Steven Marty Grant describes himself as a Southern California boy transplanted to New York City. To read his poems, you’d think he was a New York native. His poems have appeared in a number of literary magazines and journals, and he graduated from “a school you never heard of and had so many majors that even he is confused as to what his degree is in.” He blogs at Urbanality, and he has one published volume, Another Hotel Room: Selected Poems 1988-2008. You can read a review of his poetry book here.
The following poem is taken from Another Hotel Room.
A bum recites absurdist poetry
to passersby and collects change
in a fake Burberry cap while I
slowly sip my Sunday morning
and shop for open air jalapeños,
mushrooms and cilantro.
Paint bucket drummers provide
a steady backbeat as the weekend
consumers come out to worship
and the church crowd is released
from weekly servitude.
Across the square, a painter discusses
politics with a jewelry maker
and a guy in a Gumby t-shirt.
As the sun plays peak-a-boo
with the masts of Mannahatta,
I wonder how long the fresh cut roses
will last if I decide to splurge.
A toddler pilots a stroller down the sidewalk,
parents in tow, while four teens knee and kick
an innocent bean bag back and forth
above the ghosts of potter’s field.
The voice of the city is clear this morning
and it sings to me; a medley of ballads,
seductive love songs and, of course,
a full complement of the blues.