Jeff Rogers–Featured Poet

 

Impressions Expressions 20141206 01

Jeff Rogers

Five poems by Jeff Rogers

A son of the Midwest, Jeff Rogers was born in Ohio, but he grew up in Michigan college towns: Kalamazoo, where his father taught at Western Michigan University, and East Lansing, where his mother practiced archaeology at Michigan State University. According to Rogers, his interest in writing and poetry began with a childhood ritual of his mom reading to him at bedtime, which he says “wove a spell of words over me that has never lifted.” In 1983, Rogers dropped out of college to drive across country to Los Angeles in a rust-fringed white Chevy Malibu. Since then, Rogers says that he has “adventured far in the many worlds and across the many landscapes of L.A. among the storied and the unknown.” In Los Angeles, Rogers has been a “working stiff,” a poet, a performer, and a blogger. Rogers grins while he claims to have invented the word “blogger” in 1985 as the nonsense curse word of a two-year-old girl in the poem “Blogger Old Potatoes.” However, he quickly adds “You won’t find that etymology in any dictionary.” Rogers has also written with, performed with, and directed the poetry chorus and theatre troupe known as Gray Pony. Other credits include blogging from 2008 to 2013 as Hippie Squared at fierceandnerdy.com. From 2009 to 2011, Rogers kept a diary in three line poems posted each day at noon at Three Line Lunch, and at fierceandnerdy.com. Since 2013, Rogers has blogged as LefthandedJeff at beenandgoing.com. After many years absence, Rogers has recently been hitting the poetry-reading circuit, and if you’re in the Los Angeles area, keep your eyes out for his readings. According to Rogers, “It’s statistically unlikely you’ll regret it.” Rogers met his “genius” wife, “Sweet” Elise, on St. Patrick’s Day in 1994. Because he claims to be less of a genius than Elise, it took him ten years to marry her in 2004. They have dogs and cats. And many books, apparently “not all of which are housebroken.”


Headstrong Weed

If my thin voice
Could just find

One crack
In that wall
To push through—

My voice
Like a tuft
Of wild grass

My voice
Like a headstrong weed

 

Listen

 

 

 


 

Free Will on the Off Chance

So what is chance? Each moment the universe blinks, and wakes
All over again. So what is free will? Each moment the universe
Blinks, and wakes all over again, blinks and wakes all over again.

Listen

 

 

 


Time Blossoms

Jasmine vine
Over days unwatched
Has thinned, reached out,
Dangled upward, curled
Around black iron,
In a green scrollwork
So delicate it glows
From the inside, a vein
Coursing sunlight.

Its first white starflowers, tiny-rayed
Open, exhale their first
Faint sweet breaths.

Months since planting
By turns patient and anxious
Now flowered, in blossoms
Of time, hanging off
The retreating year.

Listen

 

 

 


Time

Time
is the path we take
through the universe,
anything but straight.
Our path is made
of what we notice.

Probability wave
swirls,
snaps into
particulate place,
when we see it
where we catch it
when we look.

All moments in time
exist now
in dimension.
Observation
fixes outcome.

Probability waves
and elementary particles.
Eleven dimensions
of superstrings.
Dark matter.

What we observe
Becomes.
What we fail to see
Remains unfulfilled.
A weighty charge.

And so artists
who make form from chaos
are world-builders,
and buddhists
with indiscriminate,
unwavering attention
are as gods.

In fact,
Incipient god
looks out through your eyes
on the shapeless nebula
of cosmic jelly,
and everywhere
sees and so makes
form and substance.

Time
is the tale,
the tally,
of what we have yet seen
out of all else that could and will
one day be seen.

We are the way
the universe learns itself.
We are the way
the universe resolves itself.

Time is the ruler
made of periodic pencil scratchings
on the doorjamb
that measures the growth of god.

God first wakes
at the end of time.
God dies
at the beginning of time.

God is the self-awareness
of the universe.

Time has
no end
and no beginning.

Listen

 

 

 


Wordless

I drop my pen
And rise

Draw a deep breath
And go

In
To the dim, the moist, the cool,

The sun-laced and sun-speared,
Time-cradled forest

Wordless at last

Listen

 

 

 


Links:

Blogger Old Potatoes: http://fierceandnerdy.com/hippie-squared-blogger-old-potatoes

Gray Pony: http://fierceandnerdy.com/full-circle-on-a-gray-pony-hippie-squared

Hippie Squared: http://fierceandnerdy.com/category/hippie-squared

Three Line Lunch: http://fierceandnerdy.com/category/three-line-lunch

LefthandedJeff: http://beenandgoing.com/?cat=47

 

 

 

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