Carl James Grindley grew up on an island off the West Coast of Canada, and studied in the US and Europe. He has taught creative writing at Yale University, and works at The City University of New York. His book Icon was published in 2008 by No Record Press. He has recent work in Anatomy and Etymology, Apocrypha & Abstractions, Anemone Sidecar, A Bad Penny Review, Atticus Review and The Nervous Breakdown. Grindley is a founding editor of The South Bronx Review.
These are sterile keepsakes, the low lows,
An empty vision of the wise strengths that the powerful
Provide, new incentive to the frustrated successful, and a lament
That unbinds all the rough tyrannies of the temporal settings.
We are left momentarily alone, to venture forth into our own
Unvanquishable kingdom of the heart, all the time knowing
That this siege is an insult to iron, even if it is an action
As quaint as one lover trapped in the amber
Of an unrealized photograph, one lover
Who now spends all night alone:
All of this from a shutting door, after days,
After weeks, after vital hours spent with tired legions
Of abrasive visions and drunk delusions
Of hope, or a type of hope, which itself is always
Worthy of love, but which always must be
Ultimately without love, or the
Semblance of love.