Amy Beeder is the author of Burn the Field (Carnegie Mellon University Press, 2006). A new book, Now Make An Altar, will appear from the same press in early 2012. Her work has appeared in Poetry, Ploughshares, The Nation, The Kenyon Review, The Southern Review, AGNI, and other journals. She has received the Discovery/The Nation Award, a Bread Loaf Scholarship, and a Witness Emerging Writers Award.... more »
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Amy Beeder Poems
Agony the wax-white man in spasm, arched arms tight as flightless wings, rigid fists on ribs in Bell's famous painting Opisthotonus. This
Girl on a heap of street sweepings high as a pyre, laid on snarled wire & dented rim. Girl set down among the wrung-out hides.
Offer your usual posy of goatheads. Proffer sharp garlands of thistle & Incas' thin down; of squash bugs strung on blighted stems; send
Captain Haddock vs. the PTA
Bewildered Saint of the curse, bulbous & profane, I invoke you against this Nest Of Lice & Vipers: O volcanic Captain, I implore you, pour
I see you shuffle up Washington Street whenever I am driving much too fast: you, chub & bug-eyed, jaw like a loaf
Because our waiters are hopeless romanti...
the plates are broken after just one meal: plates that mimic lily pads or horseshoe crabs, swifts' wings, golden koi, whirlpools, blowholes in rictus:
Comments about Amy Beeder
(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)
(16 August 1920 – 9 March 1994)
Agony the wax-white man in spasm, arched
arms tight as flightless wings, rigid fists on ribs
in Bell's famous painting Opisthotonus. This
is how swift toxins knit the bony fibers, blight
the spine's fluid; how our haven is invaded by
needle, nail, fish hook, the rusty still-sharp edge
of plow or handsaw. Here are the spores & here
the porous nerves that make a net for crossing.
The cord cut with a dirty shard. The mourning.
The tiny dialogues that bind our fate, all muscles
taut across the long adrenal squall. Now a cursory
search reveals C. ...