|
Stephen Kalmar IIRacine Poet Laureate, 2011-2013Stephen Kalmar II began writing and publishing poetry as a teen. In 1974, he moved from Canada to Wisconsin and joined the Root River Poets writing consortium. After a stint in the military, he returned to Racine to study philosophy, creative writing, speling and web design at UW-Parkside.
He has served as editor of poetry anthologies and seen his work published in newspapers, books, journals, and online publications. He's given hundreds of public readings. Some invited. With his children, he has acted onstage, radio and on TV. Under the name, Billie Morrow ( a nod to his mother, who never got the chance), he shoots photos and sells/donates his images and multi-media work. He served as President of the Kenosha/Racine Poets Laureate Program, and is a founder of Artery, an annual artists and poets collaborative project, held at Spectrum School of the Arts in Racine, WI. He's employed as a Human Services Coordinator for the WI State Dept. of Children and Families. |
Fallen Flags
been here before
the section gang
where I round past
another whistle stop
lantern swings
flares the tops
of my boots who slug
the dust and
mud polish
the train cars never
slowed enough to stop-
the rust sliders open to
it all, centered
between fall-out tracks
precision carved
that break my sight
around bend and evergreen trees,
bustle that one can hide in
against conductor
law and memory
not hard tack
that,
being this alone-
a single gate swinging
through the tail
winds
where a person
stops looking back
or up, moves before
high ball-
the falling
rains can damp as
well as wash away
sidings, staples
and dawn
clasping to the night smoke
and grey
if she were my lady she would always
choose the grey
dull
proxy of our camp car-
this agent logging line
called to be
the stand-in
for
the shrill clear toll
of
lang syne
the section gang
where I round past
another whistle stop
lantern swings
flares the tops
of my boots who slug
the dust and
mud polish
the train cars never
slowed enough to stop-
the rust sliders open to
it all, centered
between fall-out tracks
precision carved
that break my sight
around bend and evergreen trees,
bustle that one can hide in
against conductor
law and memory
not hard tack
that,
being this alone-
a single gate swinging
through the tail
winds
where a person
stops looking back
or up, moves before
high ball-
the falling
rains can damp as
well as wash away
sidings, staples
and dawn
clasping to the night smoke
and grey
if she were my lady she would always
choose the grey
dull
proxy of our camp car-
this agent logging line
called to be
the stand-in
for
the shrill clear toll
of
lang syne
