HANGING CLOTHES

Whenever the president of some country speaks,

when there are riots in Boston and Tokyo

and the hunger of whole continents

stares from the empty carton,

I get out the dirty laundry

and carry big baskets of wet clothes

down to the line.

I hang a little dress, a sunsuit, my pants.

I take my time with a nightgown, a blouse, some tights.

I pat the air in panties, let the bras and hankies

fill up like spinakers and when

the clothesline is fitted out

I sail around the dungarees to the Orient

for cinnamon and to the South for hides and coffee.

I bury my face in shirts and breathe

an ocean of chemise and scarf.

I travel through the pajamas

and trade underpants with the Islanders,

at Casablanca, contraband and smoked goat,

and in the Baltic I drink till my socks are dry.

Along the rivers and near the wharves, in alleys and backyards,

through the late afternoon I think of the size

of this world, think of all its breasts

and proud crotches, its stained armpits

and strained or slender throats, think of

the muscle in sleeve and leg and the arches of feet,

I think of use, the whitegoods

shining with the shadow of trees.

The flies circle my head. Everything’s

plain as sheets.

I take my time.

The towels and jeans

will be hard and sweet with sunlight.

In his poems Rolly Kent throws bridges of attention across various canyons in our understanding. The magic of poetry [Kent says] comes from its ability to transform separateness into connectedness. This striving toward wholeness and his belief that it exists give many of [his] poems (particularly lyrics) an exuberance and contentment that make them a pleasure to read.

- Roberta Berke, in Bounds Out of Bounds: A Compass for Recent British and American Poetry