R. G. Bell
Biography of R. G. Bell
BA (English) - The Citadel.1974. Masters of Fine Arts (Creative Writing) - The Univ. of Dallas 1982.
My goal in writing poetry is to reveal small truths in the hope that occasionally something profound will come along for the ride. Few, if any, of my poems are as simple as they may first appear. If a word has two (or more) meanings, they might all be taken profitably within the context of the poem.
For some vigorous chewing, I invite the serious reader to take on 'The Seventh Day; ' the idle, internal musings of The Creator commenting on His own work. It was 25 years in the making, and I still see 'new' things in it with each reading.
I try to write in a style and language that is 'accessible' to any reader who speaks English natively, but who does not generally read poetry. Yet, at the same time, I try to build multiple layers of thought and meaning and effectively employ technical poetic devices in order to command the interest of the more sophisticated reader.
Published 'Whispers of Madmen' with Matt Fontana. Available from Amazon. Autographed copies available. Email me here on poemhunter.
R. G. Bell's Works:
'Whispers of Madmen' with Matt Fontana
R. G. Bell Poems
Home lies that way, somewhere, through the fog, Down a road I did not ask to be set upon And most of whose forks were chosen for me By others no less road-bound than I,
The Seventh Day
I - Quiet, please. Creator at rest. And on this Seventh Day I rest, or try.
I've drifted over Trafalgar's rotting hulls, Seen dolphins play at the pillars of Hercules, Been camel-ridden to the foot of Cheops And walked the city Alexander took and named.
3: 21 Am
Storm clouds bleed and render earth to mud. We lie inside, assaulted by the lies, Tightly bound in gray dismality.
The Duck There came into my yard a duck, And he and I, being both in luck,
Fertilized with a dose of aggravation, And watered with a little touch of gall, Her lawn has sprouted warning signs to tell The neighbor children and passing dog walkers
I reign from a second-hand Adirondack throne, My legs in the lap of its facing mate. Its only other claimant, a house panther, Lies between my pale feet, feigning sleep,
Recorded somewhere’s something like this, “A scientist is one who knows Nearly all of nearly nothing. A salesman is one who knows
Great-Grandmother's Frying Pan
Great-grandmother’s Frying Pan Thinking it mine, I seldom think it hers.
Children no longer rush to mount The merry-go-round, To claim an outside horse. There is no brass ring to grab,
The Pinecone Oak
tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap Pardon me, young man. I can see you're busy. Please, sit by me on the porch awhile.
Permission Though I may cast a picture-cloud And bend it to my mind,
As Rome Burns
This time around the masses stroke their lyres. Bread and circuses. Brats and quarterbacks. Collective gaze, frozen on the arena field, Witnesses what passes now for glory’s deeds,
(Lockhart is, was, a cotton mill village in SC.) They're spawned in a gene pool
To Kathy Kent
To Kathy Kent
(On seeing her marriage license.)
I read you billed another wedding act.
Two marqueed names, your co-star’s was not mine.
You must have whispered ardent, practiced lies
Devotions and commitments unrestrained.
I’ve seen this play before. The hero dies.