Howard Nemerov

(29 February 1920 – 5 July 1991 / New York City, New York)

Howard Nemerov Poems

1. Political Reflection 6/19/2015
2. The Author To His Body On Their Fifteenth Birthday, 29 Ii 80 5/3/2012
3. Witnessing The Launch Of The Shuttle Atlantis 5/3/2012
4. The Painter Dreaming In The Scholar’s House 5/3/2012
5. The Consent 5/3/2012
6. The Town Dump 5/3/2012
7. To David, About His Education 5/3/2012
8. On An Occasion Of National Mourning 5/3/2012
9. The Murder Of William Remington 4/15/2010
10. Pockets 5/3/2012
11. The View From An Attic Window 4/15/2010
12. A Day On The Big Branch 5/3/2012
13. Found Poem 5/3/2012
14. Magnitudes 5/3/2012
15. Young Woman 4/15/2010
16. A Primer Of The Daily Round 5/3/2012
17. Lion & Honeycomb 5/3/2012
18. Writing 4/15/2010
19. The Brief Journey West 4/15/2010
20. Life Cycle Of Common Man 5/3/2012
21. To D—, Dead By Her Own Hand 4/15/2010
22. The Vacuum 4/15/2010
23. The War In The Air 4/15/2010
24. The Icehouse In Summer 4/15/2010
25. The Host, He Says That All Is Well 4/15/2010
26. Money 4/15/2010
27. Threshold 1/13/2003
28. The Makers 1/3/2003
29. The Lobster 1/3/2003
30. The Beautiful Lawn Sprinkler 1/13/2003
31. The Dependencies 1/3/2003
32. Style 1/3/2003
33. Kicks 1/13/2003
34. Poetics 1/3/2003
35. Gyroscope 1/3/2003
36. Fugue 1/3/2003
37. Casting 1/3/2003
38. I Only Am Escaped Alone To Tell Thee 6/30/2003
39. Amateurs Of Heaven 1/3/2003
40. The Blue Swallows 1/3/2003
Best Poem of Howard Nemerov

Because You Asked About The Line Between Prose And Poetry

Sparrows were feeding in a freezing drizzle
That while you watched turned into pieces of snow
Riding a gradient invisible
From silver aslant to random, white, and slow.

There came a moment that you couldn't tell.
And then they clearly flew instead of fell.

Read the full of Because You Asked About The Line Between Prose And Poetry

A Spell Before Winter

After the red leaf and the gold have gone,
Brought down by the wind, then by hammering rain
Bruised and discolored, when October's flame
Goes blue to guttering in the cusp, this land
Sinks deeper into silence, darker into shade.
There is a knowledge in the look of things,
The old hills hunch before the north wind blows.

Now I can see certain simplicities

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