With roots in myth and fairy tales, and branches that weave a tangle of hope and horror, Paul Genega brings us
“tales
to tell and tell and retell until
the telling itself is all you own
the only truth worth telling
the only truth you know –”
His luminous language and deft use of rhythm and rhyme bring us into a very real contemporary world in which gods, princes and witches stride beside us, enticing us to leap up and join them. It is “as if dreams could sprout wings.”
Beth Joselow
Author of Begin at Once and Writing Without the Muse
Paul Genega’s poems shed light on the failures of America, the glitz and promise that exist only for a few. In this harsh reality, some lose themselves in perceived failings; others, regardless of race, immigrant status, or sexual preference, live boldly, making their way. In their expert range from lyric to narrative, in the astute way they layer history with the present, and in the way they chronicle the longing and heartache of the lived American experience, Outtakes reveals a brilliant poetic mind at work. This is a captivating book.
Priscilla Orr
Author of Jugglers & Tides and Losing the Horizon
Paul Genega’s Outtakes puts the reader on a great journey. You need to be ready to take this journey, as Genega’s road is not paved with gold; rather, it is a pot-holed turnpike, probably somewhere in New Jersey, late night and full of traffic with wise-assed drivers who’d rather give you the finger as they speed by than wave you into their lane with all the pleasantries. In Outtakes, there are no free passes, so fasten the seat belt, put your hands on the steering wheel, and let Genega’s poems take you around the construction and over a stream as a sliver of sun appears atop the mountains somewhere upstate New York… Outtakes is a standout collection of Genega’s work spanning five decades. It puts Genega in his rightful place as one of America’s most significant poets.
Paul Rabinowitz
Founder and Executive Director, ARTS By The People
Author of truth, love and the lines in between and The Clay Urn
MOORDENER KILL
moves black in a place which seems sunless
over rock flecked silver white, almost shiny
in the dimness
over dams of leaf and twig
churn and rush of it dismantling what was
just built
you can see the creek, one bend
of it at least, from the road which leads
to the ramp which leads to the interstate
which can take you so far west you’ll
eventually hit ocean
but you can only
see one crook of the creek where you
stand
like a secret that stays dark
and where it leads
eventually you don’t
know and don’t care
content to let it
mumble in the hollow which unlike
the creek is unnamed, unexplored
unloved
except for boys like you were
once, come to linger in the shadows
walking wet stones, laughing, slipping in
spinning
yarns of graves scooped out
of leaf mold
quiet men in white shirts
who dust the world with their trudge
the insatiable hunger of oversalted
childhoods crusted on pink tongues
tales
to tell and tell and retell until
the telling itself is all you own
the only truth worth telling
the only truth you know –
manifest destiny, memoir, grand guignol
* * *
WAXWINGS
and suddenly
three
in the shadblow
as if dreams
could sprout wings
hoodoo hipsters
in miter caps and shades
feasting on a storm
of blood-black berry
then
just as quickly
gone
vanished
disappeared
like boys
into men
men into
war
war into
fog
filthy
air
* * *
CONFORMATION
for Charles Laughton’s Quasimodo
and for my grandparents Ilko and Tessie
who resisted such voices for the sake of their sons
hard chairs bolted to desktops
fixed rows in cold classrooms
the buzz of dying fluorescents
we want the same for our boys
now, nothing modular or mobile
no coddling circles, open skylights
want them to fidget as we did
lust for sun in schoolyards
know how long a minute can
last, boys who will be boys
to carry on as we carried on
as our fathers did, their fathers
sting of wrong answer
slap of disapproval, shame
like wildfire burning its way
from blush to white heat
boys who will brawl into
streets when the bell sounds
sprint to the kingdom of
tilt spin curl lift whirl, there
to crown in our own image
cruel giving way to cool
the next lord of misrule
a new king of fools
All of the above poems are Copyright © Paul Genega, 2024.
