A bespectacled artist called Lear
First perfected this smile in a sneer.... more »
I hear you will not fall in love with me
because I come without a guarantee,
because someday I may depart at whim
and leave you desolate, abandoned, grim.... more »
Your slit so like mine:
the woman of it,
the warm womanwide of thigh,
& the comfort of it-... more »
You operate on the afternoon
You perform open heart surgery
on the ghosts
of your suicidal friends... more »
I put our books face to face
so they could talk.
They whispered about us.... more »
Because he dreams of seeding the world with words
his eyes bite
She looks He looks away
He is snow-blind... more »
Already six years past your age!
The steps in Rome,
the house near Hampstead Heath,
& all your fears... more »
I sleep with double pillows since you're gone.
Is one of them for you-or is it you?
My bed is heaped with books of poetry.
I fall asleep on yellow legal pads.... more »
with its tufts of roses
beckoning at the black,
with its crown of thistles,... more »
The man under the bed
The man who has been there for years waiting
The man who waits for my floating bare foot
The man who is silent as dustballs riding the darkness... more »
the ten-ton block of ice
obstructing the throat, the heart,
the red filter of the liver,... more »
Exploring each other's
that surge of connection
which makes the world
seem sane,... more »
Love, death, sleeping
with somebody else's husband
is what poetry is... more »
On the other side of the page
where the last days go,
where the lost poems go,
where the forgotten dreams... more »
All the boring tedious young men
with dead eyes & dirty hair . . .
all the mad young men who hate their mothers,
all the squalling baby boys . . .... more »
He says he is a perfect poet.
He lives alone, with his perfect mate.
& sometimes they don't even speak,
So perfectly do they 'communicate.'... more »
What makes a poet?
Many have tried to guess.
Is it a voice
like a conduit,... more »
Regret is the young girl who sits in the snow
& stares at her hands.
They are bluer than shadows in snow.
They are bloodless as fear.... more »
In the redwood house sailing off
into the ocean,
I sleep with you-
our dreams mingling,... more »
Old bag of bones
what are you searching for
in poetry,... more »
She leaps into the alien heart
of the passerby, the drunk,
the girl who spouts Freudian talk
over Szechuan food.... more »
Boswell - you old rake - I have tried to imitate
your style; but it is no use; my dialogues are
all between my selves: and though I sit up late,
make endless notes and jottings that I hope will jar... more »
Knowing our lives a drowse
(attended by dogs
how can it not matter... more »
Again & again
I have read your books
without ever wishing to know you.
I suck the alphabet of blood.... more »
The man giving birth in the dark
& come back
to life again,... more »
After the teach-in
we smeared the walls with
looked left, & saw... more »
What happens when the juice of the sun
with its lemony tang, its tart sweetness
& your whole body stings with singing... more »
A man so sick that the sexual soup
cannot save him -
the chicken soup of sex
which cures everything:... more »
She was not a slender woman,
but her skin was milk
mixed in with strawberry jam
& between her legs the word purple was born... more »
You gave me the child
that seamed my belly
& stitched up my life.
You gave me: one book of love poems,
five years of peace
& two of pain.
You gave me darkness, light, laughter
& the certain knowledge
that we someday die.
You gave me seven years
during which the cells of my body
died & were reborn.
Now we have died
into the limbo of lost loves,
that wreckage of memories
tarnishing with time,
that litany of losses
which grows longer with the years,
as more of our friends
& the list of our loved ...
On the first night
of the full moon,
the primeval sack of ocean
& I gave birth to you
little carrot top,
little turned-up nose,
pushing you out of myself