Biography of Lawrence Beck
My advice to anyone reading one of my poems: read it so quickly as you can the first time through. Since I write in a rush, my melody will become most evident if you read in a rush.
I have a web site, www.lawrencebeck.net, which contains more of my recent poems than the 50 I leave up here. I refresh this site every other month.
Alas, I must add this: if you write to me asking me to read your poems, I may, but I will not comment on them. I am very sick of numbers hogs who troll through a day's list of contributing poets, and ask each one to read his or her poem. If you write well, someone may notice and comment. If you browbeat people into reading your poetry, the comments you receive are worth nothing.
Lawrence Beck's Works:
- Welcome, Islamic State -new-
- Sobriety, Bah! -new-
- Haze -new-
- Awkwardly Trading Places -new-
- Go Out with a Win -new-
- A Quiet Afternoon at Home -new-
- The Eye of the Storm -new-
- Why, Ms. Turtle, You're Naked -new-
- In the Space of an Hour
- A Pair of Dismal Poems
- The Next Morning
- Reduced to Babbling
- Hello, Figment
Lawrence Beck Poems
How to Write a Poem in the Absence of In...
Picturesque and lethal as an oil baron's Trophy wife, the prairie's blanketed With snow. That's really all I have to Say, a joke, a catchy metaphor, an
On Being Civilized
Look at you. You're nicely dressed, The pale and affluent exemplars of The European code: brag about your Rights and honor. Say that even
One Makes Do
You may scoff, and rightly so, at what Must pass for trysts for us. I do not Warble at her window, do not lead her By the hand along the banks of any
Devil or Deep Blue Sea
Which way to fail would hurt the less, To linger, loving, but unloved, or Bolt and leave a fragile woman, One who's meant no harm to me,
I slept very well, yes. Thank you For asking. Had a good cigarette; Breakfast was fine. It's comforting, Somewhat, to be where I grew,
On the Eve of the Next Big Conflagration
I know the way the world works, the DNA, The ceaseless struggle. Men, yes, mostly They are men, resort to arms and kill Each other, claiming what they think they
Friday What sort of alchemy is this, what sort Of trick? What's wrong with me?
On the Eve of Our Reunion
Why be so nervous now when all was well Last week, before I left? Precisely because All was well. Nine days have passed. What may Have changed? The sun which was her smiling
The Poet and the Practical Woman
Not naked on a shell upon the ocean, Angels next to her, my love, in jeans And simple shirt, bent over, Reappeared to me. "Oh, Aphrodite! , "
The Yellow Log by Edvard Munch
There's that log he painted; so Norwegian, Munch, All squashed inside, inside an undertaker's suit. The log is yellow as a flame, unnatural, the sort Of color Munch, beneath that charcoal suit, might
You should know the way it goes. You've been with me long enough To sense this muse, the bird described As trapped nearby within a cage,
Reason's overrated, even wrong. We're both aware of that. The classroom's tidy formulations Let the brain believe it understands
I question my own sanity, the last To do so, I suppose. For this, I've Waited two long weeks: the sight Of her, a couple minutes, something
I've grown tired of wandering airports, Dragging my luggage, lost as a little dog. I am weary of waiting for boats and trains. I don't want to be sleeping in somebody's
Never Much of a Casanova
I've done dismal one-night pairings.
Trust me, I'm not fond of them. The
Mornings yield unpleasant truths.
'I'm sorry, dear, but what's your name? '
'You snore. Were you aware of that? '
'I haven't cash to call a cab, but you
Can take the subway home, ' and so
Forth. Afterward, alone, the laundry
And embarrassment, the fear that,