SurVision Magazine / R. G. Evans

All Newborn Gods

All newborn gods
are anonymous as birdsong.
They speak the same language
of need, dance the same mazurka
in cradle, crib, or creche.
All newborn gods bestow
blessings of shit and piss
unto a world that doesn't know
it needs changing as well.
The parents of all newborn gods
are as stunned as virgins
visited by angels screaming
hosannas in the middle of the night
while the unblessed world sanely sleeps.
All newborn gods
could eat the sun and moon,
the earth and all the sky,
would devour their own tails
if it weren't for the swaddling clothes.
Over the heads of all newborn gods
stars cluster like berries. Pick one.
It's as good as any other:
the light where all begins.

Deal

A deck of cards with unfamiliar suits tempts me
into gambling with a stake that I don't have.
Across the table, a bust of Nero
imagines itself with arms, what a winning hand it could hold.
Floorboards creak in the empty room upstairs,
and Nero and I look for a clock that doesn't exist,
no way to tell the hour when the birds all disappeared,
vacant trees testaments to their passing.
I look at my cards—the twelve of hats,
the murder of crows, the motherless son,
the question mark of suicide, the dunce of mirrors.
Nero has played a rainbow flush and I see that I am bust.
He gives an armless shrug, says How am I to fiddle now?
a question better than my answer,
My god has stopped working.

R. G. Evans recently retired after thirty-four years of teaching high school and college English and Creative Writing in New Jersey, USA. His collections include Overtipping the Ferryman (Aldrich Press Poetry Prize, 2013), The Noise of Wings, and The Holy Both. His poems appear in Rattle, Paterson Literary Review, and Backlash (Great Britain), etc. His debut CD of original songs, Sweet Old Life, was released in 2018.

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An international online magazine that publishes Surrealist poetry in English. Issue Seven R. G. EVANS All Newborn Gods All newborn gods are anonymous as birdsong. They speak the same language of need, dance the same mazurka in cradle, crib, or creche. All newborn gods bestow blessings of shit and piss unto a world that doesn't know it needs changing as well. The parents of all newborn gods are as stunned as virgins visited by angels screaming hosannas in the middle of the night while the unblessed world sanely sleeps. All newborn gods could eat the sun and moon, the earth and all the sky, would devour their own tails if it weren't for the swaddling clothes. Over the heads of all newborn gods stars cluster like berries. Pick one. It's as good as any other: the light where all begins. Deal A deck of cards with unfamiliar suits tempts me into gambling with a stake that I don't have. Across the table, a bust of Nero imagines itself with arms, what a winning hand it could hold. Floorboards creak in the empty room upstairs, and Nero and I look for a clock that doesn't exist, no way to tell the hour when the birds all disappeared, vacant trees testaments to their passing. I look at my cards—the twelve of hats, the murder of crows, the motherless son, the question mark of suicide, the dunce of mirrors. Nero has played a rainbow flush and I see that I am bust. He gives an armless shrug, says How am I to fiddle now? a question better than my answer, My god has stopped working. R. G. Evans recently retired after thirty-four years of teaching high school and college English and Creative Writing in New Jersey, USA. His collections include Overtipping the Ferryman (Aldrich Press Poetry Prize, 2013), The Noise of Wings, and The Holy Both. His poems appear in Rattle, Paterson Literary Review, and Backlash (Great Britain), etc. His debut CD of original songs, Sweet Old Life, was released in 2018.
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