Bruce Beaver Poems

At the foot of a northern pylon of the Harbour Bridge
I have kept my vigil since the mighty span was built.
I come early in the day from worn-out corners of the area
and sit when the sun is out until the waning afternoon,
...

I was friendly with a woman once.
It was an unusual experience.
There were certain innate boundaries
and the inevitably marked frontiers.
...

God knows what was done to you.
I may never find out fully.
The truth reaches us slowly here,
is delayed in the mail continually
...

As you say in another way somewhere
men just dropp women gradually
wear-out. The men all nose-dive
out of life after getting all entangled
...

Halfway through one of your longer poems
I paused for the breath of these words, unclamorous
to come onto the page. As it happens
this minor poem is happening now.
...

The only space I’ve inhabited
has been my self.
Ask me where one street intersects
with another hereabouts
...

Youth, you say. What of it?
I could say I was as fair
and handsome as a hero.
But I was always plain. I hated
...

When I take up my position
at the base of the westering wall
of Thebes, it is midday.
This time I’m blind; that time I see
...

He’ll come back to you in the darkest night
shambling, robust still, not a little noisome.
He’ll perch his large object-overlapping frame
on the edge of your bed and unravel a repertoire
...

Wonderful woman, proud to be a person
in this day and age of swapped sexes.
To feel love for one’s own kind
(sex is just an arbitrary accident) —
...