Joseph Charles Kennedy
X. J. Kennedy (born 21 August 1929, Dover, New Jersey, USA as Joseph Charles Kennedy) is a poet, translator, anthologist, editor, and author of children's literature and textbooks on English literature and poetry. He was long known as Joe Kennedy; but, wishing to distinguish himself from Joseph P. Kennedy, he added an "X" as his first initial.
In his youth, under the name Joe ... more »
Click here to add this poet to your My Favorite Poets.
Joseph Charles Kennedy Poems
The goose that laid the golden egg Died looking up its crotch To find out how its sphincter worked.
To look at this fictitious steed You'd think some mixed-up farmer Had crossed an eagle with a horse. It carries knights in armor
Permit me, friends, my evening meal, These few small crumbs of bread I steal, I mean no harm. Remember that.
Here lies resting, out of breath, Out of turns, Elizabeth Whose quicksilver toes not quite Cleared the whirring edge of night.
On Christmas Eve, the night unique, They say we beasts find tongues to speak, Yet at this crib I am so stirred
Out walking ties left over from a track Where nothing travels now but rust and grass, I could take stock in something that would pass Bearing down Hell-bent from behind my back:
Why oh why did an active volcano Have to poke up its nose in our yard? It goes gloop like a sink full of Drano And it showers down rocks that hit hard.
Old Men Pitching Horseshoes
Back in a yard where ringers groove a ditch, These four in shirtsleeves congregate to pitch Dirt-burnished iron. With appraising eye, One sizes up a peg, hoists and lets fly—
Walk with a bluebird in your heart, Along life's highway ambling. You'll always have an ample stock Of songs and eggs for scrambling.
I shear sheep in all sorts of shapes Like shooting stars and spangles. I shear them in the shapes of apes. My ewe has four right angles.
A Brat's Reward
At the market Philbert Spicer Peered into the bacon slicer— Whiz! the wicked slicer sped Back and forth across his head
Nude Descending A Staircase
Toe upon toe, a snowing flesh, A gold of lemon, root and rind, She sifts in sunlight down the stairs With nothing on. Nor on her mind.
For Allen Ginsberg
Ginsberg, Ginsberg, burning bright, Taunter of the ultra right, What blink of the Buddha's eye Chose the day for you to die?
Nothing In Heaven Functions As It Ought
Nothing in Heaven functions as it ought: Peter's bifocals, blindly sat on, crack; His gates lurch wide with the cackle of a cock, Not turn with a hush of gold as Milton had thought;
Comments about Joseph Charles Kennedy
The goose that laid the golden egg
Died looking up its crotch
To find out how its sphincter worked.
Would you lay well? Don't watch.