Donald Justice

(12 August 1925 - 6 August 2004 / Miami / Florida)

Donald Justice Poems

1. A Birthday Candle 1/13/2003
2. A Dancer's Life 12/25/2014
3. A Map Of Love 1/1/2004
4. Absences 1/13/2003
5. American Sketches 4/21/2010
6. Anonymous Drawing 1/3/2003
7. Banjo Dog Variations 4/21/2010
8. Bus Stop 1/13/2003
9. Counting The Mad 4/21/2010
10. Extraits 4/21/2010
11. Hell 4/21/2010
12. Henry James At The Pacific 4/21/2010
13. In Bertram's Garden 1/3/2003
14. In Memory Of The Unknown Poet, Robert Boardman Vaughn 4/21/2010
15. Love's Stratagems 1/3/2003
16. Men At Forty 1/3/2003
17. Men At Thirty 1/3/2003
18. Nostalgia And Complaint Of The Grandparents 4/21/2010
19. Nostalgia Of The Lakefronts 4/21/2010
20. October 4/9/2015
21. Ode To A Dressmaker's Dummy 1/3/2003
22. On A Painting By Patient B Of The Independence State Hospital For The Insane 4/21/2010
23. On The Death Of Friends In Childhood 1/13/2003
24. Pantoum Of The Great Depression 1/1/2004
25. Poem 1/3/2003
26. Sadness 1/3/2003
27. Sestina: Here In Katmandu 1/3/2003
28. The Assassination 1/3/2003
29. The Evening Of The Mind 1/3/2003
30. The Tourist From Syracuse 1/3/2003
31. To A Ten-Months' Child 1/13/2003
32. Variations On A Text By Vallejo 4/21/2010
33. Villanelle At Sundown 1/3/2003
34. Women In Love 4/21/2010
Best Poem of Donald Justice

Pantoum Of The Great Depression

Our lives avoided tragedy
Simply by going on and on,
Without end and with little apparent meaning.
Oh, there were storms and small catastrophes.

Simply by going on and on
We managed. No need for the heroic.
Oh, there were storms and small catastrophes.
I don't remember all the particulars.

We managed. No need for the heroic.
There were the usual celebrations, the usual sorrows.
I don't remember all the particulars.
Across the fence, the neighbors were our chorus.

There were the usual celebrations, the usual sorrows
Thank god no one said ...

Read the full of Pantoum Of The Great Depression

Villanelle At Sundown

Turn your head. Look. The light is turning yellow.
The river seems enriched thereby, not to say deepened.
Why this is, I'll never be able to tell you.

Or are Americans half in love with failure?
One used to say so, reading Fitzgerald, as it happened.
(That Viking Portable, all water spotted and yellow--

remember?) Or does mere distance lend a value

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