Image

 

Photo courtesy of Chris Sorrenti,
Ottawa, Canada
  

 

 

   

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The Poetry of

Chris Sorrenti

Bio:

A long time resident of Ottawa, Chris Sorrenti first started writing poetry at age 15, as a means of dealing with the pressures of adolescence, and has been hooked ever since. In his own words, “I find reading and writing poetry a spiritual experience, helping me to survive difficult times, and to celebrate the positives in my life.”

 

In 1992, Sorrenti joined the executive of the Tree Reading Series, finishing as Director before stepping down in 1994, and is currently webmaster for the Sasquatch Artists’ Performance Series in Ottawa.

 

His work has appeared locally in periodicals such as Bywords (1991), Alter Vox (2000). In 2000, his poem, Super Nova was published in the Australian (Canberra) arts newspaper, Muse. More recently, his poem, Less Cluck But More Meat For Your Buck, won honorable mention in the 2001 Ray Burrell Award for poetry, and subsequently published in Vol. 11 of the creative writing periodical, Grist Mill. 



           MORE THAN A FEELING

 

            I look around

            see the power

            in everyone and everything

            an energy I can almost touch          

            a sensation that I can’t explain

            watching the clouds pass overhead

            my spirit flying along with them

           

            if I could only grasp that feeling

            oh what tales I could tell

            © 1979

 

                  THE HISS

 

                   I remember the hiss

                                      

                                traffic

                                seeping through adolescent window

                                       the toil of motors

                                       accelerating into one

                   and me

                   with syncronized heartbeat

                                freshly licensed

                  

                   little realizing 

                                it was also youth's engine turning       

                                       pistons 

                                       pumping into a scream                   

                                essence exhausted quickly

                   into dank night air

                  

                   and not far off in darkened wood                                        

                                winter              

                   howling through the rusted carcass

                                of an automobile

 

                                       listening also

 

                     ©  1992




           EULOGY FOR A POET



                        for Marty Flomen

                        R.I.P. 1942-1997

 

 

            no secret

            the hands of your clock

            ticked a smaller circumference

            across 55 years

            gears slowly clogged with

            asthma, diabetes, triple bypass

            yet no one predicting

            how soon you’d deliver

            the ultimate poem

                       

            at the wake

            no casket

            only photographs

            as testament to a life

            despite handicaps

            hurled bravely

            at the pretentious grunts

            of those around you

            your 35mm smile

            projecting teasingly already

            from another world

            not even a week ago

            as close as a phone call

            I didn’t make

 

            nauseous

            I bellow into the vacuum 

            once vibrating with your poetry

            who now my

            dispenser of brotherly wisdom?

            hero of open-mindedness?

           

            and for a slice of your eternity

            the hands of my clock

            ticking a smaller circumference

           
           
© 1999



           LESS CLUCK BUT MORE MEAT FOR YOUR BUCK

 

            urban legend be damned!

            my 17 year old son has it on good authority

            (friend of a friend - no names)

            there’s some strange goings on  

            at those Kentucky Fried Chicken farms

            enough to make Colonel Sanders rise from the grave

            and sizzle in his own embalming fluid

 

            word is KFC’s legal title

            to a genetically enhanced hybrid of poultry

            little resembling mother nature’s original recipe …

            bigger breasts, larger wings - more muscular legs

            yet just as tender  - and whammo!

            11 different herbs and spices

            takes on a whole new meaning

 

            my son further points out

            as we’re stuffing our faces with the evidence tonight

            the word ‘chicken’ can no longer be found

            on any of the packaging

            and faster than you can ask

            why did the mutant cross the road?

            gall darn - he was right - I checked!

 

            so the next time you’ve a craving for extra crispy

            and while licking your fingers

            suddenly get an urge to crow like a rooster on steroids

            can’t say a friend (no names) didn’t warn you!

 

                © 2000

                Based on an urban legend. Click here to learn more.


               
won honorable mention in the 2001 Ray Burrell Award for poetry contest,
               and first published in Vol. 11 of Grist Mill


 

 






             
 NIGHT MAIDENS

 

            more oft than not

            work’s end finds me

            drained of all energy

            …desire

 

            job environment

            seldom fertile

            except to suppress

            things that preoccupied

            me as a young man

            assumed would always

            endear me

            to the light of day

 

            the evening hours

            a time of recovery aided

            with dinner

            occasional wine

            sofa relaxation

            amid documentary

            or movie

            a little creative writing

            to heal

            the routine wounds   

            before mattress and

            blankets reclaim me

            where again a

            transformation occurs

 

            only after hours

            of deep sleep

            the workload’s suppression

            is undone and I am

            that young man again

            my slumber pleasantly

            interrupted

 

            the maidens come

            calling

            one per night

            bearing gifts

            of only themselves

            faces familiar

            but never able to place


 

            though unlike the Liliths

            of stress that plague me

            in sunshine

            these playful temptresses

            uninhibited

            in their nakedness

            both sooth and arouse         

            offering treats that

            no man

            young or old

            can ignore

           

                © 2003 

 

 

 

            NOVEMBER GIFT

           

            for me and the solitary spider

            outside my kitchen window

            unusually warm

            allowing one more day of life

            repair of its web for visitors

            almost certain not to arrive

 

            finishing the dishes

            I contemplate the pointlessness

            envious of the spider’s lack of concern

            at what tomorrow may not bring

 

            had planned lugging the camera to work

            the same species commonplace in summer

            outside my office window

 

            set the zoom on macro

            snap a whole roll of film

            wondering if my subject’s aware

            its fifteen minutes of fame

            has all but passed away

 

            overnight

            the temperature drops

            morning kitchen window empty again

            but for a new web

            without a spider


            below photo one of those actually taken as referred to in poem

                © 2000

all poems and photos © Chris Sorrenti
more of Chris’ poetry available at Chris’ Place