Frank Bidart


Self-Portrait, 1969 - Poem by Frank Bidart

He's still young--; thirty, but looks younger--
or does he?... In the eyes and cheeks, tonight,
turning in the mirror, he saw his mother,--
puffy; angry; bewildered... Many nights,
now, when he stares there, he gets angry:--
something unfulfilled there, something dead
to what he once thought he surely could be--
Now, just the glamour of habits...
Once, instead,
he thought insight would remake him, he'd reach
--what? The thrill, the exhilaration
unravelling disaster, that seemed to teach
necessary knowledge... became just jargon.

Sick of being decent, he craves another
crash. What reaches him except disaster?


Comments about Self-Portrait, 1969 by Frank Bidart

  • Rookie - 15 Points Jeff Fleischer (2/27/2007 2:42:00 PM)

    Professor,
    This is a great poem. I hope you enjoy reading my works.
    Jeff Fleischer (Report) Reply

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Read poems about / on: mirror, sick, mother



Poem Submitted: Monday, January 13, 2003



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