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Thomas Zimmerman
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the poet
At Washtenaw Community College, Ann Arbor, Michigan, Thomas Zimmerman teaches English, directs the Writing Center, and edits The Big Windows Review. He's been active in small press publishing since the 1980s, and his latest poetry book is Dead Man's Quintet. Thomas' poetry can be found in Pulsebeat Poetry Journal, Pulp Poets Press, Green Ink Poetry, A Thin Slice of Anxiety, Grand Little Things and elsewhere.
the poems
Few Good Things
A sluggish walk in dewy woods with Ann
and Trey, who nearly snagged a fresh-dead bird.
The sun burned off some brain fog, thoughts began
to breach, and then submerged without a word.
Unshowered, stubble-chinned, I had a bad
night’s sleep: Trey licking, barking in his dreams.
Or maybe it was me, poor poet sad
enough to nurse his ironies and memes.
And now black coffee’s coursing through my wan
and tepid blood, spring-gleam in glacial shade.
Yet ennui clings like moss, chill hanging on.
Not hard to see how few good things get made.
How long this search for beauty, truth, gods’ signs?
Ad infinitum? No, just fourteen lines.
How Slowly
Some days, how slowly flows the river: that
of consciousness, and I a crumbling cork
in it. Oh rudderless. I think of all
the swimmers in my streams, some surfers too.
All hunted down: white sharks. My screen glows whiter
than potential, clean blank canvas stretched,
which I, most days, mistake for nothingness.
Last night, twice, thunder shook the house. An inch
of rain. So muggier than hell today.
But after work, I saw a fawn, curled cool
in backyard spruce shade, looking at me with
intent, or so it seemed. But I admit
I often think that you are looking at
me that way too. You like to say you’re not.
Dispatch
My dad would have been 94 today,
and I’ll be 63 next Saturday.
Regardless of which Zimmerman’s alive
or dead, years fall like rain to swell the river,
same mad god still counting drops. Now, drowned
gold sun, dry champagne in your glass, strong ale
in mine. I slept in late this morning, haven’t
showered. Mind’s a dark pavilion, fairness
in the shadow turning blue, and temples
gray. I write because I want to feel
alive: the poet in the book I’m reading
says the same. New moon: late birdsong, whine
of tires on the interstate, the bedroom
window cracked to let the night air in,
death floating lonely and austere. I feel it
pass but know that it and I will cycle
back. This dispatch from the planet, time,
my molecules: so slightly all coheres.
Publishing credits
Few Good Things: Beakful (November 28th 2023)
How Slowly: Disturb the Universe (February 13th 2024)
Dispatch: Litmora (No. 0, August 2023)
