Andreas Gripp is a London, Ontario poet and writer. He lives with his cats, "Clea" and "Sheba". He is the author of six books of poetry as well as six chapbooks. His website can be found at http://www.andreasgripp.com
 
 

My girlfriend hates Roy Clark
but hasn't heard of Sufjan Stevens

 

My composition of song,
for you, has been rejected,
not because the sentiments
were bad, or the structure
of verse and chorus,
but that I played the chords
on a banjo
when I should have used a guitar.

You say the banjo is a trite,
hee-hawed thing,
for barefoot, hick-town loafers
with dangling straw
between their teeth.

I'd like to change the words,
dedicate it to another,
one who doesn't ridicule
the music
of the mountain,
one who'd know its origins,
before Burl Ives' arrival.

Bania,
in the Mandingo tongue,
from the minstrels
of the African west,
whose moonlight lovers
never shunned
their poignant serenades.

 

LIFE IN PLASTIC

 

from Life in Plastic

 

 

The Wisdom of Rice

 

Don't pity the rice
Aunt Josephine
had said,
during her usual mirth
and merriment,
and we wondered
what she'd meant.

Now, with news
of her earthly passing,
her mantra is remembered
and its meaning,
made clear:

Rice, my children,
will likely fall to the floor
as it's poured,
a grain that's grown
for nothing
and yet it grows,
in tawny fields and tall,
the height of pride
and triumph,

not concerned if it's crushed
by a farmer's boots
or spit aside in mills;

neither worried if stuck
to the bottom of pots
nor wedged between the teeth
of a fork;

and, if it's not to be consumed
as food,
it will leap in the air
in a second of joy,

to be trodden
by a bridegroom's shoe,
perhaps caught
in a wedded wife's veil,

swept in a pan
by a janitor's broom,

resume its endless celebration
with the dust.

 

from Angel Clare

 

 

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