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
Little Black Dress
Hanging in commonplace closets of plaster, tempting colors from the emotions, the silk slips like hidden thoughts from the body,
Where is the religious eye? Morning is dark. In Pennsylvania, a tear has left youngish ducts, and blood has replaced it.
Rain, Isolation, Self-Analysis
'The world is myself; life is myself'. - Wallace Stevens 1.
..........Distinct goodness does not grow like vines, though the blackness of time skips: place to heart, to images on windows, gathering dust. I am tired of the disjointed branches,
An Artist Paints A Bowl Of Fruit
1. Muted color translates into quiet sound, or the roundness of planets and moons that dwell here, around us, in obvious places.
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.
At the beginning all the wise men played. They tapped ivory through staid feelings, as Stories, apocryphal but nonetheless moving,
Motel Clerk: Dusk
So much, so little under the barometer of lonely light; waves have hit a silence,
April Of 68: Martin Luther King Is Dead
1. News preempted news, upstaging clean air, forced and stained against each open doorway, while our faces were awash in speeches that cured.
A Future If We Dare
'All that we are not stares back at what we are.' - W. H. Auden
The Very Long Life
(For Doshia Watkins,1909-2011) There was more in you than in me. There was the outer core and the inner storm, the staged whispers and curtain calls which go awry.
Perhaps my emptiness is greater than your own. To test these levels is a testy thing; Bruises from tawdry love scraped against My aching face, and yes, there are stages to it:
Suicide In An Old House
Death surrounds us with blatant arms. A sanitation worker dies and no one cares, but banshee phones striking at midnight,
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.
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,