Poetry by Tim Suermondt




We grew up in the village of peas,

exchanging vows in the smallest


city hall ever built by man.

On a train we ran away to the city,


forever. Skyscrapers guarded over us

and our bookshelf always had room


for more books—the erotic, intelligent

moon determined to read every one.


We watched an entire decade wish us

well, dancing like quicksilver along


the daunting edge of the suspension

bridge, holding the future as close as


we held ourselves—tilting the streets

and our queen bed slowly skyward.







                   A writer is like a worker with a toolbox.

                                             –Charlie Smith

The fish, large and small, leap up

and land on the plates of the people.

The army marches, carrying flowers

and speaking kindly to the subversives.

The blue birds nearly blanket the sky

and couples commandeer catamarans

to the ends of the earth. Behind curtains

rustling in the cooling breeze the poets

just write, unaware of what it is they’ve

just done, turning the screws on their

stanzas to make them sturdy and if lucky

beautiful enough to be of use, anywhere.






I’m beginning to believe we and the world

have a chance after all, everyone and everything


feeling a wholeness at the same instant.

I watch my wife enter and leave the room,


unaware of her beauty, just like beauty itself.

I think of Paris and I don’t think of Paris—


I’m at home anywhere now, giving my wife

a bouquet of assorted flowers again, and forever.






                      Keats wanted to write great poetry

                      and I am in the orchard all day.    

                                            –Linda Gregg


I’d like hanging out in an orchard,

though all day might be excessive.

Truth be told, I’m much more at home

on a city’s street, even a mean street,

the kind I never shied from. As for Keats,

he did write some great poems and all

I’ll say about mine is that I did the best

I could, believing each one was bringing

me closer to a sense of the sublime, almost,

if not yet akin to the loveliness of a peach

orchard, a pizza pie at any establishment

named Luigi’s, a squadron of birds flying

smartly in the sun between the skyscrapers.


Poetry by Tim Suermondt

Tim Suermondt is the author of five full-length collections of poems, the latest JOSEPHINE BAKER SWIMMING POOL  from MadHat Press, 2019. He has published in Poetry, Ploughshares, Prairie Schooner, The Georgia Review, Bellevue Literary Review, Stand Magazine, december magazine, On the Seawall and Plume, among many others. He lives in Cambridge (MA) with his wife, the poet Pui Ying Wong.

About the contributor

Related Articles

Life and Conflict in 2019 New Zealand

Philip Muir savours the power of words as both a mode of communication and as an art form.

Diarmuid Fitzgerald – Poetry

Diarmuid Fitzgerald was born in 1977 in Co. Mayo, Ireland. He grew up in Co. Cork and currently live in Dublin. He works as a school teacher and is a poet and prose writer. Thames Way was his first collection of haiku poems and it was published in 2015 by Alba Publishing

Just a Few Poems – Daniel Senser

Daniel Senser has had works published in The Blue Nib, Festival Review, and Adelaide, among other journals..

More Like This

After The Holidays. Poetry by Pesach Rotem

AFTER THE HOLIDAYS Sukkot Has come and gone. The autumn rains are here. The winter rains will soon bestow Their gifts. Pesach Rotem...

Migraineur and other poems by Michele Seminara

Michele Seminara's most recent collection is Engraft (Island Press in 2016)

Poetry- Bob Beagrie

Chiromancy ‘The great Sage as high as Heaven visited here.’ Wu Cheng'en – Journey to the West, 1592 High staggered moorland crossroads too few trees, the big wide...

The shorthand test.

Ben Verinder is the biographer of the adventurer and writer Mary Burkett.

Poetry- Carla Scarano D’Antonio

Sailing North We left with cherry trees blossoming, people arranging polished horns in a window. Opposite to south Vegetation grew rusty, gold, scarlet red silver grey, brown. Inhaling thro, branches torn bare frozen. North: thorn,...