Alfred Francis Kreymborg (December 10, 1883 – August 14, 1966) was an American poet, novelist, playwright, literary editor and anthologist.
He was born in New York City to Hermann and Louisa Kreymborg, who ran a small cigar store, and he spent most of his life there and in New Jersey. He was an active figure in Greenwich Village and frequented the Liberal Club.
He was the ... more »
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Alfred Kreymborg Poems
WE want a man of forty for the job. One who has enjoyed his little fill of romance. And suffered intermittent indigestion ever since.
Brother Tree: Why do you reach and reach? Do you dream some day to touch the sky? Brother Stream:
The sky Is that beautiful old parchment In which the sun And the moon
Overheard In An Asylum
And here we have another case, quite different from the last, another case quite different --
GOOD woman: Don’t love the man. Love yourself, As you have done so exquisitely before.
What animal you are or whether you are an animal, I am too dumb to tell.
AFTER we've had our age of gold and sung our song of brass, fingers will brush
If you stand where I stand- In my boudoir- (don't mind my shaving- I can't afford a barber)-
Up and down he goes With terrible, reckless strides, Flaunting great lamps With joyous swings—
A Pantomime of Beads Earth Voice
ARE there any as tender as the day
NEVER a mouse chases ever a tail, never a mouse ever sees that always a cat
Our door was shut to the noon-day heat. We could not see him. We might not have heard him either— Resting, dozing, dreaming pleasantly.
Screen Dance: for Rahani
Its posterior pushing its long thin body a procession of waves lifting its head- a green caterpillar:
Comments about Alfred Kreymborg
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
(26 April 1564 - 23 April 1616)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
(31 May 1819 - 26 March 1892)
(31 October 1795 – 23 February 1821)
WE want a man of forty for the job.
One who has enjoyed his little fill of romance.
And suffered intermittent indigestion ever since.
One whose memories are sufficiently cold
successfully to resist the embraces of truancy.
To whom a mountain
no longer looms an ideal
to scramble up and tumble down,
but is an actual thing made of stone
bristling with multitudinous edges
to bark one's shins or break one's neck upon.
To whom a lake or a river
or other body of water
no longer entices the search for one's likeness
(we only ask a man to be ...