Frank Stanford
Frank Stanford Poems
They caught them.
They were sitting at a table in the kitchen.
It was early.
They had on bathrobes.
...
Like seven birds sleeping on the plateau
Overlooking the shipwreck of love, mystery
Of the drunken visitors wandering off
With your wife, men who talk with a bad accent,
...
The white clothes on the line put the man to sleep.
He was sitting on a soda case
Leaning back on the porch.
...
Is like a lyric poem
with seven basic themes
first the cottonpicker
...
When the rain hits the snake in the head,
he closes his eyes and wishes he were
asleep in a tire on the side of the road,
...
What if the moon was essence of quinine
And high heels were a time of day
When certain birds bled
The chauffeur is telling the cook
...
It was Sunday, before dinner.
My uncles were listening to the opera.
O.Z. and I carried my brother in
And laid him on the table.
...
Soon I will make my appearance
But first I must take off my rings
And swords and lay them out all
...
Two girls runaway from the Home. They have a revolver
in their possession. The Sisters Of Our Lady have given up
looking for them, returning in the night with soft candles.
The sleek clouds have thrown their riders, and the bees
...
My father and I lie down together.
He is dead.
We look up at the stars, the steady sound
...
In the evenings they listen to the same
tunes nobody could call happy
somebody turns up at the edge of town
...
Do not look sadly at days gone by
days below days like a river running under the stars
Do not listen to the blues
or speak often with priests
...
The yolk went down my leg
Like a beautiful snail without a shell,
Went down the hill
To the skillet of water, to the nymphflies,
...
When a man knows another man
Is looking for him
He doesn't hide.
...
When you take the lost road
You come to the snow
And when you find the snow
You get down on your hands and knees
...
Frank Stanford Biography
Frank Stanford (August 1, 1948 – June 3, 1978) was a prolific American poet. He is most known for his epic, The Battlefield Where The Moon Says I Love You— a labyrinthine poem without stanzas or punctuation. In addition, Stanford published six shorter books of poetry throughout his 20s, and three posthumous collections of his writings (as well as a book of selected poems) have also been published. Just shy of his 30th birthday, Stanford died on June 3, 1978 in his home in Fayetteville, Arkansas, the victim of three self-inflicted pistol wounds to the heart. In the three decades since, he has become a cult figure in American letters.)
The Best Poem Of Frank Stanford
Freedom, Revolt, And Love
They caught them.
They were sitting at a table in the kitchen.
It was early.
They had on bathrobes.
They were drinking coffee and smiling.
She had one of his cigarillos in her fingers.
She had her legs tucked up under her in the chair.
They saw them through the window.
She thought of them stepping out of a bath
And him wrapping cloth around her.
He thought of her walking up in a small white building,
He thought of stones settling into the ground.
Then they were gone.
Then they came in through the back.
Her cat ran out.
The house was near the road.
She didn't like the cat going out.
They stayed at the table.
The others were out of breath.
The man and the woman reached across the table.
They were afraid, they smiled.
The other poured themselves the last of the coffee.
Burning their tongues.
The man and the woman looked at them.
They didn't say anything.
The man and the woman moved closer to each other,
The round table between them.
The stove was still on and burned the empty pot.
She started to get up.
One of them shot her.
She leaned over the table like a schoolgirl doing her lessons.
She thought about being beside him, being asleep.
They took her long gray socks
Put them over the barrel of a rifle
And shot him.
He went back in his chair, holding himself.
She told him hers didn't hurt much,
Like in the fall when everything you touch
Makes a spark.
He thought about her getting up in the dark
Wrapping a quilt around herself.
And standing in the doorway.
She asked the men if they shot them again
Not to hurt their faces.
One of them lit him one of his cigarettes.
He thought what it would be like
Being children together.
He was dead before he finished it.
She asked them could she take it out of his mouth.
So it wouldn't burn his lips.
She reached over and touched his hair.
She thought about him walking through the dark singing.
She died on the table like that,
Smoke coming out of his mouth.
Frank Stanford Comments
Frank Stanford Popularity
Frank Stanford Popularity
Delivering Poems Around The World
Poems are the property of their respective owners. All information has been reproduced here for educational and informational purposes to benefit site visitors, and is provided at no charge...
4/25/2024 6:34:35 PM # 1.0.0.1119
Unfortunately, snakes cannot close their eyes.