Poet Sam W. Reimer

The Book

Well, here it is at long last “warts and all”— Sam W. Reimer's Gray Matter Graffitti: remnants of collections lost… an early gallery from some alleyways & other by-ways. This initial collection of some 200 original written works (of which only a handful have previously seen the light of day) draws from a prodigious assemblage penned during four decades of expressive poetic ideation—as the book title suggests, these poems have percolated in the bard's brain long enough—they're good and ripe by now and ready to be read by all.

Sam's poems provide a plaintive voice for our tempestuous times—his unique commentaries on life and love (and love-lost ennui) are at once poignant, unapologetically direct, and (often) edged with the tragic—his ponderings range from the profane to the sacred, drill deep, and dare to pose unanswerable questions. Unheralded, unsung, and little published though Sam's inspired ruminations have been in the past, they're finally compiled, printed, bound, and available for a broader readership.

It's our hope that as you dip in and out of this book, you do so with an open mind (which, like a parachute, works much better than when closed)… and as you read, let Sam's pen sketch stories, pictures, contemplations on blank pages of your own imagination. The works offered are Sam's invitation to laugh, to cry, to curse, and to reflect—on opportunities long gone and outcomes yet to come. Enjoy…

(from the Introduction, by Robert L. Peters, Editor)

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Prologue

These poems are not sophisticated; that is not their intent. Some are autobiographical, some fictitious, some more serious, some angrier, some more sorrowful than others—ranging from the profane to the sacred, and en masse erring on the side of oddness. Some are experiments I liked, others polished lyrical, some prosaic, some bitter, some bitter-sweet (e.g. of loves found and lost)—some elegies, some eulogies, and some just plain better than others.

There are diverse characters & settings—some from fact, some from pure fabrication, some merely plays with words & images as their own performers. There are animal acts, child acts, family ensemble acts, solo acts, Nature acts (no unnatural acts the last time I checked). Hopefully all are entertaining—but if the reader finds any one not that, then simply turn the page. Dylan Thomas stated that all poetry is essentially narrative. I like to think that my poems & etudes present that characterization as they step off the silent page & take to the stage of your gray matter—this then is my Gray Matter Graffitti—a vaudeville in verse… for Saturday night pubs to Sunday services… & other gatherings whenever…

Sam W. Reimer

Illustrated chapter titles (poems in the 214-page book appear in eight thematic chapters).

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Impression: Along Molson Way

On the other side of this chain-link fence
along the tracks,
blackberries,
daisies,
& morning-glories run in packs;
plethoras of thorns & unkempt petals,
pretty poisons
& tongues of dust-green leaves ply the ravine;

Wilding as well long tall grasses
ivies
& ferns deceptively indelicate &
dense-pack blocks of blackberry brambles
bully everything else off the would-be boulevard.

Give the earth just a crack at the city
& gardens grow in gangs,
daisies
& morning-glories run in packs.

. . . . .

Ballad of Woodland and Town-O
A young romantic lark

I went for a walk down a woodland trail
With some bread and some cheese and a bottle of ale,
And I met my love at the door of the dale,
Way far away from the town-o.
We walked hand in hand through the leafy vale,
And we met and we played with some funny little quail,
And Time slid slower than a slippery snail,
Way far away from the town-o.

Then we basked for a while in the sun's soft rays,
And a deer looked us over with a curious gaze,
And a breeze came and whispered a sentimental phrase,
Way far away from the town-o.
We looked everywhere and our hearts sang a praise
To the Maker of forests and beautiful days,
As we ran up and down all the woodland ways,
Way far away from the town-o.

We found a web of gossamer a spider had spun,
We found a little nest that a bird had just begun,
And we found two happy chipmunks having lots of fun,
Way far away from the town-o.
Then out crept the shadows, one by one,
So we climbed a high hill to see the setting of the sun,
And when it disappeared, our woodland day was done,
Way far away from the town-o.

Night time had come and we slowly went back
To the place where the air, like the ground, was black,
And smoke poured out from a tall gray stack,
Back to the dirty old town-o.
We were nearly there when we turned in our track,
We couldn't return to that clackety-clack,
So we ran all the way to our woodland brack,
Way far way from the town-o.

Now we live in the woods with the birds and the bees,
With three woody rooms made from three hollow trees,
And it's so warm in winter we'll never ever freeze,
Way far away from the town-o.
We eat wild berries and we eat wild peas,
You can't get foods much better than these;
We've got friends in the woods, and everyone agrees
To stay far away from the town-o,
Way far away from the town-o.

. . . . .

Just When / “See Ya!”

Just when it seems again
she surely must have gone, she lingers longer
& yet a little longer, as loved ones gather
& re-gather to bid their hearts'-good-byes
& with their songs & words & fervent prayers
seem almost to revive her spirit to remain

Though her frail body can grow no stronger…
& so this, till the Will of where now she'd
rather be
finally releases her mortal ties
& she goes;
she goes leaving no one unaware
of where to see her again—just when
of where to “See Ya!” again—just when.

. . . . .

Our Japanese Tea Room

We used to come to this room quite a lot
When we were still together and in love;
On warm still nights we'd sit and drink our tea,
And gaze into each other's eyes to see
What each of us was just then thinking of.

I used to take you gently by the hand
And lift it to my lips and taste your palm;
Just then our dear old friend would bring the food
While glowing candlelight enhanced the mood
Created by the room's romantic calm.

When we had eaten our delightful meal
And our kind host had left us all alone,
You'd come into my arms without a sound…
And joined in love, we'd sit and gaze around
At murals on the walls and gods of stone.

On one wall was a cherry blossom tree
Whose petals sparkled drops of morning dew,
And not too far away a creek flowed past…
We knew a spell of magic had been cast,
But all this faded when I looked at you.

And then one day our dear friend passed away,
And with his spirit passed our magic spell;
They closed his tea room, and I wondered why
From that time on our love began to die—
We're now apart and life has gone to hell.

. . . . .

4 one who

4 one who
   dotes on
sol
   i
     tude
       i
sure do hate
       2
wake or dine
al
   one
     i
sure do hate
       my
         by
myself
     self.
      2
bloody much
     of my
       time

. . . . .

To See a Dusky Thrush

Siberian feathered defector
or unintentional immigrant
blown off normal course
en route to a Japan summer,
but destined for this Langley (BC)
backyard & the rapt glassy-
eyed gazes of dozens of pilgrims
& local denizens praising the Maker for
The Day They Saw
The Dusky Thrush—
What a bird-watcher's rush to
see the Russian newcomer push
the domestic robin out of the berry-bush &
to see other humans' awestruck tears &
hear whispers, “oohs & ahs” & a breathless
“Oh, oh, it's eating a berry!” from someone
who drove a thousand miles north to see
a Dusky Thrush…

. . . . .

Freedom March: A Novelty

March!
“& when I say March!
you guys are gonna
What?”

March!
March what?
March, Sir!

Fah wahd march!
2 3 4
Hut! 2 3 4
But 2 3 4
Sir 2 3 4
where 2 3 4
are 2 3 4
we 2 3 4
march- 2 3 4
ing 2 3 4
to 2 3 4

Company Halt!

Freedom!
1 2 3 4
What are we marchin' for?
Freedom!
Freedom what?
Freedom Sir!

Sir! Request permission
to ask question
Sir!

Permission granted.

Sir, why can't we dance
for
Freedom?

. . . . .

Helpless in hospital

Helpless in hospital
the most useless body
finds its place

each person finds legitimacy
as a patient—
physical specifics
beside the point

plastic appendages & probes
tubes & gender-neutral procedures
machines & significant bags

needles & staples & bandages & vials
the labours of specialists & those
who empty bags & clean cans

all these touches of the personal
confer upon the wide-eyed
naked alienated patient

a status not granted
in the cold competitive community
outside these non-forbidding walls

Helpless in hospital
the body finds its place
the person finds legitimacy in that bed.

. . . . .

Eve's First

When her blood flowed
from down there
for the first time

tho' she'd never felt or seen
anything like it before
she treated herself

as a familiar phenomenon
& controlled the rush
with a pad of sponge-moss

& some curling leaves
from the warm shade
of a secluded glade

& she was not afraid.

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Richly illustrated, this 214-page book includes numerous scans from the poet's notebooks and manuscripts (capturing the works in his own hand) as well as photographs and illustrative material from a wide variety of sources. Produced and perfect bound by Friesens in Altona, Manitoba, the book is printed on RolIand Enviro100 Book 55 lb. (a 100% post-consumer recycled paper stock), with matte-laminated covers on 12pt. Carolina Cover. Compiled and edited by Robert L. Peters; designed and published by Circle.

Gray Matter Graffitti
Sam W. Reimer
ISBN 978-1-55383-196-9
$16.00 (Canada and USA) plus postage and handling