Coleman Glenn

I bet if you went back in time and told John Crowe Ransom that New Criticism would lead to postmodern denial of authorial meaning which would then render A.I. lit as valuable as human lit, he’d be confused and also question your choices regarding best uses for a time machine.

I bet if you went back in time and told John Crowe Ransom that New Criticism would lead to postmodern denial of authorial meaning which would then render A.I. lit as valuable as human lit, he’d be confused and also question your choices regarding best uses for a time machine.

A true double dactyl?

Higgledy piggledy,
Thomas A. Edison
struggled in school due to
ADHD.

Had he been treated with
lisdexamfetamine,
“Highway to Hell” would be sung by
AC.

A true double dactyl?

Higgledy piggledy,
Thomas A. Edison
struggled in school due to
ADHD.

Had he been treated with
lisdexamfetamine,
“Highway to Hell” would be sung by
AC.

The Bigsby Barkley game.

The Bigsby Barkley game.

Was he thinking it’s like pâté? Because now I’m thinking if I win the lottery I’m going to slice up a block of pâté and fry it like the world’s fanciest scrapple.

this is art

this is art

Black text on white background: Virga He says again the words he said before: if necessary, he will drop it all to hold them. “Honey, *nothing* matters more,” he says again. The words he said before once tendered hope for what he might restore. They hang now, desert rains made mist mid-fall. He says again the words he said before: “if necessary.” He will drop it all. -Coleman Glenn

A poem.

Black text on white background: Virga He says again the words he said before: if necessary, he will drop it all to hold them. “Honey, *nothing* matters more,” he says again. The words he said before once tendered hope for what he might restore. They hang now, desert rains made mist mid-fall. He says again the words he said before: “if necessary.” He will drop it all. -Coleman Glenn

A poem.

The Fair Youth’s Complaint An Imagined Reply to Shakespeare’s “Procreation Sonnets” Well, Bill, your sonnets finally got to me, With all their pressures to impress my seal On waxen fruits that fruit eternally, Et cetera, so forth, you know the spiel. Enticed by your advice I grabbed a wife With features fairly fine but not so strong That they might mask my own engrafted life, So sweetly celebrated in your song. She birthed a boy. I staked and pruned him well; I snipped and shaped his soul to match my own. He blossomed, and I watched my own pride swell Within a youth in whom my luster shone. But oh, he burst, and spattered *me* with scorn! Such bitter fruit were better left unborn.

Happy Shakespeare Day!

The Fair Youth’s Complaint An Imagined Reply to Shakespeare’s “Procreation Sonnets” Well, Bill, your sonnets finally got to me, With all their pressures to impress my seal On waxen fruits that fruit eternally, Et cetera, so forth, you know the spiel. Enticed by your advice I grabbed a wife With features fairly fine but not so strong That they might mask my own engrafted life, So sweetly celebrated in your song. She birthed a boy. I staked and pruned him well; I snipped and shaped his soul to match my own. He blossomed, and I watched my own pride swell Within a youth in whom my luster shone. But oh, he burst, and spattered *me* with scorn! Such bitter fruit were better left unborn.

Happy Shakespeare Day!

ECCE HOMO Behold the Man whose head is crowned With thorny branches twisted round By hands that bear the stain of sin. The multitudes are pressing in And cries of “crucify!” resound. Like seed sprung up in thorny ground The loud “hosannas” have been drowned. Through all the frenzy and the din, Behold the Man. Behold Him now condemned and bound. Behold Him. Hear the hammers pound. Behold, as well, the soldier’s grin. Behold a mirror. Look within And face whatever there is found. Behold the Man.

A poem for Good Friday.

ECCE HOMO Behold the Man whose head is crowned With thorny branches twisted round By hands that bear the stain of sin. The multitudes are pressing in And cries of “crucify!” resound. Like seed sprung up in thorny ground The loud “hosannas” have been drowned. Through all the frenzy and the din, Behold the Man. Behold Him now condemned and bound. Behold Him. Hear the hammers pound. Behold, as well, the soldier’s grin. Behold a mirror. Look within And face whatever there is found. Behold the Man.

A poem for Good Friday.

I’ve learned that Amazon shipped at least one person a copy of A LITTLE LIGHT with the last ~10 pages missing. Did anyone else have this? The last poem should be “Thanksgiving” on p. 91. Let me know if you have a book with missing pages and I’ll make sure you get a complete one.

Tomorrow!

If you’re in the Philly area on April 15th, come out to the Swedenborg Library at Bryn Athyn College to hear and share some poems. I promise it will be more fun than filing taxes.

**Poem for March 26th** Out tramping past the cherry tree I met a lanky lad Who formed his fingers in a “V”. His blessing left me sad. The fellow’s words, I’m sure, were not Designed to do me wrong, But oh, I know ’tis not my lot To prosper, nor live long!

Happy birthday A.E. Housman, Robert Frost, and Leonard Nimoy!

**Poem for March 26th** Out tramping past the cherry tree I met a lanky lad Who formed his fingers in a “V”. His blessing left me sad. The fellow’s words, I’m sure, were not Designed to do me wrong, But oh, I know ’tis not my lot To prosper, nor live long!

Happy birthday A.E. Housman, Robert Frost, and Leonard Nimoy!

Tomorrow marks 6 months since the publication of A Little Light. If you’ve read it and enjoyed, please consider leaving a review on Amazon or GoodReads or another bookseller site. Heck, even if you hated it, any review is better than none! (I may regret this post.)

TEMPTATION For forty days and forty nights the waters crash above the land and storm clouds hide the two great lights. An uncreation is at hand. For forty days and forty nights on Sinai, Moses sits in cloud and eats no bread, nor drinks, but writes the words that will convict the crowd. For forty years of weary days the manna falls, the daily bread enduring though the people’s praise decays, and grievance grows instead. For forty days and forty nights the Lord endures the tempter’s scorn. Alone on desert land He fights to see our undone souls reborn.

Poem for the first Sunday in Lent.

TEMPTATION For forty days and forty nights the waters crash above the land and storm clouds hide the two great lights. An uncreation is at hand. For forty days and forty nights on Sinai, Moses sits in cloud and eats no bread, nor drinks, but writes the words that will convict the crowd. For forty years of weary days the manna falls, the daily bread enduring though the people’s praise decays, and grievance grows instead. For forty days and forty nights the Lord endures the tempter’s scorn. Alone on desert land He fights to see our undone souls reborn.

Poem for the first Sunday in Lent.

Illustrated bar chart of “Relative Decibel Levels According to My Sleeping Baby,” showing slight increases from “Rain” to “Dog barking” to “Fireworks” then a large jump to the highest category, “Paper bag crinkling”

My one word of advice for new parents: beware of crinkling.

Postponed due to weather ❄️ I’ll let you know when we settle on a new date.

Postponed due to weather ❄️ I’ll let you know when we settle on a new date.

I joked to my father-in-law Eagles 100 Chiefs 0, but realistically it will probably be a closer game. Eagles 70 Chiefs 6. Go birds! 🦅

My answers: a) yeah, pretty much b) from Bryn Athyn, PA (just outside Philly)

Pronunciation question: do you pronounce “hire” the same way you pronounce “higher”? (And if you’re willing to say, where are you from?)

If you’re in the Philly area, come out next Tuesday (Feb 11th) for a poetry open mic at Bryn Athyn College’s Swedenborg Library from 6:30-8:00 pm. I’ll read several of my poems, then the mic will be opened for you to share yours. Hope to see you there!