Nicholas Michael Ravnikar

CONTACT:
Email

BIO:
Author of six books of poetry, including Imaginary Friends, Paranoise and Three Dirty Sunsets, Nicholas Ravnikar has worked as a full-time college professor, marketing copywriter, newspaper copy editor and bathtub repairman. He holds an MFA from Naropa University’s Jack Kerouac School of Disembodied Poetics. His reviews of others’ books have appeared in New Pages and the Georgia Review, and his chapbook Liberal Elite Media Rag. SAD!, on Moria Books’ Locofo imprint, is catalogued in the White House Library. Nicholas invented a poetic form called the Polish Octave that uses only the letters of an eight-letter word to compose an eight-line poem wherein each line comprises either eight letters, eight syllables, or eight words. When he’s not spending time with his partner and their children, he enjoys exercise, pickleball and skateboarding. He serves as director of The Poetry Movement, a nonprofit based out of Racine, WI, that builds infrastructure for Chiwaukee region poetry and poets. If you’re in the area, learn how to publish and promote your own poetry at thepoetrymovement.org.

PUBLICATIONS:
Imaginary Friends.
Three Dirty Sunsets.
Funky Tacos.
Paranoise.
How’s Things.
Dawn Pantomimes.

Poetry

staircase

before you 

 descend again

   consider

    the scale

     of each 

      petrified 

       step — how 

        the feet splash

         in the tears 

          that pool

           on the worn 

            landing and 

             the ground

              floor we test 

               with out

                stretched toes 

                 but never 

                  seem to touch 


telescope

finally my mouth

takes hold of

whatever orders

this terrain took

— dry seas 

between eyeball

craters, bright

freckles on the

sea deep blue

skin of a night 

sky, the naked 

constellations 

of neighbors 

accidental 

in high rise 

windows across 

the way — and 

I shake this 

rag between 

my teeth 

the world 

won’t let go

each name

I can’t say

a skeleton key

where my 

eye should be