Jim Culleny is the Poetry Editor of 3 Quarks Daily. After a stint in the navy, Jim received a BA in Art Education from William Paterson University and did graduate work in art at NYU. He taught art for several years in NJ public schools in Newark and Bergen County. Taught a little bit of everything else during two years at a remote residential community school in New York’s Adirondacks. Was a social worker in Lower Manhattan before Soho was Soho. Made a living most of his life as a carpenter, designer, and builder. Did regular radio commentary for about 10 years during Morning Edition on WFCR.FM in Amherst, Mass. and some for NPR on All Things Considered. Played and sang his way from rockabilly to jazz in numberless band permutations over a period too long to believe. Came to poetry through songwriting. Has had work published in The Third Muse Poetry Journal, the Christian Science Monitor, Penthouse Journal, and in 5-Minute Pieces, a chapbook published in Shelburne Falls, Massachusetts. He’s also been writing a regular op-ed column for the past 12 years for the Greenfield Recorder along the beautiful Connecticut River, and is presently making a living as project manager for an Architectural firm. Jim lives with his wife, Pat, of 31 years, and his 17 year old granddaughter. He has three daughters and four other grandchildren. Email: jimculleny [at] comcast.net
Down to the Bone If I could un-ring certain bells and un-wind time I would, but can’t, so instead, I’ll just ride this bucket of bones till the wheels fly off; till ball-joints grind and drop from sockets, till this xylophone of ribs riffs the music of the spheres, until my funny…
…..Why Being? What happens, happens before & after, every time, without fail, always— yet, is singular, is a one-note affair in a symphony of nows each moment of which then becomes before & after, simultaneously. If this seems confusing, blame time, or life, or God which, in particular, has been a widespread explanation of the…
A Simple Ontology maybe flower petals are held to stems by thought and the wind’s a counter-thought that plucks and sets them elsewhere in the grass to grow in contemplative resolution beside my notion of a grub-pulling crow maybe the wind itself is a palpable bright idea, something about motion and the abhorrence of vacuums, something about…
Eternal Day-long Sum The music of what happens begins with a bottom line of drums, as in the foundation of a house, percussion— the thumps of bass in sync with a wind of horns: baritone, bassoon, tuba; and in the whispers of brushed snares, the round tones of tympany, and in the rests between —the…
A Small Universe of Suns Here we have a small universe of suns. Behind, a black hole is endeavoring to swallow them. The suns are ringed by nebulae which are no more than clouds of gas and dust, collections of atoms, as we all are. But, in Its capricious way, the Lord of everything has now…
“All humans are, genetically, 99.9% identical” ………..—Roger Highfield, Science Editor 99% Identical “Something there is that doesn’t love a wall,” a poet said imagining friendly neighbors working their way along that which stood between resetting fallen gneiss and granite loaves and balls fallen to each to keep their wall intact while one questioned the irony of…
A Cornucopia of Elegies as clear as time when the air was green and tenderfeet knew the ballet of beginning, a tern-like teen on one leg in the surf of a sea, a swift on a draft of blinks in the hour of someday-but-not-now— . time is a cornucopia of elegies, the master of poets complicit since the word…
Tell me Something I don’t Know Don’t tell me the earth’s a sphere and the sun’s kiss amounts to half-day terminal bliss with a dark end, or that seasons have to do with angles, mystics have to do with angels, and lovers are about orbiting passions, that pulse like binary stars across light years and…
The Tao that can be thought of is not the real Tao; therefore, the Tao that can be spoken is not real either; so, the Tao that can be named is likewise no thing too. ………. —Lao Tzu, sort of My Religious life I was Catholic, but was not universal enough when I was. I…
Sublime I sometimes shudder at old pics, their bittersweetness, their cutting edge, their tricks: ….. daughter’s brilliant smiles, ….. mittens hung from cuffs, ….. Kodachrome taunts of time ….. —enough I’d rather mine old stones, turn up what’s scattered within my heart and head ….. —the gold I’d rather stick with what’s been deeply sown,…
1/1/26 Typhoon USA Aftermath Premonition —This is a revised version of a poem I wrote when a newly insane river running through our town one day came through, almost over-toping bridges, spilling into streets with wild abandon during Hurricane Irene. One year back the river tore through on its fall to the sea, courts and laws…
Rapprochement: Just wondering if worlds seen from a distance are really smaller than they are. . . And could it be that when we sleep the world we leave goes on without us? .. Maybe you remember the old days too, days when greenhorns multiplied their joys and were thoughtless as a new moon. Is it…
Two young men greeted a new crew member on a ship’s quarterdeck 60 years ago and, in a matter of weeks, by simple challenge, introduced this then 18-year-old who’d never really read a book through, to the life that can be found in them. —Thank you Anthony Gaeta and Edmund Budde for your life-altering input.…
The writer died while mixing with the rebels, these are natural accidents of war . . . —Spanish Dictator Francisco Franco The country has to toughen up … part of the problem is nobody wants to hurt each other anymore, right? —US president, Donald Trump The Last Days of Federíco García Lorca Federico in pajamas…
“Like a bird on a wire, like a drunk in a midnight choir I have tried, in my way, to be free. . .” ……………………….. —Leonard Cohen Birds on Wires The universe is synchronous, its beauties overlap, tunes are made of birds on wires, Leonard sang that song for us Nature plays its songs for us riffs…
First Communion Three bells rung thrice boys kneeling, a candle at the altar burning, god’s portrait on the ceiling, priest lifts a holy wafer, do mythic circles make us safer? Priest bowing priest turning, golden chalice drunk dry, should I laugh or should I cry, once more, with feeling: a greenhorn skater on the ice,…
“lacrimae rerum, “ (the tears of things) …………………………………….. —Virgil Everything Cries Steel’s tears are rust, trees weep tears of falling leaves, clouds weep and mourn their loss sacrificing their billows to the earth as rain, the earth weeps its carbon into sky, the sun weeps its energy into earth and will die someday of the loss,…
A Matter of Love The question, “Can you tell me a certain thing that is a moral fact?” is specious, because the fact of the “certain thing” exists as a thing essential to the survival of homo sapiens in creating civilization. But civilization is not always up to the task of protecting its essential, instead,…
Fire in the Brain God is a fire in the brain Nijinsky saidwhich is as close to the truth asanything a dancer might dancewith a bonfire burning in his head God may put you in a trance with the fluttering of cardinal wings or with the way the moon looks mounting the mountain’s back on…
Crystal-Bison out of coolblue a bison out of bitter cold out of stratospheric skyblue a crystal bison from stillness, sheer, mute as speech in utter space from deadstill blueice steps a crystal, a bison apparition a bison frozen in veneer of chilled time cloven hooves to heaped hump its mere eyes, its cryo-olfactory nose smelldeaf due…