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Odin Roark

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Books by Odin Roark
  Pawnshop Midas
by Odin Roark
Monday, July 09, 2012
Rated "PG" by the Author.

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Recent poems by Odin Roark
•  Needing Not the Beyond
•  Match-Strike
•  Pantalone Masks
•  Hands of Choice
•  Self-Worth Surrendered
           >> View all 1,069


After his recent passing, I needed to revisit Lumetís body of work, I immersed myself in The Pawnbroker last night. It was impossible to not flash back at some adventurous times during my early years in NY, when like perhaps a few of you, pawning was a means to put food on the table, and .preserving a modicum of self-respect. Of course, there were all kinds of life-brokers, tempting me later as I immersed myself in a graduate degree of sorts offered by Hollywood. Thank doG it has become a distance-study exercise now.



Pawnshop Midas
They call him

Born of the bottom line
where a house of cards seduction
spreads naked its adorned windows

Trumpet

Drum

Toaster

Gun

Tags tied securely
like morgue slab identities
yesterday’s prices crossed out
today’s prices urged Fineto

Behind counter
man and possessions
awaits swing of the door

Tinkle bell striking

Announcement of sellers
new members from
Hardships’ Recruitment Patrol
determined to be tagged

Pawnshop Midas
They call him

Staring vacuously
as unlucky minions trudge onward
along Desperation’s super-highway
entering today’s station
willing to kneel even lower

‘til

‘til reaching
that Somewhere
that Piñata-hope of survival
that reward seemingly just out of reach
breath awaits permission

Lowering reflective eyes
the sidewalk soul relents
occasion’s original cost collides
with memory about to vanish

Thrust forward

Clutched tightly

Life’s cookie-jar treasures
family decorations
today’s looms sans heir
breathes another time once more
whispering survivor’s rules of engagement

squeeze
twist
hammer
melt

Eyes meet

The plea

 “To feed the belly,” Mr. Nazerman
“Cover the body
"Stay alive”

Mr Nazerman's echo
 “One dollar”

 "But…"

 silence...

 “One dollar”




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Reviewed by John Flanagan
i love the expansive images and then the taut one-worders,
those hits on the nail..the tightness (pardon the pun)
all so right on for the theme

Yes, Odin!

john
Reviewed by Morgan Merriweather
like this poem alot, it's an economic lesson of sorts, nothing is worth what you paid for it and memories are really all we have. Sometimes digging around in the memory bank isn't so fun , no need for reserves. Get rid of it all, in the end it's just stuff people fight over.Well, that was alittle more depressing than it meant to be but, I did get a kick out of the poem.
Reviewed by Jerry Bolton
Ah. Been there over and over and over . . . Unfortunately when you get to that point in your life where hocking whatever you have to hock seems like good business sense, it never is. You may go back to retrieve the hocked item(s) once, maybe twice, but it become too easy to hock it over and over until what was once something you only was going to go once, "to tide us over," you finally just let the pawnshop have the item, it had become so immaterial to you.
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Twilight years by Audrey Coatesworth

Twilight years is a book of 67 poems for 'old folk' - the final age group for my books - MY age group!..  
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