Guest Writer: A Glimpse into the Soul of Kevin Routh

Welcome, welcome everyone, to Illiterations' very first guest writer! (If I had a clapping track, I'd play it here. You can applaud now as you read this if you feel so inclined).

Today's feature is the brilliant Kevin Routh, a father of 3 who lives outside of St. Louis, Missouri. He has been writing poetry for many years and has only recently begun to share his writings with others through his blog, Shards: The Poetry of Kevin Routh.

I was personally very impressed with all or Mr. Routh's poetry, as well as with his prose. Each piece is completely different, yet all have the same, unique style. My personal favorites are "Connor" and "Plastic People." These two poems, as well as the two featured here, reflect a critical observer of society, a bit of a jokester, and a loving man and father.

About his poetry, Kevin says:

"I strive to connect to human emotions and the human condition through my poetry. Some of my poems are happy, some angry and some are sad - but all of them are honest. They are all small glimpses into my soul."

Without further ado, I present to you "Memories" and "Poetry Is..." (and commentary on aforementioned poems) by Kevin Routh.

This is probably the hardest poem I ever wrote. I’m never ever quite sure what’s going to happen when I go back through my life and start poking and prodding at old scars. Even though it was painful, I really like how this piece turned out.

Memories 

little boy
5 or 6 maybe
trust me
(he whispers)
i love you
(he lies)
the house is filthy and dark
(like him)
little boy
concentrates on a cockroach
skittering back and forth across the floor
(instead of the pain)
the rancid breath
(cigarettes and gum disease)
the violence
followed by tears
(and apologies)
(and threats)
little boy
closing memories
(and shame)
behind locked doors

I took a literature class once and the professor, a tall, lanky (stork-like) fellow, asked us to write an essay defining poetry. Instead of the essay, I wrote this poem. I never really was one for following directions.

Poetry Is…

Poetry is?
The Stork asks,
his beady eyes darting to
and fro.
omigod!
I do not know –
I DO NOT KNOW!

He stands there on one leg asking me
to define the indefinable.
What is Poetry?
Some sort of verse?
Must it rhyme? Must it flow?
omigod… I don’t know!

The stork paces,
waiting for my answer,
waiting for me to speak.
If I don’t tell him,
he will gouge my eyes with his beak.
I hear the tick of the clock:
Poetry is… Poetry is… Poetry is…

I bet Whitman could have told him,
even Tennyson, Keats or Thoreau…
But as for me,
I do not know.
I do not know.

 Like what you've read? Read more at kevinrouthpoetry.blogspot.com!

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