Ira Cohen

Ira Cohen Poems

Imagine Jean Cocteau in the lobby
holding a torch
Imagine a trained dog act,
...

A star of blood you fell
from the point of the hypodermic
singing of fabulous beasts &
spitting out the sex of vowels
...

Let's take a silver train underground
to the back streets of Atlantis
thru the corrugated iron roots &
...

And surely we will die without memory
coming to cold in the shadow of space
& if it isn't too late
...

Sunyata - Song to the Winter Sun

There was much wind
but I new not how to call it,
a roomful of strangers,
...

July 14, Breakfast w/myself at the Olympia Diner, 106th & B'way

Fell asleep around 4 AM
w/ the TV on
Van Heflin & Barbara Stanwyck
...

Ira Cohen Biography

Ira Cohen (February 3, 1935 – April 25, 2011) was an American poet, publisher, photographer and filmmaker. Cohen lived in Morocco and in New York City in the 1960s, he was in Kathmandu in the 1970s and traveled the world in the 1980s, before returning to New York, where he spent the rest of his life. Cohen died of renal failure on April 25, 2011. Ira Cohen's literary archive now resides at the Beinecke Rare Book and Manuscript Library, Yale University. Cohen was born in 1935 in the Bronx, New York City, to deaf parents. Cohen graduated from the Horace Mann School at 16 and attended Cornell, where he took a class taught by Vladimir Nabokov. He dropped out of Cornell, then enrolled at the School of General Studies of Columbia University. Cohen married Arlene Bond, a Barnard student, in 1957. They had two children, David Schleifer and Rafiqa el Shenawi.)

The Best Poem Of Ira Cohen

Imagine Jean Cocteau

Imagine Jean Cocteau in the lobby
holding a torch
Imagine a trained dog act,
a Rock and Roll Band
Imagine I am Curly of the Three Stooges
disguised as Wm Shakespeare
Imagine that I'm the cousin of the Mayor
of New York or the King of Nepal
(I didn't say Napoleon!)
Imagine what it is like to be in the glare
of hot lights when you are longing for dark
corners
Imagine the Ghost Patrol, the Tribal
Orchestra -
Imagine an elephant playing a harmonica
or someone weighing out bones on the edge
of the desert in Afghanistan
Imagine that these poems are recorded moments
of temporary sanity
Imagine that the clock was just turned back -
or forwards - a hundred years instead of an hour
Let us pretend that we have no place to go,
that we are here in the Cosmic Hotel,
that our bags are packed & that we have one hour
to checkout time
Imagine whatever you will but know that it is not
imagination but experience which makes poetry,
and that behind every image,
behind every word there is something
I am trying to tell you,
something that really happened.

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