Gerald Stern


Gerald Stern Poems

1. Journey 6/29/2017
2. Kissing Stieglitz Good-Bye 6/29/2017
3. Leaves 6/29/2017
4. Bolero 6/29/2017
5. Box of Cigars 6/29/2017
6. In Beauty Bright 6/29/2017
7. In Time 6/29/2017
8. The Inkspots 6/29/2017
9. Much Better Than a Goat 6/29/2017
10. The Red Coal 6/29/2017
11. Still Burning 6/29/2017
12. Swifts 6/29/2017
13. Sylvia 6/29/2017
14. This Is It 6/29/2017
15. No One 6/29/2017
16. Visit from Mars 6/29/2017
17. Blue Particles 6/29/2017
18. Galaxy Love 6/29/2017
19. Read Genesis 6/29/2017
20. Books 6/29/2017
21. Glut 6/29/2017
22. The Preacher [As if the one tree you love] 6/29/2017
23. My Sister's Funeral 6/29/2017
24. Hemingway's House 6/30/2017
25. I Sometimes Think of the Lamb 6/30/2017
26. Lilacs for Ginsberg 6/30/2017
27. Lilies 6/30/2017
28. Drowning on the Pamet River 6/30/2017
29. Roses 6/30/2017
30. Save the Last Dance for Me 6/30/2017
31. Shouldering 6/30/2017
32. The Sparrow 5/22/2015
33. The Name 9/15/2015
34. Magnolia 10/13/2015
35. Loneliness 6/29/2017
36. The Jew and the Rooster Are One 6/29/2017
37. Day Of Grief 3/12/2015
38. Another Insane Devotion 1/7/2015
39. The Dog 1/6/2015
40. Waving Goodbye 1/21/2015

Comments about Gerald Stern

  • Pamela Sutton (10/28/2018 8:20:00 PM)

    Your poetry is especially true today; especially necessary; especially beloved, you dear old friend.

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Best Poem of Gerald Stern

Swan Song

A bunch of old snakeheads down by the pond
carrying on the swan tradition -- hissing
inside their white bodies, raising and lowering their heads
like ostriches, regretting only the sad ritual
that forced them to waddle back into the water
after their life under the rocks, wishing they could lie again
in the sun

and dream of spreading their terrifying wings;
wishing, this time, they could sail through the sky like
horses,
their tails rigid, their white manes fluttering,
their mouths open, their sharp teeth flashing,
drops of mercy ...

Read the full of Swan Song

The Dog

What I was doing with my white teeth exposed
like that on the side of the road I don't know,
and I don't know why I lay beside the sewer
so that the lover of dead things could come back
with is pencil sharpened and his piece of white paper.
I was there for a good two hours whistling
dirges, shrieking a little, terrifying
hearts with my whimpering cries before I died
by pulling the one leg up and stiffening.

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