Douglas Lutman reads "Rose in that Garden" at Taken in November 2011

Douglas Lutman Reads 'My Dear Dead Aunt Doo' and an interpretation of "Their Last Conversation"

Douglas Lutman reads as part of Toledo, Ohio's addition to 100 Thousand Poets for Change... held at the University of Toledo's Center for Performing Arts, Studio Theater, on September 24, 2011.

Sometimes they can't see the cradle of life and loss

In the Time of Being

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translation:
"This is our world 
this is our time 
this is our reality 
this is our moment. 


The wrong reality
is that of existence or absence.
We must remember that 
humanity is built on a code 
allowing for both existence 
and nonexistence.
 We cannot be reduced. 
We can not be. We must be."

Best of Toledo 2011- Literary Artist, Toledo City Paper

Thanks to all my local friends, family and fans for this honor. I will admit, when I read that they were calling me 'bawdy' I took immediate offense, but after a few moments (and remembering that I had to miss the award ceremony because I had a performance at an erotic reading scheduled for the same evening) I realized that its true to the fullest meaning of the word. Its nice to be a part of what makes Toledo Toledo.

Literary artist (poetry, prose and spoken word)
Douglas Lutman
"We’ve got lots of talented writers — it can be hard for a shy and retiring literary artist to stand out. Luckily, Douglas Lutman isn’t. He’s as good a performer as he is a poet, and if you’ve been to venues like Glass City Cafe to see his fast and flamboyant readings of his lyrical and sometimes bawdy work, you won’t forget it.
Runner up: Ryan Bunch"

http://www.toledocitypaper.com/index.php?option=com_content&view=article&id=4245:best-of-toledo-2011&catid=96:cover-stories&Itemid=542

Adumbrated Words at Taken. Toledo, OH

Having the words of a poem on my tongue tastes sweeter than a good pinot noir. The way they fill my mouth, the plosives and vowels rolling between my teeth, over my tongue and spitting past my wetted lips takes me to my God. Below is a video of my spoken word poetry...

Glass City Poet, Douglas Lutman, reads aloud his work, 'Adumbrated Words' at Taken, one of a series of poetry venues hosted by Tara Armstrong at Glass City Cafe in November 2011. Douglas Lutman was voted Best literary artist in Toledo, 2011 by The Toledo City Paper.

The Quest For Our Perspecive

I Like Meeting Me More Than I Think I Am

The Revolut--

They Watch Your Back Saying 'Careful Not That Close'

A Personal Vision of Vanishing Wildlife's Ode to Joy

To Let

A pretty, little plain girl holds her father’s hand

--stooped down with wrinkled hands to meet cradle smooth fingertips

Today, they walk in the park on one of those

“perfect days” spring-time Technicolor, and blossoms

and blossoms. Its green and sunny and they both squint.

Spotted dandelion tuft bouncing in the breeze

Her rose patterned dress bounces behind her as

she pulls away in its chase. 

I Remember

            

            I remember

           

            seeing an angel once cast down into the streets

            --or perhaps running

            from an enemy

           

            his wings

            broken plume

            a halo knotted in tufts

            of greasy hair

            linen garb mud caked

            and stained

            squatting like a feral dog

            in the gutter

            yellow teeth pinked in blood

            eating a

                        dirty

                                    dead

                                                pigeon--

            its chest ripped and gnawed

            its head cocked to the side

            in a way only a dead bird could

           

            I remember

            something wild in his eyes--

            they weren't his eyes

                                                anymore

            they were not eyes

                                                anymore

            Bulbs that saw

           

            and burnt themselves cut

            like a man turns his head

            closes his mind to the

            perversions of humanity--

            twitching hipsters chasing

            vein throb visions of

            the future

            the flies on eyes of hungry

            bloated children

            the rolled up windows and

            busied hands of righteous

            motorists claiming their

            Throne in heaven.    By God

                                                By Allah

                                                By Christ

                                                By Source

            as they ignore cardboard

            in carrion hands

           

            withered widows think of love

            and the sands of time.

            while train-track memories

            drooled off their chin

            pointed fingers gawking

            and smooth girls afraid to see

            Their future.

            Yes,

                        Yes,

                                    Yes,

                                                The angel's

            Eyes preferring darkness

            preferring to blot out

            Chronos' carnage

            and young children stare to watch it go by. Corrupted

            Corrupted and not yet disturbed

            they are too young to remember

            They are too young to know so they keep open their eyes--

           

            No stars for the angel's eyes

            like a cloudly night

                                                sky

            He didn't care

            So, I stood

            there

            and watched him

            his dirty face had a scar

            over his left eye

            and a scar ran down his chest

           

            I remember

           

            I remember thinking

            those must be

           

            the scars of love.

Who Rots Dogwood Blossoms

who threads the ivory needle and
embroiders leaves on twig and bough
tacks on spring buds
beneath the frosty breath
to bring the brittle branches life

who hems the winter desert
with blazing dogwood blossoms
touching magenta thimble thumb
with welcoming aroma

who rots the dogwood blossoms
to fall in a pungent splendor
leaving strung up thread-ends
blowing in the breeze

Rt. 25 (Dixie)

Dixie, my Dixie. Now.
the Soldiers never footed
           Along your swampy path.
cauterized footpath, cleaned up
for eighty-five percent
of the population
YOU scare cyclists and
          Along your swampy path
I find skid marks, plastic bits
broken mirrors introducing
your asphalt to
new strip mall frenzies.
          They shall soon be closed.
Dixie, my Dixie, Claim
back your earth, Call the trees
home. and Provide the crickets a bedded rest

My Bones Will Stand Past Many Seasons

The damp cold air
Gnawed at my flesh
Like a dog scraping its teeth on chicken bones
The cold is fleeting,
My flesh is fleeting
But my bones will stand past many seasons,

Tibia, tibia to
Skull, two holes
Empty as universes
Without a diamond star inside
And stoic as a stone statue.

A Personal Vision of Vanishing Wildlife's Ode to Joy

childhood eyes reached the lake
the shallow stones off
seemingly endless water

toe of my boot embedded in the dirt

about the feel of
about the sight of
uncovered bits of red siding

beneath the soles of my feet
clamshells and small
minnows darting
in swift dark fleets

"it does smell
but that's ok
if I suffer from eating it all"

Adumbrated Words

Sage. Cinnamon.

Poetry poetry poets see poets in bed

Poets of the head saying "there’s bullshit in the tree."

Poets needing bedded rest. 

Poetry giving them rest.

And the rest?

She thought the rest could hear her heart-beat

When he reached back to hold her hand

une fleur d'intimitée

When he first pressed his Tanqueray mouth to her

sticky-lip lips-- her long time loveless lips

menthol cigarette lips

lips for him. Lips on him, around him, whispering lips in his ear

saying “Kaff, Kaff Kerouac” and him too

Lips to form the words of poetry

--tiptoeing tongue to ear, and kissing words

She called him her poem. He was her poem,

that he was there, never touching her there. And where?

She lays there now, hopeless, waiting for him to steal

a glimpse

of her.

--Quiet eyes and bearded face, thin

in her night time glimpse of another world.

And when that face smiles ‘neath cloudy brow

she wants to stay for another day--

She sat, stroking his thumb until he looked back

To smile and squeeze. To inform her

that tomorrow will have words, too.

The slate gray sunlight cracked through the blind

of a night time read.

She hopes for a cicatrix’d heart

around letters deep in cinnamon bark.