Eric Robert Nolan’s writing has been featured throughout over 40 print and online publications in the United States, Canada, Britain, Germany, Australia and India. His work was also selected for ten anthologies, two chapbooks and six mini-books between 2013 and 2021. He is a past editor for The Bees Are Dead, and was a nominee for the Sundress Publications 2018 Best of the Net Anthology. Every Writer’s Resource named his poem “The Writer” as one of EWR’s Best of 2019.
In 2021, Eric’s reflections on the 9/11 terror attacks were carried by Newsday, The Roanoke Times, and The Bristol Herald Courier, reaching a combined readership of 561,000 people.
Pornography for the heart
Lust in the lexicon.
It is ever The Nude Girl.
At its best,
It renders white pages into flesh tones and dark downy darts
It renders text
Mouthing the round words curved by assonance
Renders them as breasts.
The firmer consonants
Slide against the tongue like areola.
And I like it like that — low and vulgar.
It should be stuffed under mattresses, hidden in pockets,
And, at first, glimpsed furtively
When no one is looking.
Part of me will never want
To show poems to my mother.
Catholic School Nuns
Persuade their victims by rote:
“Our Father, Who Art in Heaven,
“Hallowed be Thy Name,”
But vulgar little boys like me
Hallowed the sounds of vowels
And clutched at consonants privately.
The Sisters were moving towers.
Black masts sailing
Up and down between the desks.
Their paddles fell like falling spires
Against the inattentive.
“Jesus loves me, this I know.
“The grownups hurt my knuckles, though.”
Curious boys will always
Eye the girls in the even rows.
Nursed my favorite heresies in whispers,
Paganism in the pages,
And easily adopted other Gods.
I, a secret Heathen,
Took Poe’s “Raven”
As my inner Golden Calf.
Nurses the sin of Wrath.
At my desk I told myself
In inner ceremonies
I privately hoped
I’d someday pick the perfect words.
To finally tell God
I never loved him either.
© Eric Robert Nolan 2013