Biography of Lawrence Beck
My advice to anyone reading one of my poems: read it so quickly as you can the first time through. Since I write in a rush, my melody will become most evident if you read in a rush.
I have a web site, www.lawrencebeck.net, which contains more of my recent poems than the 50 I leave up here. I refresh this site every other month.
Alas, I must add this: if you write to me asking me to read your poems, I may, but I will not comment on them. I am very sick of numbers hogs who troll through a day's list of contributing poets, and ask each one to read his or her poem. If you write well, someone may notice and comment. If you browbeat people into reading your poetry, the comments you receive are worth nothing.
Lawrence Beck's Works:
Lawrence Beck Poems
Like My Shadow
The pain is here, my boon companion, Rising out of bed with me each morning, Taking walks with me.It warns me not To use my car, or climb or even descend
Far From Tintern Abbey
Maybe, somewhere south of Easton, somewhere in the trackless Wastes which form the spurs of mountains, Cascades, spilling From the mother of all topographic perturbations, north of there, Up in BC, I'll find a place providing peace, and, on the banks
These memories, seemingly fragile shoots, An image, here or there, of rushing rivers, Densely shadowed woods, of treeless mountains Stretching toward this great gorge. Columbia,
The wife has stormed back home.She's out of sorts. Who knows?Perhaps she faced some contretemps at work, And, now, in classic style, she is keen to kick the dog. Alas, we do not have a dog, so she kicks me.She kicks
I am in the house, imagining the way the world is Beyond the windows through which I can see it. Wind, it seems, assaults the trees.The sky is Pale, a sign that it is full of moisture, very humid.
The best part of the day arrives before the sun, Before the hip begins to howl.It comes when all The leaves are damp, and poems start to write themselves, And coffee's odor fills the room, and I'm not coughing
Move On, Archaelogist
I've become a city in the jungle somewhere in Belize, A ruin, not what I once was, and you, intrepid scientist, Have come to poke among the fallen stones, The towers overgrown, to try to understand what
Ericson's Lakeside Resort
It's a destination no one wants to visit Anymore:a run-down sand pit lake resort. It doesn't have a water slide.You couldn't Buy a beer or much to eat, hot dogs and ice
The Blue And The Green
I can't say that the seashore is prettier than What I'm gazing out at now.I love to watch The ocean waves come crashing in.I love The plumes of wind-blown spray, the freighters
Look there.That stupid guy has brought his air balloon, It's huffing madly, up the valley to be pushed along By winds which move upriver early every morning.He's a bit Too low, and that is why his burners roar.He's apt to get
Pale as ghosts, we glide along the lane to see the Governor, passing knots Of naked children, herds of goats which block the road, and groups of skinny Men who wait to climb aboard whatever sort of vehicle comes by tonight To ferry them to paid employment, chopping cane or washing dishes,
A Rainy June In Nebraska
The river's high and moving fast. It's clawing at the bushes on its banks. The park's been closed again to those Who would have liked to float.No one
Farzaad serves the coffee in a cafe in the shopping mall. Ten years here from Kandahar with green card, he's American, or mostly.Sometimes, he is not.A woman Comes in with her friends.They're similar to all the others:
There are mysteries at the edge of the field, Where the corn stops growing and the thicket Begins.Domesticity ends, and the light, The known, the world in service to humans,
The wife has stormed back home.She's out of sorts.
Who knows?Perhaps she faced some contretemps at work,
And, now, in classic style, she is keen to kick the dog.
Alas, we do not have a dog, so she kicks me.She kicks
Our children.No one can be spared, and nothing can be
Seen as having measured up.The world's disappointed
Her, and we, the wretches who have fallen short of what
She'd hoped would be (a swiftly shifting vision, as her addled
Brain's incapable of focusing on anything) , must