Dimitri Rimsky lives in Washington, CT where it attended school for 12 years. Later attend SCSC briefly and New Haven College for a while and then hit the hippie highway.
He has been a Talent Agent, Mime, Graphic and Web Designer and is currently a House Painter. He is also an occasional poet.

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Dimitri Rimsky

Mamet Intrudes 

 

      Poetry has no plot 

well at least this poem has no plot
not so far I intend nothing,  I am merely writing a beginning
a poem, no plot, Not yet Of course some plot may develop unintended     At Any Moment some great sweeping epic may evolve but I have no inkling of it now,
its only a poem about spring and while I’m writing it
David Mamet is being interviewed, and he says,” intent is all an actor needs”

My intent is to write a poem about spring, that is my intent,
but it has not begun yet even the best of intentions may be deceiving

When I fell the tree, I cut it where it lay
and tossed the logs off the drive Then a year or so passed
and when I got around to splitting the logs I tossed them in a heap against the building,  thinking I would burn them in my mother’s fireplace
or they were cut small to fit the hearth, but I didn’t and winter passed
along with my good intentions So there was the pile and I thought of moving it  but weeks passed and I didn’t and soon the Tulips my ex-wife planted there
began coming up I’d sort of forgotten about them,  their yellow and I don’t much like them I would not have chosen yellow, or tulips for that matter
but I wasn’t consulted about the planting
I was assured they would be cheerful
and brighten the approach to the house
and would do well as it was the only sunny corner                                                   A Sunny corner I would have favored
with another flower, of another color
but what do I know
So here come the Tulips,  bending and curving
up the torturous route through the logs
seeking the sun
for a few weeks I was pre-occupied
by some internal metaphysical dialogue
about the resilience of life,
against the random nature of unexpected obstructions  that contort our best intentions And the Irony
of throwing logs on an ex-wife’s sleeping bed,
to burn in a dead mother’s fire
and any number
of other such musings
Meanwhile the Tulips persisted cheerfullyAfter a protracted period of exhaustive deliberation,
I took action, carefully dismantling the log pile
stacking it along an unplanted wall, gingerly disentangling each Tulip
until finally the true horror of my neglect or indifference lay revealed At least a dozen bright, yellow Tulips
with stems so long and twisted
that without their supporting logs
they could only lie sprawling like Medusa’s tendrils in the warm sun            This would never do
So I went about propping them up,
You Know…. Forked sticks, and twigs
So now I’ve got a Bed of Tulips 
that looks mostly like a procession of pilgrims
on their way to LourdesMamet says, “deception lies at the heart of Every Tragedy”  and I say,  “Tragedy lies at the heart of every season, and Spring is no exception”

~Dimitri Rimsky