (raindrops keep falling on my head) the way rain pours through our clothes. Lightning rips across the sky. but nothing in this room inspires: Your hair's a blanket of love[falling]stars. God. 1 You never know what you'll find when you get back. dampening my chances of a dry evening with you. and Love Letters i wanted to write you a letter that would say how sorry i am. i like turning on the stove and the stereo when i leave the house. Now all i can think of is your figure silhouetted by the fire. i'm sorry. 1 Listening to this music is like having God inside your veins.

wander over her blue-sky-thick. which. when. My neon moon roundabout wantings don't shattershift us there between the knowing and the city whistle rhythm. 9 .Magnetic Poetry Where. Monday nevers.

so often. When i was young i would accompany him grocery shopping. i still wait to see what it is he's going to buy before i make my decision because. 10 . plucking the moon from the stars like an apple out of the trees. and i don't know how i'll ever be a father. i had to stop for ingredients in a dimly lit gas station convenience store where we (my father and i) walked through the aisles looking for candy that he had missed from years earlier driving down this same road. even though tonight we'll share a beer together. Made with flour. candles. i want to say that i'd like to harvest the night. it was delicious. he would ask me what i wanted. vanilla. My Father Always Buys Me Candy When We Drive Somewhere i wanted to bake a cake for you. one day he'll be gone. And when we stood in the check out lane. pointing at the candy. it would sound poetic. Me who does the driving when we go somewhere. sugar and secrets. like the silhouetted figure on the bottle of wine that we saw in the store on that candy driving folk music day. And i would always pick whatever he was getting because i wanted so badly to follow in his footsteps. But now that it is.Baking. though. but my knowledge of cooking is limited. First. or. so i settled for the one in my dreams.

I drink coffee with my breakfast and I love to hear them whistle love to one another in the Birds two Birds (soon startled into flight) Sing Spring outside my window in the morning. 11 .

On Taking a Creative Writing Workshop at The Beach “The weather's going to give it immediacy… tell us something we wouldn't know just by looking at you. I think I'm becoming my father.” The browndead pine needles on the ground here act as the perfect foil to the vibrancy of baby birds and the sunlight falling on them. in the dark and the still green pines? The cloud-free sky is pouring sun on you like being bathed in God's fingers on the highway. 12 . But what is there relation to the crows –so often an omen of death– who woke me up out of a less than permanent sleep at two in the morning. the chlorophyl green leaves are dripping light.

nothing we say matters. To my line break ramblings while I love them in the dark and in the meaningful. to begin. Maybe. I don't think my voice carries like some others'. which is to say. The suddenly sunshining of your radiant face is more like the all day romance of bees and the flowering nectar that the they love so. god's little fingers. so much.topics for conversation There were. Occasionally we find ourselves speechless. or. 13 . Small. if we talked in the Here & Now. there would be no more speaking like there's no tomorrow. fingertips. But that's okay for now. But even tiny things know how to be heard. to be precise. like packages being sorted in a warehouse somewhere. All I want is someone to listen. They weren't quite so big as we'd imagined.

Sometimes I wish that I had a balloon I could fill with all my hot air – what I mean is I've got this crazy notion to just float away with you. but she says she'll stick with spring.Whistle me a Lullaby I tell her Autumn is the best season. In my dreams she has these freckles. but you have the most beautiful smile. I tell her. I want to pull her aside and tell her I don't know if you've noticed. just above her shoulders. butterflies to drift between our eyelashes and other sappy. She smiles and whistles me to sleep. I stare up at the constellations looking for some sort of a sing-the-body-electric whizz of lightning and lipstick kisses. sentimental things. 14 .

Bloody Summer Air The pinkorangeblue sunset and the cloudmoon that it painted are sweeping out of the daylight sky and into the blood blue night. Cut something open. The sky. Tonight we jumped into water from a line of rope hanging on a branch in the electric air sparked alive by summer. Red would have poured when the blue. If we had been less careful one of us might have slipped. blue blood ran into the air turning it our traumatic crimson. 15 . will swift from blue to red as Night comes into contact with the oxygen of morning. And bled out. too.

everything was crooked and she told me “I'm just all about time-travel today. I like Odes to The Lord and “Amen” cadences. The cathedral-bodied tattoo angels are smoking cigarettes and drinking coffee. You shouldn't throw stones in stained-glass cathedrals. wiped from the rim of a mug. you can try to keep up. We walked by the sanctuaries and let out howls like they were cries to the lord.” I remember when we talked by candlelight. Wherever we go they follow us with kissing at our knees and at our cheeks.Organs. would be my subject. and Other Church-y Things Organs in churches sound somehow better.” If we're talking like in metaphors then maybe we should cut to the chase. Art. you are my sun is the trees are the waves breaking on the shore is me. this artwork is far too beautiful for rocks today. She says “we're leaving soon. If I ever were to paint I think that a single drop of cream. 16 .

buried in the sand. drunk folk song covers. Later. A man says i'm just learning to be young now. apple cores would litter the coast. If i didn't eat them. Nights spent out are not my family. Instead we find seeds. 17 . What about sex in the back of a car? i love looking out the windows of my house at night when there's snow on the ground.vacation i'm on the sand stuck between ocean waves and young. i return home drenched in riverwarm moonwater with friends.

And of the less surprising: Your hand on mine. the way sunlight looks when it's caught between leaves. 18 . and how my name feels inside your mouth. the way flowers press up against car windows in the driveway. and the gloriouslysunsetting of dusk behind my name feels safe inside your mouth When your heart slides up next to mine (under the covers) and you tell me about your day i begin to wonder all about the daily small surprises like pretty girls standing in the snow.

Holding the electric fence. Again. blood breathe deeper. 19 . depressive quiet that follows snow. I asked you how to “Sing myself into fiery bouts of psychedelic. Vivid fucking the sweat off your body. It's the friendly. Again I crash my face into the wall on purpose. ***** The silence that accompanies summer sunsets isn't the same. many times. skin scream stronger through all the “oh god”s and the “fuck me”s. blues-racked frenzy. warm embrace of touch tickle grass blades and funky heatwave barbecue distortions. Tumble thigh flesh spectrum Makes my heart beat faster. and it's Crickets in the summer air.Again. Metal in my mouth. Vacant vibrant eyes.” I asked you how to get a job.


Information points to something else. A poem is true if it hangs together.II. ~E. Forster . A poem points to nothing but itself.M.

I. On Leaving Leaves begin dropping to ground around this time every year; sometimes we forget to fall. I wish you would come with me.


II. College Days In the autumn chilly morning my huddled, wrapped-up figure shuffles across campus towards you – don't leave just yet.


i need you i love you. I need you. TOGETHER. i love you. 25 .III. i need you i need this love for the sake of you please come away with me.

26 . My Eyes do the Translating.IV. The motion of the nighttime city lights is a flashsnap jumble of broken morse code messages some days I am lost in translation.

V. where do we go when time's all we've got? your guess is as good as mine. 27 . Anywhere. I guess I asked what I could do – it's too late for that.

with a bang. not now – maybe later. who has time for that stuff anyway? 28 .VI. I guess I'm supposed to whimper. This is the way the world ends.

liquor Cross campus walks are whistling. i stare at my palms and play with sweater lint. 29 . too much. i can taste the vodka for a week.VII. My hands are small creatures taking off her clothes.

a day in the life. 30 . The mail hasn't gotten here yet. I lift a cup of coffee and my hand shakes. I go to a seminar and its dinnertime.VIII. I need daily reminders to shower.

31 . i kiss a coffee-ringed napkin covered with the numbers of someone beautiful.IX.” future is a beautiful word. impromptu self-expression Thelonious Monk solos on “epistrophy.


~Charles Baudelaire . Always be a poet. even in prose.III.


They're grass blades tickling your feet. Green will be your favorite will know me by Whitman's love for Nature. My fists aren't fists. i drink water and sit in well-lit areas. i'm photosynthetic. i live without thumbs (it was the only thing harder to learn than breathing the sun). replacing the muscles with deep. i decided to forego wrists altogether. i'll give you soil and fiber and all the small bugs that have taken to me (it's all i have to offer). green sinew. 35 .

He blows cigarette smoke in my face. Later. We moonlight in the street and hope that the birds don't notice we've stolen their songs.moonlighting Living in the city is the shadows of tall buildings. 36 . Ideas web out of us and are hard to catch like fireflies. I have my vices. we shotgun. too.

It took me forever to learn how to whistle. I make us late for the bus looking at books. I call him a “genius” when he plays the violin.habiting We inhabit small places. The frogs tonight sound beautiful. I know you don't believe in higher beings. lately. I'm in the habit. I go into town and walk through a cemetery. of pulling you aside. Remind me what it is that nuns wear? We go for dinner and I'm not in my chair. 37 .

Have you remembered finger painting? If your hands are paint brushes. “Those leaves have fallen since we were last here. Second Afternoon. You counter with fruit and then palm trees. First Afternoon. The architect that built these houses knew what he was doing. right before they fall. I say apples. then I guess your fingers are the bristles. It's in the leaves (they should be dancing in the wind). You say Bananas. Do seasons even have scents? I love cold. You said you wanted to breathe. This one reminds me of the lake house.The Leaves and the Wind perform a ballet. You place your foot against the concrete and turn around.” Gunshots are ringing in my ears and then they're not. have you pieced together your childhood? We walked down by the stream to collect broken bottles. Autumn isn't in the air. brisk autumn winds and the smell of leaves. than making love is more like honey dripping from a spoon. A roadkill chipmunk has one large incisor while you admire his legs. I mean. If kissing is like flowers. 38 . I said they looked beautiful in the light. Autumn was in the air.

I imagine he has a love affair with poetry. What did Wittgenstein think? I'm apocalyptically sorry about the ride. While I have a love affair with Fall and the Leaves marry the Wind. Here is a book about Margaret Fuller. You sit in a room surrounded by concentration camps. These are my thoughts on cracking knuckles.Third Afternoon. 39 . In the morning we talk about names. I am standing under the foliage. I imagine Tim O'Brien married to his prose.

I watch Soldiers on T.Far Away wake up. Remember only one moon? Stay up to see the galaxyrise.” I'm hoping that you'll wish me well. On the shores of a distant planet talk about home. wake up. 40 .V. return Home from hell. Bring me the words that help you sleep at night. All(good)children kiss their mothers “goodnight. wake up.

You eat leftovers at the table. Too many colors makes me feel lost in a crowd of “us”.with Words as with Paints We are ourselves in a painting by Pollock. Words paint a picture on the page and don't ask “why?” I wear my inspirations on my sleeve.cookies. 41 . Your face isn't the same. My mind draws connections to: elephants.wires.bedsheets.

Turntables. You can't be always in your own head. and typewriters. I didn't say most. And I would still love you. Maybe we should all just pick daily flowers instead. Kids know how to love them best. Taxonomic nomenclature is Danaus Plexippus are gorgeous? I am you are he she it is being conjugated? What are you saying? Anger is easy and You are a dreamer. tears. too? No. What if we were all tables and chairs? That's not possible. Other old things beginning with “t”. I said best. What if we were all bugs? That's definitely not possible. I think this belongs to you. I guess you would still like crappy music. 42 .The way we grow up My hands are full of dirt. These are why make-believe is fun. What if make-believe is a game grown-ups play.

I miss your cigarettes.Letters (between ex-lovers. more like concrete and cars. Nighttime summer moistly air. I don't like the hectic here. 43 . The house isn't the same without you. i think. snowfall. III. II. your scent having left our home a week ago. California isn't what we thought it would be. These are the things I miss the most. Wet grass and fingers peaking through chainlinked fences. one of whom moved out west) I. redyellowbrown crunchy leaves. not quite sunshine all the time. The crickets have started chirping too loudly.

i pray for forgiveness before absolution. and deer. Oh woman.” Come to the tree under which we first kissed. spanish architecture. But don't think I forget you. won't you meet me here in an hour or two? You don't understand. i bow my head before the God of west-coast living. 44 . cold air. either. The odds and ends of west-coast life are getting to me. i miss You. pines. pasta dinners by candlelight were only my way of saying “i miss you. VI. Unkempt grass. east coast life hasn't left me yet. and real mexican food. Your cigarette smoky singing might remind me of your lips.IV. V. If i sound religious it's only because you're not here. blue blue skies. Birds of Paradise.

VII. Father told me that I liked to meditate as a child. is it? Please tell me you still take showers alone. I prayed the Rosary to sleep last night. 45 . Sharing isn't exactly in your blood. Praying to The Lord is like meditating on acceptance. You always asked me why I was a Buddhist. IX. and I think it's because I'm a Catholic. who needs that when we've got moonlight? tiny things still scare me VIII. The sound of the water hitting your skin was the petrichor that followed our lovemaking din. My “comunista” loving always did make you nervous. computer screen illuminating my body. I want to fall asleep holding onto your hips. Not this way.

X. Genuflecting for anyone but you always seemed a bit like lying. What words do you read for inspiration? 46 .

our futures. starsoft Quilt made from the patchwork of our nights together. and clever jokes into a Quilt. a simple. 47 .to help you sleep at night. a Quilt to cover your eyes when they blur from the stonecold dampening that we call night. a Quilt for you to wrap yourself in each and every night when you tumble into the land that you and i call sleep. i thought i'd sew you confection mesh dreams of towers in progress. fluffy pillows.


~T.S.IV. Eliot . Genuine poetry can communicate before it is understood.


a community i am i am i am a prayer for better times in your future– we cut paper into small likenesses of ourselves and our friends. and this is everyone we know. Paper people holding hands are a lot more like us then you might think– Loving. 51 . Fragile. and this is you. This is me. And Connected.

of a friend articles of clothing they make moving difficult packing away everything one.D. one. and coming across something i shouldn't have i can't throw away what's not mine 52 . by. nothing that i meant to keep objects i forgot to give back and am now too guilty for returning Textbooks on loan the C.everything i own i have collected many things over the years that are not mine stolen things.

so they follow me everywhere like mementos of forgetfulness reminders of when i'm not perfect 53 .

To Ginsberg holy holy holy (Ginsberg!) the hills outside my window are presently becoming more ! and ! more (holy) a desire to kiss the world (the small is holy) we plant ourselves outside like odes to the earth fingers should rootlike sproutingly green pop up from under the dirt grassblades are always my wanting.” is all i can say now that doesn't still sound tired. 54 . “i love you.

boyhood-make-believe not illimitably kissing you into the dark but holding you. (amen 55 .a) sunlit slanted room together.dally. quietly.a Prayer i don't want your neverknownothing arms holding me here much longer. (in. The punch-drunk humor on my face is no more dilly.

grayish hue. Dusk is looking more the way it sounds: like dust. 2011 The summersunsets around here are beginning to look like autumn the greenbrown leaves and the grass taking on that muted. The au[tumn]gust daylight is orange more than bright summer yellows bumblebees and flowing dresses are the style here i am nervousickanxious for The Fall. did i mention that i love everything autumnal? 56 .On the end of August.

i bring breakfast to you in bed. 57 . Tell me about your the Morning i'm still sleeping.

grilled cheeses. getting lost. then what does that mean for shooting stars. and Buddhas? What about black forest midnight highway driving by moon halo light? 58 . i knew you before i knew how to love you and naming every leaf or tree or bug didn't often have i loved you aloud? how often have i loved you aloud? And how many times now has a laughandletlivelover creaked your bed into oblivion? That lover of rhythm. If everything we do is a pale imitation of the first time my first cigarette on the college balcony with a pretty girl.

i like to hide [little things] parts of myself away like: a Book that i loved.This. Crooked. a Harmonica. your name. long after this and i and that have left. 59 . is for You. my name carved into wood. knifecarved names are no new thing. For other people to find in their brand new house. too. Old photos. too.


"I have a theory. Rather if matter is made of atoms and when you smash an atom it releases all this energy." ~Billy Collins . that time is made of moments and when you scrutinize a moment in a poem. it also can release a kind of energy.. really it's an analogy.. that if time.

com . occasionally. writing poems. listening to music or.grogan@gmail.weebly. His email is: connor.Conor attends Hampshire College. He generally spends his time sequestered in his If you liked anything here check out chutethemoon.

Sign up to vote on this title
UsefulNot useful