The Sunday Poem: Rudolfo Carrillo... The death of Summer and Other Unfinished Poetic Devices

Albuquerque writer and artist Rudolfo Carrillo adheres to the precepts of modernism and so has been influenced and informed by the work of mentors such as the composer Christopher Shultis, painter Martin Facey, and man of letters Halvard Johnson.  His work recent literary endeavors have appeared in On Barcelona, Unlikely Stories: Episode IV, and Maverick Magazine, Volume 18.

He also publishes Infinity Report and is the managing editor at Things in Light, a website focused on New Mexico art, literature, music, and events.

The death of Summer and Other Unfinished Poetic Devices
Come and sit by me, near this electric fire just so
I can feed you scraps of meat and tell how the
sparkly atmosphere made a prison of your legs.
You will not take water, the sky will not respond
To medical science or customized sonic equalizers.
On the first day you made a bloody hole of my right hand.
Fear and teeth, the inevitable triumph of plastic boxes
Deferred for the sake of personal redemption or otherwise
Built from the secret paths we carved out of concrete sidewalks
Because heroism has mournful consequences, even in suburbia.
They made a whistle from your hip bone. It sounds
Like the telephone. I won’t sweep your hair up from
The parquet floor as those strands are holy remnants.
You did not possess much else beyond quick brown eyes,
And clever tricks; a red blanket pulled after you forever.
In the morning a woman representing foreign geographies
Pulled back the door to heaven or nothingness. She asked
To pick flowers from my garden. She liked like the way
Veins and vascular systems shone through the petals.
Somehow she knew your name. I never saw her around here again.

Poetry submissions are welcome.  Email

Views: 842

Comment by Margaret Randall on August 12, 2012 at 8:40am

This is a disturbingly beautiful poem. Thank you. I was also interested in the reference to Modernism, a creative movement rarely mentioned today. Aside from being deeply moved by this poem on its own merits, reading it reminds me--yet again--of the extraordinary variety and richness of poetic voices we in Albuquerque have. At this time and in this place, we have produced not a single salon (i.e. Gertrude Stein's in Paris in the early years of the last century) or an explosive movement capable of affecting a generation (i.e. the Beats, mid-last century here in the U.S.), but rather a tapestry of unique voices, many of which can hold their own with the best poets anywhere. Carillo certainly can. Thanks again!

Comment by Samantha Anne Carrillo on August 12, 2012 at 10:12am

I'm not impartial, natch, but I really dig this poem. My husband usually focuses on creative nonfiction, essays, and experimental prose; I don't think he even considers himself a poet, though he clearly can be poetic.

Go L=A=N=G=U=A=G=E!

Comment by Izquierdo on August 12, 2012 at 11:17am

A poet he is, Samantha. Having followed Rudolfo for many, many months here on Duke City Fix, I am familiar with his prose style which often sent me to the dictionary. Yes, this poem is "disturbingly beautiful" as Margaret says. After reading recent stories elsewhere on this anguishing episode as it happened, Rudolfo, I am pleased to find it summarized  as a wonderful, salubrious poem, beneficial to you and to your prose audience..

Comment by cathyray on August 13, 2012 at 8:21am


Comment by Steven B. Fuson on August 20, 2012 at 12:10pm

Knowing the context, I am affected powerfully by this piece.  I am particularly fond of, "Because heroism has mournful consequences, even in suburbia."  

Comment by Samantha Anne Carrillo on August 20, 2012 at 1:07pm

I think my favorite line is "They made a whistle from your hip bone. It sounds/ Like the telephone..." I can imagine Mirel Wagner singing it.

Comment by Samantha Anne Carrillo on August 27, 2012 at 10:25am

If y'all liked this poem, check out a new sonnet by Rudolfo over at On Barcelona, an esteemed, complex and multi-layered literary and art site edited by Halvard Johnson.


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