POEMOGRAPHY | 2025
Poems by R.M. Usatinsky
pōəˈmäɡrəfē, noun: form or process of writing and representing poetry
JUNE
01JUN25 | CHANGE FROM WITHIN
It’s time I start to realize that change
must come from within; I suppose my
greatest flaw has been in thinking that
change would come from the outside,
from external sources; and what other
flaws must I commandeer? what other
weaknesses have steered me off course?
I wonder if it’s really about self-awareness,
or perhaps the lack thereof; maybe I simply
don’t know myself as well as I thought, or
maybe I know myself too well; in either case,
this so-called knowledge needs to be more
thoroughly observed and actions need to be
taken so that whatever changes are to be
brought into existence, they will be positive,
long-lasting changes from within and beyond
02JUN25 | TIN MAN
I have a running gag, of sorts, with one
of my daughters; I’ll play her a “song of
the day” to enlighten her about what I feel
are some of the best songs ever recorded;
oddly enough, many of these tracks are soft
or classic rock, usually from the seventies or
eighties; today I played her Tin Man, by the
British-American rock band America; playing
it loud on my Sonos speakers I was amazed at
how crisp the analog recording—made in 1974—
was, the vocals pushed way out front and the clean
mix by the producer and engineer of the Beatles,
George Martin and Geoff Emerick; my daughter—
as she usually does—sat and listened unimpressed,
but today, even though the look on her face was the
same, there was something very different in her smile
03JUN25 | BAD REVIEWS
It seems I’ve gotten behind on
writing all the bad reviews for
all the horrible experiences I’ve
had of late: inattentive, inflexible
wait staff, bad service, bad food,
and a wide assortment of retail
and online disappointments; I do
tend to submit reviews, generally
only when requested to do so, but
some establishments are worthy of
my time and efforts without being
prompted; today’s foible was at our
local (perfectly pretentious) outdoor
French bistro, where my daughter and
I were relieved of ten euros for an iced
oat milk latte and tiny bottle of Orangina
04JUN25 | ¡FEDERICO! NO, MI AMOR
It was an everyday day, picking up the
little one from school, though we walked
on the other side of the street, which was
unusual and out of place, but we crossed
over because I wanted to take the long way
home to have a peek at what exactly the road
workers were doing on our street; and just as I
surmised, they were repairing the damage made
by the crew who installed the new underground
trash containers last summer when the roadworks
on our block were finished; and walking behind us
was a woman who—after seeing her young son
perched atop the soccer goal in the school yard—
shouted, ¡Federico! no, mi amor; the boy gestured
and took his mother’s hand as she approached then
helping the young boy climb down safe from peril
05JUN25 | FOISTED FATHERS
I meet more and more young men
who seem to be reluctantly thrust
into fatherhood by their significant
others, women who, in the prime of
childbearing years, want to experience
motherhood with perhaps greater zeal
than their partners; and when they have
the opportunity to talk about their kids
or their everyday experiences, it’s with
such a lack of fervor that I’m inclined to
feel pity for them, to wonder how they
could have been hoodwinked into such
a lifetime of being and doing all the things
they might never have imagined wanting to
be or do; all the sleepless nights and all the
freedoms they have so implausibly surrendered
06JUN25 | NOT WANTING TO TAINT YOUR EXPERIENCE
There have been so many times I’ve
considered breaking through the ice,
reaching out and putting an end, once
and for all, to this absurdity, this long,
drawn out misadventure; and I’ve come
close to picking up the phone, to walking
into your room with my white flag, open
mind and forgiving heart, but then, just at
the last minute, just when I’m convinced
I’m doing the right thing, I falter, re-think
things and come to the conclusion that what
I should be doing is leave things as they are,
leave you to experience life the way life has
designed itself to be for you and not for me to
overstep the boundaries and make a bigger mess
of things than I have apparently already made them
07JUN25 | THE GENTLE ART OF FORGIVENESS
To be forgiving is to create a
gentle art; delicate strokes of
a fine soft-bristled brush, long
thin lines of pastel hues float
above the canvas, magically,
as if to suggest there is only
emptiness, a void of emotions
and a stillness reflecting every
missed heartbeat; but there is
nothing gentle about the pain
you have inflicted, your mastery
a deliberate blow leaving me with
wounds that will never heal, scars
that will remain long after my body
is no more, and a painting whose colors
will fade into the nothingness of time
08JUN25 | SOME CLOUDY DAYS
I complain about a lot of things,
the Dutch weather isn’t one of
them; as much as I enjoy a sunny
day (who doesn’t?), some cloudy
days never perturb me; in fact, I
like them and, even more so, I
really enjoy a good thunderstorm,
especially from the comfort and
safety of my own bed; I guess I
could complain that there doesn’t
seem to be as many thunderstorms
as there used to be, and there used
to be plenty and plenty of really big
ones, the ones that rattle the whole
building, ones that scare the cat and
ones that remind me of my childhood
09JUN25 | BATHROBE
It looks like I may have gotten
some toothpaste on my bathrobe;
you know how that happens, a bit
slobbers out of the mouth or some
excess whirls off the spinning head
of the electric toothbrush; in either
case, it dries—and dries whiter than
it is in the tube—and is pretty much
impossible to pick or scrape off with
a fingernail; and to add insult to injury,
I’ve recently washed my bathrobe and
would hate to wash it again so soon after;
dabbing it with a wet tissue would only
leave little specs of wet tissue so that’s not
an option; maybe I’ll just leave it there and
consider it one of life’s many discombobulations
10JUN25 | MY FIRST DREAM ABOUT WRITING POEMS
I had my first dream about
writing poems; it was just
last night, or perhaps it was
early this morning in one of
my many phases of sleep; I
was looking over some of my
poems and it suddenly occurred
to me that all of the ones I was
revising had only three lines per
stanza instead of four; I quickly
ran over to my computer to check
my poetry database and alas! all
the poems had three-line stanzas;
that was the whole dream, little
more than an off-putting sensation
and a feeling of sheer disappointment
11JUN25 | MIKLOS
Stalking? balking?? often looking but
never booking; I am there, waiting and
watching in the wings, silently; every
time you appear I see you through the
webs, stealthily I observe your comings
and goings, but you never make a move,
never take that next step, never choose
a date, a time or a service; what is it that
you want? what are waiting for?? can't
you wait to get back home to Budapest
to visit your favorite barber (who’s been
cutting your hair since you were a child)?
ping! ping!! there's Miklos again, pinging
and dinging, making my watch and phone
vibrate, making my wrist shake until it’s
sore from shaking; what is up with you?
12JUN25 | STRANGERS
That’s what you’ve become,
strangers, all of you; we crossed
paths downstairs as I was heading
off to work and I got a longer than
usual look at you and could hardly
believe that I barely recognized you;
and I can say the same about the others
with their long curly mullets, secondhand
clothes, bra-less tops, smoke-tanned skin
and vacant gaze; thing is, I’m getting used
to the arrangement, becoming more and
more acclimated to this new way of life,
one that you’re no longer a part of, one
that doesn’t occupy too much headspace,
and one that I live with a clear conscience
and an ever so present state of equanimity