Seeker Magazine

Chris Rhatigan

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The wonderful bright spots of young people who write poetry is highlighted again this month with Chris Rhatigan, a high school student from Connecticut.

Here's what he says:

I have many artistic goals, but in poetry I try to write about the beautiful things in life that are so small (or so large) that people often times miss them in the long-stranded tie-ups in this overly busy world. The poetry I write is very image/sensory based in order to capture the pure emotion of a moment. It also (fairly directly) has to do with the Buddhist metaphor of a lotus flower. This incredible blossom of a lotus flower always comes out of the murky, muddy swamps. Much like my poetry, which comes often times out of events that would probably be considered negative, I attempt turn into things of beauty.

Another of my main artistic pursuits (besides poetry) is music, I love playing jazz electric bass."

Tears of Rain


At top of vine-ridden mountain tops
reaching the zenith of a journey
compacting the world around.

Echo occurs in a cave
deeper than a chasm of
yesterday's shortcomings,
rolling in the basin,
forming cosmic rays
and carousing bubbles
in carbonated streams.

Question posed
with an answer of
tossing a pebble into
a puddle which makes
no ripple.

A tidepool by an
ocean translucent
unites with the sky
swirling side to side to side
two sides.



persistence of memory


dense tropical air
weighs in at heavyweight bout,
i'm too light to fight this one.

siren song
sweet herald of yesteryear
cinnamon and plantains
baking in humid atmosphere,
next corner a blur without signposts,
without milestones,
without a way to know the darkness
of a never ending hall
of swinging clocks with
distant resonating chimes.

one minute you're fused with intrigue,
the next you've disappeared
into oversized palm leaves
of apathy and disdain.

does it all conclude?
or will the chase be a vicious cycle
of minotaurs round
spherical snowballs
till you land on soil
seeping between your toes
and place the lotus blossom
at the base of your
silk ponytail?



Circles


The clouds roll in,
soon rain will come and
wash away yesterday and the day before it.
Sun slices a portion of clouds now,
casting looming shadows into valleys beside lowly hills.

It's times like these when I
wonder if it's all real, or if I'm
going to wake up from this
dream we call life in a warmed bed
within a secluded cabin deep in the thick of the forest.
A cabin with air of burning wood
that gives away your every move
by its signature creaks.

The sun disappears now
and foothills' leaves are illuminated
with backdrop of a darkening sky,
closure to an imperfect day.



Self Portrait of Someone Else


Knees pointed away
I roll my head against
oddly textured cement walls amidst
the hum of the heater,
vague chatter and cluttered footprints.

I wish,
I wish I could
throw paint against the walls
and smudge it with my fingers
till every color even outside the visible spectrum is represented
and these metal chains strewn
across my back will be scrubbed away
till the opaque feeling within exits
and is replaced by streaks of lucent streaming vibrancy...
then maybe a jump into a tire swing
and plunge into an uninhibited mud puddle
with freedom of comfort I used to know.

But chalk dust torture for the last
however many years prevents me
from acting on these reveries.
Rest easy though,
for your thoughts know
no leashes,
no chains,
so long as you let them.



Vertigo



Angels bound to decks of cards 

are not able to escape 

to cloud nine.



They're constantly 

			peering 

down through 

spaces 

between 

fluffed 

	white pillows

that cover

azure horizons. 



Sudden dizziness 

	strikes 	

when looking vertically to

	the purgatory which is

past life.



Midwest fields are

mere 

	neat squares 

from this altitude,

	all touchable and understandable;

not like 

	when they were on a plane 

of horizontal 

		wanderings.



In the 

	center 

		of each

of their minds 

is the innate knowledge

of never going back;

for peace that existed for 

	a crystallized moment 

	upon Earth, 

now dwells forever 

			in spirit.



(Copyright by Chris Rhatigan, 1999 - No reproduction without express permission from the author)

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Letter to the Author:
Chris Rhatigan <Chessnstuf@aol.com>
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