Stephen Dobyns

Stephen Dobyns Poems

1. Waking 8/27/2016
2. Where We Are 8/27/2016
3. Why Fool Around? 8/27/2016
4. Thus He Endured 8/27/2016
5. Thelonious Monk 8/27/2016
6. The Invitations Overhead 8/27/2016
7. Cezanne and the Love of Color 8/27/2016
8. Cecil 8/27/2016
9. Yellow Beak 6/18/2015
10. The Street 9/30/2015
11. It's Like This 8/27/2016
12. Lost 8/27/2016
13. Cezanne's Seclusion 8/27/2016
14. Cezanne's Success 8/27/2016
15. The Clouds Above the Mountains 8/27/2016
16. The New Austerity 8/27/2016
17. Visitor 8/27/2016
18. Consolations of Water 8/27/2016
19. The Body's Joy 8/27/2016
20. Song of Basic Necessities 8/27/2016
21. Can Poetry Matter? 8/27/2016
22. How To Like It 8/27/2016
23. Oh, Immobility, Death 8/27/2016
24. Do They Have A Reason? 8/27/2016
25. The Last Take-Out Supper 8/27/2016
26. Freight Cars 8/27/2016
27. Cemetery Nights 8/27/2016
28. Tomatoes 8/27/2016
29. The Delicate, Plummeting Bodies 8/27/2016
30. At the Ocean He Studied the Waves 8/27/2016
31. Sometimes Confusion Was Veil 8/27/2016
33. Pablo Neruda 8/27/2016
34. No Map 8/27/2016
35. Over a Cup of Coffee 8/27/2016
36. Pursuit 8/27/2016
37. The Birth Of Angels 8/27/2016
38. Grief 8/27/2016
39. Sun Gazers 8/27/2016
40. Loud Music 1/13/2003
Best Poem of Stephen Dobyns

Loud Music

My stepdaughter and I circle round and round.
You see, I like the music loud, the speakers
throbbing, jam-packing the room with sound whether
Bach or rock and roll, the volume cranked up so
each bass notes is like a hand smacking the gut.
But my stepdaughter disagrees. She is four
and likes the music decorous, pitched below
her own voice-that tenuous projection of self.
With music blasting, she feels she disappears,
is lost within the blare, which in fact I like.
But at four what she wants is self-location
and uses her voice as a porpoise uses
its sonar: to...

Read the full of Loud Music

Over a Cup of Coffee

Over a cup of coffee or sitting on a park bench or
walking the dog, he would recall some incident
from his youth—nothing significant—climbing a tree
in his backyard, waiting in left field for a batter's
swing, sitting in a parked car with a girl whose face
he no longer remembered, his hand on her breast
and his body electric; memories to look at with
curiosity, the harmless behavior of a stranger, with
nothing to regret or elicit particular joy. And

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