Howard Nemerov

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

Howard Nemerov Poems

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