Kenton Wing Robinson takes his middle name from his
grandmother's maiden name, as it was she who raised him, taught him
to read and, when he was still a boy, introduced him to Thomas Carew,
her favorite Metaphysical poet. He has written poetry since he was nine
years old, and he achieved his first recognition as a writer in the
eighth grade, when his English teacher intercepted a poem alleging she
had sex with hippopotami. He has written reams of poetry since, most
of which have been stuffed into drawers to gather dust. Always a bridesmaid,
Robinson has seen three of his collections (Common Bird Songs,
The Execution Club and What It's Made Of) be finalists
or honorable mentions in various contests. His poems have been published
in AGNI, The Worcester Review, The Litchfield Review and other
magazines. An award-winning reporter and columnist at The Day in New
London, Connecticut, Robinson has been a newsman for most of his life.
Click here to read sample poems.
Without salt, heart can’t beat, wound
We are two seas, more salt
the salted man, the man in love,
The sea moves through me, spills
HER 15 MINUTES
Minor poet, major hack,
Hungover, I’m that leftover snowbank, black
Inside, it’s a girl, for a day immortal,
& I? I will give her her 15 minutes.
Happily ever after never
Ulysses, you come home at last, & your old dog keels
After, you can get back to living, just be.
|POEM (in the style of Catullus)
You, bent over your desk, pants
Spring, & I’m pounding
No doubt your husband, Quintus,
Back arched, hard breasts swinging,
“For God’s sake, Q,
|A HATE POEM
I hate, Clodia Why say ‘Lesbia’
that we may never lie again in this bed,
nor mock our dull suburban neighbors
O, Clodia, I hate.
Hate that I will not
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