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    In Praise of Bombast
    In Praise of Bombast
    In Praise of Bombast
    Ebook148 pages52 minutes

    In Praise of Bombast

    By Craig Wilson Ruttle

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    About this ebook

    In this book, self and non-self coalesce, dance and journey into darkness on their separate ways, opening doors to inner realms of consciousness, ultimately connecting us to the joy of simply breathing and the wonderment of dreams.

    CRAIG RUTTLE’S BIO BY CRAIG RUTTLE: My poems have been heard in few places and applauded in none. But the last time I recited aloud in the bathtub, I am certain I heard the Devil laugh. And the Angel who always accompanies me shed a tear. Craig’s second book of poetry: “IN PRAISE OF BOMBAST – New and Selected Poems” (Silver Bow Publishing 2018).

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherSilver Bow Publishing
    Release dateOct 14, 2018
    ISBN9781927616901
    In Praise of Bombast
    Author

    Craig Wilson Ruttle

    In this book, self and non-self coalesce, dance and journey into darkness on their separate ways, opening doors to inner realms of consciousness, ultimately connecting us to the joy of simply breathing and the wonderment of dreams.

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      Book preview

      In Praise of Bombast - Craig Wilson Ruttle

      Title: In Praise of Bombast New & Selected Poems

      Author: Craig Wilson Ruttle

      Front Cover Art: by Harold Herbert Elliott

      Smashwords Edition 2018

      License Notes

      This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author

      For Rose

      The lovely, lovely Lady …

      "In honor of the lady,

      Who makes potatoes grow."

      ~ Vachel Lindsay

      Other Books by Craig Wilson Ruttle

      So If I Built a Bird's-nest In the Middle of the Light,

      Ekstasis Editions (Palimscest Press)1986

      720 Sixth Street, Box # 5

      New Westminster, BC

      CANADA V3l3c5

      All rights reserved including the right to reproduce or translate this book

      or any portions thereof, in any form without the permission of the publisher. Except for the use of short passages for review purposes, no part of this book may be reproduced, in part or in whole, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronically or mechanically, including photocopying, recording, or any information or storage retrieval system without prior permission in writing from the publisher or a licence from the Canadian Copyright Collective Agency (Access Copyright)

      Issued in print and electronic formats.

      ISBN 978-1-927616-87-1 (softcover).-ISBN 978-1-927616-90-1 (PDF)

      Dear Adam:

      In spite of my daytime amnesia, last night unable to sleep I remembered: Once I aspired to poetry. I breathed deeply and sprouted wings and flew above the dark and dank and heartbroken city. Thru the eyes of a newly born poet, dark - though lit by 12,000 televisions and 23,000 computers. Dank, of course, because of this incessant rain. I flew above Vancouver and fell in love with the soft trilling of my translucent wings; fell in love with the cold moist clouds.

      Grief encircled my heart like a lover's hand - and membranes opened one after another, uncovering this lonely eye in my forehead.

      I could see beyond the false light of 100,000 artificial dawns, beyond the infinite distractions promised by newly acquired goods that Vancouver, boasting one of the World's most beautiful natural harbours, the highest real estate prices in Canada, $20.00 -a-throw drug addicted Hookers, the realized promises of Expo 86 and the 2010 Olympic Games; beautiful Vancouver where I have chosen to raise my family, seen from Heaven at 4 a.m. - is a black mold growing on the bread of life; ugly and squalid: roadways, bicycle lanes, high-rises, houses, cars, bridges, airports, casinos, trains..., spreading like cancer, devouring everything,- except Stanley park, wreck beach, and a bronze sculpture of windswept bones in Q.E. park. 

      I wept for the isolated trees unable to clasp their own species roots, never to forest.

      However Adam there is hope. I saw that awake or dreaming there burned inside each human soul a tiny candle of uninhibited sorrow: a tiny fragment of Eve and you, from the days in the Garden; and I realized I am not the only one dissatisfied with the way things are.

      My faith, old friend, has been restored.

      Contents

      Dear Adam

      SPRING 

      The argument

      Juvenile delinquents

      The angels of sunshine are singing

      The blue heron

      Moo moo moove along

      Homage to 911

      I accuse myself of crimes against humanity 

      In praise of bombast

      Sonata: I walked out one evening

      The Dude

      The Devil drove a big black car

      Horror (The Dictator)

      Unborn souls receive their human hands

      The house of my body

      Fata Morgana

      My grandmother in her running shoes 2

      Several dreams lately

      We must take care of the frozen people

      To the vanishing middle class

      I've forgotten my poem

      Crow calls from the balsam fir

      The joyous dead

      The wise woman claps

      You me they we

      Slowly, slowly I love her

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