The Fat Poet
  • Another Universe - The Fat Poet - Owen Sesaldo

    Poems from a heavyweight

    What a man carries,
    set down on paper.

    Poems for the private hour, the long way home, and the body slowly learning to stay.

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    Another Universe

    Perhaps there is a universe where we chose differently, where time did not put its hands between us, where the years were kind, and love was allowed to remain.

    — The Fat Poet

    Since 2019, and counting Free to read, always New verse, no schedule
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  • Another Universe

    Another Universe

    Perhaps there is a universe where we chose differently, where time did not put its hands between us, where the years were kind, and love was allowed to remain.

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  • The Proceedings

    The Proceedings

    Later he spoke truthfully about grief, and the walls themselves seemed embarrassed for him. Someone coughed. Someone closed a ledger. No one looked him in the eye again. After that he learned procedure. A man must drag himself through life without allowing the chains to make noise. He must bleed internally. He must decay in…

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  • Where We Meet

    Where We Meet

    We met where edges soften and names fall away. No yours, no mine only the quiet between that keeps widening. A small gesture becomes a doorway. A glance, a whole sky. What we call love is just this the dissolving of distance we imagined was real.

  • Laughter Between Us

    Laughter Between Us

    I have known silence with many. Heavy silence. The kind that asks to be survived. But with you even silence smiled. And I think of this often, how some people arrive not with thunder but with a laugh that makes a place feel warmer. It is a small thing, laughter. Men say that. They are…

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  • Summons

    Summons

    Sometimes I think we have met already in another arrangement of sorrow, where the stars made no accusations and time did not feed on itself. Here I answer only in silence. What else is left when love arrives as an apparition and asks to be believed? Your voice reaches me from the side of existence…

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  • The Cabin

    The Cabin

    Days passed without measure. I stopped counting them. The noise in my head did not leave at once. It fought. It circled back. It tried to make itself important. But the woods are patient. They do not argue. They outlast.

    , , ,
The man behind it

I write the poems
a big man
keeps to himself.

Poetry has spent a hundred years being thin, pale and hungry. Somebody had to write from the other side of the plate.

Owen Sesaldo - The Fat Poet
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