Friday, February 12, 2010

Hello!

BIO: Henry "Hank" Sosnowski, South Chicago born Polish-American followed his gypsy heart across America from Alaska's Aleutian Islands to North Carolina's shore. Following Brecht's edict that an artist must "First feed the face, then talk right and wrong," Sosnowski worked as a newsboy, caddy, fry cook, steel worker, blues musician, pipefitter, pool hustler/card shark, landscaper, railroad brakeman, auto part salesman, actor, warehouse manager, woman's clothing rep, waiter, missionary, writer, Alaskan game warden, book store manager, morning DJ, corporate VP, marketing director, dishwasher, factory worker, car salesman, handyman, customer service rep, janitor, teacher, hot rod show promoter, Internationally published poet.


Sosnowski currently lives and teaches in Reno, Nevada, inspiration for his one-man traveling show: "Write Before Your Eyes! Hank the Revelator - Live on Stage 24/7!" For one week, Sosnowski comes to town to write/perform/live on an outdoor stage replica of a 1930s writer's; garret, melding written, spoken and performance art.


Sosnowski is the winner of the 2006 Sierra Arts Foundation Writer's Grant and voted back to back Reno's best poet by Reno News and Review.

Enclosed are poems to be considered for publication. My poems have appeared in more than 3 dozen publications. I live in Reno, NV, where I work as an English and Poetry professor.
Thank you for your time and consideration.

Sincerely,

Henry Sosnowski


Life Force

Toes tangled

hair too

lost in each other

like sun fed moon

all light

all reflection

all same.

Tide runs

fear ebbs

washed out

to sea.

Tranquility

covers us

in salty fluids

of our own making.

Wrong Reflection

You can feel

the rush

down to

your toes

when the cop

in your rearview

hit’s the party lights

and your trunk

is loaded

with bad news.

Probable Cause


If you’ve had

more than six

sex partners

you probably

have herpes.



If you’ve had

less than six

sex partners

you’re probably

a comic book collector

living in mom’s basement.

Desdemona of the Heights


My head

in your lap,

on your back stoop,

from this angle

the midnight blue sky,

pinpricked sliver,

frames you.



Leaning forward

your hair shrouds the stars

a scented auburn curtain

narrowing around me,

shutting out their world

closing on your kiss