Lamont Palmer

Freshman - 859 Points (July 12th,1962 / Maryland)

Biography of Lamont Palmer

Lamont Palmer was born and raised in Maryland, where he still resides. He wrote poetry in his teens, but left it as an adult, and did not write anymore poetry for 20 years. In his late 30's, feeling the artistic urges moving him, he returned to poetry, again, as a way to vent his feelings. However this time he began to see his writing as actual art, a craft, something to be taken seriously, a more than simply unloading his feelings bluntly onto the page. He cites as his poetic influences the work of the English masters, Wordsworth and Keats, the French Symbolist Stephane Mallarme, and 20th century lyricists such as Wallace Stevens, T.S. Eliot, James Merrill, W.H. Auden, and John Ashbery. Twice nominated for the Push Cart Prize in 2011, Palmer has published poetry in online magazines including, Some Words, Ariga, Red River Review, and Strange Roads. In addition to poetry, he also writes fiction and has completed one novel which he is in the process of trying to get published. He is fond of describing himself as a 'nonsmoker, nondrinker, nondruguser who's bright, witty, loves his parents, never been to jail, can't swim, is nervous of air travel, dislikes movies with too many car crashes, is musically eclectic, and would die without Cable TV.' In his spare time enjoys reading, playing Scrabble, following politics, and sometimes just staring into space in deep thought. Though Lamont would love to win a National Book Award for his work someday, he still primarily writes poetry for the release and the creation of a legacy, of sort. He writes, 'I don't have kids so I see my poems as my offsprings; perhaps even better reflections of myself than a child would be. I hope people will know my poems and enjoy them, now, and long after I have said goodbye to the world.'
Lamont Palmer can be contacted through Poem Hunter, or palmer410@aol.com which is his personal email address.

PoemHunter.com Updates

Pictures Of Two Brothers

1
Photos on a table: nearly shiny gods of reflection,
made us bow down before the small, instant altars
spread out like a sea of happy snapshots.
Can the fearful and the familiar coexist?
This is the imagined place where faces reign;
old exposures destroying the protected images.
Each inscrutable sign is in your face; the fights,
the weed, the Chevy van lost in strange street powder,

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