By Annie Newcomer:
The Flapper Press Poetry Café features the work of poets from around the world. This week, we highlight the work of Tom Squitieri.
Tom Squitieri is a three-time winner of the Overseas Press Club and White House Correspondents’ Association awards for work as a war correspondent. His poetry appears in several publications and venues. He writes most of his poetry while parallel parking or walking his dogs, Topsie and Batman.
We reached out to Tom to talk about his career, influences, and his love of poetry.
Meet Tom Squitieri!
AN: Tom, I experienced your poetry as romantic and full of hope, longing, and optimism. So I would like to ask you how you describe your poetry? What is your style that forms your signature pieces in this genre?
TS: I think you have captured most of it, except not so much longing. I stopped longing long ago and instead wonder and ponder and muse unbridled about the “what if” of love and being with that special person. I often feel I have been many times, in many ways; if you read more of my poems, you will see an expansion of this idea. I also try to think of what I would say to my younger self and to let him know it is okay to love in different ways, to embrace it and not weep over what does not happen. I feel lucky to feel these emotions and have experienced love—from war zones to college, to passions of the moment, to decades of love, to heartbreak and unrequited love, and—I say boldly—the love that only I can give. I want others to see that they are like me as well.
But oh yes, I decidedly am a romantic in all the ways possible and feel great when those who read my work feel they are being romanced.
My friend Lindon, who I just asked your question about if my poetry is romantic, said, “There should be more of a word for what it is (meaning beyond romantic).” I agree with her.
When people read my poems, they tell me they feel good, happy, excited, and innovative. Men see how they can be more romantic; some women say that I write just for them. Whispering poetry to one’s self or partner in bed as the day ends guarantees—at the minimum—sweet dreams and sunny mornings, regardless of the weather. The dreams are indeed poetic—joyous, a dancing string of mirth, romance, and creativity.
My styles are varied, but in the last year or so, the genre addresses how darkness sends uncertainty into many; in truth, it is our liberator and ally. It opens the mind and soul to the whole of the world, to all of our emotions, as we often are daring in the night when with others, yet fearful of what we say to ourselves when alone.
The flow of these poems and the body of my work goes through Today, Character, Spirits, Renewal, Intimacy, Embrace, Wounds, Challenge, and Tomorrow, evoking the blur of morning’s small hours when the cares of the day are eclipsed by the calls of the night—to be in the place and space for anyone so that they can easily and energetically find their way to you, and you can find your way to yourself.
To me, it is clear that poetry is the opera we all can enjoy if we are brave enough to sing. It is the Prosecco in the vineyard of words. When you write someone a poem, you can find the words that before could not come out of your mouth.
AN: When I read your bio and saw that you are a war correspondent, I imagined that your poetry might address that subject matter, difficult as it is. But your selection didn’t. So I wondered if you ever write poetry about war? Or is poetry a release from that serious world for you?
TS: I rarely write about war directly. There was one early poem I wrote about how I was wounded, and there are references in later poems to Bosnia, Haiti, and other war zones—mostly as it strengthens “me” (I put me in quotes because I tell people my poems are never about me or one person, but things we all share or seek).
The three poems sent to you were the most recent that I wrote (I then finished another on March 23), and they do not mention war.
Here is something I find cool: when the war in Sarajevo was winding down in late 1995, I was walking down the hill from where I was staying to go into town; as always, I was looking around for details for a possible story. Roger Cohen of the NY Times was walking up the hill; he observed my glances, my pausing and jotting words. He smiled and said aloud in his British accent, “Ah Squitieri, writing poetry again.”
He was correct, and I had not realized it. My dispatches from the war zones were often written with a poetic song as the binding for the story.
I used the horrors of war, where love dared only to be shown in quiet, faraway places, to fuel the song shared by those who would not give up in the face of horror. Soon I realized that poetry is the window to not just capturing love but liberating love. The love most prevalent during the war was of those giving up everything to save someone they love. Nothing seemed more powerful. That is manifest now in writing the pleasure of love—not when love is a joy crushed under the boots of bully boys and rapists.
No, I do not write poetry as a release. Some of my poems are funny (like when friends and I overheard three women telling the fourth over drinks how to get her boyfriend more amorous by feeding him certain food). I started writing poetry a few Aprils ago (National Poetry Month) to keep my writing fresh, creative, energetic, and to say things I could not say as a reporter.
AN: I was impressed and also smiled when you shared that you write while parallel parking and/or walking your dogs. By the way, great names for your dogs—Batman and Topsie. Might you share more about your writing process? Do you enjoy “polishing your gems” through editing? Or do you find that for you writing is spontaneous and complete as is?
Who are some of your favorite poets and why? I think the work that we read influences our own poems.
TS: I've loved writing for decades, and now poetry reflects what I have learned, who I have saved, how I have fallen, and the wings that make me and others fly. I love poetry for many reasons, from listening to Dr. Gargano in freshman English reading "To His Coy Mistress" to Jackie Gleason reciting "Casey at the Bat." I think it started with “Twas The Night Before Christmas” and continued to “Dream a Little Dream of Me” and “Will You Still Love Me Tomorrow.”
It is usually in the morning, as the coffee’s aroma is in a duet with the waking up songs of the birds, that I write. The more I write poems, the more places I find inspiration. Sometimes it is something I see that triggers a line, or that I hear or read, often a combination of seemingly disparate moments or thoughts or events or prods that weave themselves on my typing fingers. I carry paper and a pen and write down the line, word, or stanza. Then when I get home, I write what I have.
I usually write most of a poem in a rough draft and, yes, then I polish the gems. I edit a word, move things around, read aloud to the dogs for final approval. A few close friends will read different ones and help me see things I have overlooked or presumed. One friend, at the beginning of COVID, yearned for someone to be there with her, so the beautiful poem “I Will Be There” emerged. I was having dinner in a small French town a few summers ago and pretended I needed a cigarette, and three French girls offered me one (“French Girls Smoking Cigarettes”). One morning in the grocery store, I was able to hold a baguette fresh from the bakery, and it was still warm, and thus “Warm Bread at Morning” was born.
Poetry liberates me from the false rules many impose upon us; that is the potion to happiness, sensual invigoration, the bounty of a robust sex life, and embracing fun for couples. Poetry to start the day means you are alive. It is what truly sweetens that morning kiss.
So my styles are a mix, just like me (smile).
I am sorry, I do not have a favorite poet or poets; many are marvelous, and each time I read a poem, often blind, I think how privileged I am to be sometimes called a poet We are too often overlooked.
AN: What question have I not asked that you would like to answer?
TS: You got more out of me than anyone ever has.
This poem captures how I take the battering of yearning for my love and the frustration of her hesitancy and recast it as a loving song to sway her to see the positive, the optimistic, the truth that our love—the gem—is a rare gift being given to us. It plays to the old saying of “she (or he) is out there somewhere”; I have believed that for many years.
The Gem
Can you run through the night with me,
And not be tired for my sunrise.
For that is where I am now.
That is where the bells chime
The truth comes clamoring,
Clanging, a churr,
Of your tentative
tintinnabulation
Run through the night with me
In my arms as I hold your slumber
In my words as I hold your heart
In my touch as I hold your soul
The truth is there, as a benign poltergeist
For this morning I was very close in our
Melliferous embrace
Open up for me
My lioness
Stop denying the
Gem we have at our fingertips
That awaits our polishing.
The words race to be written for you
When you take a deep pause, I will send
Then
we blush together and sigh in harmony
I have combined all those elements for you
so we are not leaving;
My dreams made you curious
Made the morning alive
And
For a fleeting moment
My eyes reveal my secrets
Not writing. Just doing
In the rumble of mystery
Comes a morning duet
Your gleeful sounds
with Northern Cardinals
This poem is a pivot between the uncertainty night often brings to people and how I have transformed it into my Fortress of Creation and Embrace. The title is a phrase often said to me by friends who are coming to my home to share my amazing, excellent coffee—"Make it stronger," they say in advance. Since I write often best in the mornings as the coffee brews and then is enjoyed, I always make my coffee stronger and have taken that mantra to my contributions to the world.
Make It Stronger
The night says no to sleep
The mind does not complain
Thoughts are crisp
Sounds communicate with rare ease
Awakening and arousing anima
No need to move
New strength surprises
Embraced with no questions
The shortlist of what steps to
Take tomorrow
As they say to me
make it stronger
Balance joins now
To help with the unsteady days ahead
Quick whistles of the past add herbs to
This night’s tropism
Expresso suggests joining the other beans
It is a different night
A firmament for many tomorrows
Gleeful yapping outside
Of different animals
Inviting me to join
My true calling, they insist
For them I shall bring
My secret coffee
Together we will roam
And dance
As they help me
Search again
The full moon was powerful this week, and this poem talks of how its power just captured me fully, liberated me, set my arousal to life and bounty and vivid intensity aflame. It is my animal cry to rouse others to join in the true spirit of being alive, again with that elusive partner with me, confident in how our twoness becomes a oneness that brings the radiance of a positive rainbow to the world.
Shades of Capture
you must turn your imagination on,
for I am soaring with smiles,
a fresh pot of coffee
a few moments of silent dance
The blue of beauty and boldness commands
For the moment
As the primary color
All I think of now is you, smiling with me,
laughing with me,
looking at my body with your rainbow eyes
nodding yes.
I pose for you now, knowing you will not see me.
How can I not give myself to you
after dreaming of you all night
then waking to rush to hold you?
The yellows of a reluctant dawn
Eagerly yearn to take over as
the primary color
Lighting me for your eyes
As it nods to me,
Knowing you are not here
And should be
What does it see
That you are not seeing?
Or that anyone can see?
So very much.
Visible are the stark black edges of
where the shadow pushes me out to you,
to all
Now, however, it is the capture by the full moon power.
Shadow tones are the primary colors
Secrets of hazel and purple, tone and beauty and power
the colors sketch us finally together
in emotions we have long-held
Perhaps you will run your fingers softly,
steadily over every inch of me
until it is my pleasure that envelops you so deeply.
With now, the pale red of my heartbeat the metronome of all parts
The pink of my tongue in my wail,
asking where is she
As if a fox calls in it moon power
As these primary colors rise
I hope my lover is well and happy,
that she misses me and wants me,
Her name written in the circumfluent shadows
Where I can embrace her
And sing the barcarolle I wrote for her
I am up early now,
pulled from bed by the demand of the moonbeams,
to stand facing and drinking that power
to feel those moonbeams consume and stir and restore,
as no one else does or will,
to write of my poetic world of love and desire and truth and beauty despite all.
I just stood in the moonbeams and let them touch me and ignite me.
They never ignore but implore, explore, say more.
I wait impatiently, eagerly, for my true partner.
This poem is a rarity—one that I wrote as a request from a close friend. She wanted a poem for her husband, and when we discussed ideas, she said how they liked to camp. From that, I grew the poem, infusing it with my love of nature and night, the penetrating memories of my being in the woods in the mountains of Pennsylvania as a young boy and my romance with the power, beauty, and magic of the lunation and its firefly agents that always led me to discovery and secret epiphanies. If you have ever felt the crisp, brisk splash of yikes when entering a mountain stream or lake, that jolt that awakens the body, and then feeling the balance of the gentle melding with the nature surrounding the pond . . . well, then, you are on the path of which I write. We sleep heavenly in our tent, having been embraced by this.
The Fireflies Path to the Pond
Wander down the path
With me
To the pond
To shed and swim
Let’s watch the stars
Bounce off the water
Play tag with
Each other
As they laugh and splash a comet
And flounce in the moon’s smile
Watered out
We walk as we are
and find the path
Led by fireflies back to
our tent,
Serenaded by the cool dirt
That chortles through our toes
Over the hill is a camper
With a lantern
And mosquito net
Not realizing
it is here, where we are,
That crickets mean
the song of nature
and
not a silence
The morning will crack its cold smile
It hardly seems sincere no matter
How hard it tries
Since it never can squelch that inner glow
Of the heat that passion provides
Of the fire and trust we share
that defines being alive
As always, there are embers,
to help stoke our fire
Night darkens
And invites
Tonight the tent will review
Our explorations
Tomorrow we will find,
That apple tree
Annie Newcomer teaches poetry classes at the University of Kansas Medical Center's Turning Point—a place for hope and healing for people suffering with chronic health problems. Her North Stars series shares interviews with poets and writers and Annie's own experiences through writing.
Annie is also helms the Flapper Press Poetry Café—dedicated to celebrating poets from around the world and to encouraging everyone to write poetry!
FlapperPress launches the Flapper Press Poetry Café.
Presenting a wide range of poetry with a mission to promote a love and understanding of poetry for all. We welcome submissions for compelling poetry and look forward to publishing and supporting your creative endeavors. Submissions may also be considered for the Pushcart Prize.
Submission Guidelines:
1. Share at least three (3) poems
2. Include a short bio of 50–100 words, written in the third person.
(Plus any website and links.)
3. Share a brief backstory on each submitted poem
4. Submit an Author's photo and any images you want to include with the poems
5. Send all submissions and questions to: info@flapperpress.com