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 email@example.com which is his personal email address.
Lamont Palmer Poems
A Future If We Dare
'All that we are not stares back at what we are.' - W. H. Auden
Little Black Dress
Hanging in commonplace closets of plaster, tempting colors from the emotions, the silk slips like hidden thoughts from the body,
Gazing At You, Winona Palmer, My Mother
Shrunken face: brown, refined and small. Who reduced you to this diminutive size? When did you become fragility's core? You scare me. My days tremble like a cold leaf.
Rain, Isolation, Self-Analysis
'The world is myself; life is myself'. - Wallace Stevens 1.
City Of Coldness
Snow claims walkways: restless crystals, like they are at its mercy, but who really is, which is the test of wind, or the speed of air. Intimately involved, shovel and man? Most
I was a year and a half old when Two, loud cracks punctured western confidence Through air; my future head snapped back in grief.
Where is the religious eye? Morning is dark. In Pennsylvania, a tear has left youngish ducts, and blood has replaced it.
Message Not In A Bottle
Just when I put my mortality behind me Somebody I know dies; the scourge of daylight Drops its existential contents and mental bricks Onto your lap, the comfort zone of life.
A Vase In The Corner
Lilies opened into the outer room. They almost overshadowed the entire place. It was there in bright recesses the talk Began, the colors, the aromas filling what
Three Days Of Rain
Drenched assumptions were all we had. It was alright, she said, for umbrellas to be panaceas,
Variations In Yearning
'Dreams are necessary to life.' - Anais Nin 1.
Satisfaction In Fords
Seat back into the pleasure position: ransacked it seems to be, though taken on willingly, Westminster sun, strident in afternoon, takes him miles from the home of straight insights.
St. Michaels Jetty
Lately I have felt the wind, in all its pleasant coldness, Reminding me of walking, how to take stormy strides, Even if it is not truly me taking them.
It’s a complete fantasy. A fantasy of a fantasy, A generalization of yellow Open roses.
Where is the religious eye? Morning is dark.
In Pennsylvania, a tear has left
youngish ducts, and blood has replaced it.
A schoolhouse was cold. In the wind comes more cold,
and comes a nightmare, dank at its edges,
dank as grass smothered under storms,
When blood played a part it never played,