Jack Peachum has been described as a 'shy and somewhat reclusive poet and author, ' who resides in a tiny hamlet in southside Virginia, a place he dismisses at once– not a regionalist– 'I do not participate in the town/ The town does not participate in me! ”.
Peachum’s poetry- 'a mixture of formalism, faux-oriental, & free-verse- has appeared on the internet and in print journals much in ... more »
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jack peachum Poems
The Detective's Dog
(for Ellie) Ol' bulldog, you're luckier than I- you've reached your maturity with few scars! True, you're older than I in dog-years- but I bear the mark of a man's fist on my face,
A man derives nothing from sex- the woman's pleasure is what we seek. For the female (here I hazard a guess) ,
Poor Man's Complaint
These cool nights one snuggles down under the covers, looking for the spot where the warm hides– seems to me lately my feet are always cold! The crickets have taken up the cry–
Sometimes the past seems very remote– again, close as the hallway. Tonight, I’m looking over my shoulder, folks I knew thirty– even forty– years ago
Hobo Christmas Past
Old toothless queen with rheumy eyes, I'm seeing you again, across a smoky fire- near an underpass, hillside grey with weather, you hold forth over a can of hot soup,
(South Hill Va Memorial Hospital,1991) A light footfall somewhere on the marble floor rustle of starched garment in the hallway, rank odor of bedpan, strong alcohol, then halfway down the marble corridor
OUR PIERROT IN AUTUMN
“Je est un autre” —Rimbaud
PROSE POEM: FROM A COLD HOUSE
(1930) Anybody who has stood for twenty minutes in the freezing darkness with a dog will appreciate the beauty of the cat. Last night turned bitter cold. Beforehand, there was a little warming trend, almost a glow, and the temperature in the house was not so bad. But the wind was coming, you could hear it gathering force from far away, an earthsome roar in the distance. The rain was gone, clear skies with a few dark clouds moving out, a yellow moon setting and the stars.
PROSE POEM: THE PROFESSOR
PEDANTRY I was a village elder- the Bard, you might say, of the tribe. I kept track of customs, taboos, rites. I could tell you what was superstition and what wasn't- I knew the history, who was related to who and by what parent. And I could recite more than a thousand lines of traditional poetry dating back to the time we walked out of the desert. Then this Professor came along. He was a teacher of poetry, he said, at a big University. He taught the science of poetry.
(after the photo) Parson contends, “Animals have no souls– therefore, cannot enter Paradise! ” This dog here puts false to all that,
Put a hat on my head- soft grey felt- a red silk tie, my black shoes polished and shined- let the flame lick at the hatbrim, consume the crown, let the fire unloosen my tie, wear out my shoes-
TO THOSE WALKING THE APPALACHIAN TRAIL
(inscription for a flyleaf) Oh, you travelers who trek the Blue Ridge, Hikers to high and lonely places,
The day the apple and the pear become judges. Perhaps they'll wear the white wig of a British court. And maybe they'll sway behind a high judicial bench side to side-
How terrible to be a thing! A creature naked with a human face - soulless as a cloud- set apart or kept in darkness,
Comments about jack peachum
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
(26 April 1564 - 23 April 1616)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
(31 May 1819 - 26 March 1892)
(31 October 1795 – 23 February 1821)
The Detective's Dog
Ol' bulldog, you're luckier than I-
you've reached your maturity with few scars!
True, you're older than I in dog-years-
but I bear the mark of a man's fist on my face,
I view the world nowadays from behind an eye-patch.
When the old wound throbs at midnight
and the memories of my profession come back to me-
how I long for a dog's life!