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
This Site, More Often Than Not
Oh, God. I've entered fairyland, and all around me Mundane poets poison what had been good air With censers swung so heedlessly, with fumes Of poorly chosen words, with sounds attributed
The Clocks Have Gone Silent
Clocks don't tick anymore. Have you noticed? Time no longer marches forward, taking Grimly measured steps, and that's okay. The world's changed. Everything happens
Another Night At The Folies-Bergère
I'm the caricature, of course, the aging Man whose desperation leads him toward The sweet young thing. Toulouse-Lautrec Would have deflated me with two strokes
Compromised, But Comfortable
"Money buys the nicest things, " he says. I do not disagree. We're on the patio Behind his house and gazing at the sea, The messy, vexing details of sustaining
Shadows lengthen. Evening's come. I've put a chair beside my own for you Beneath the western trees. The Clouds are turning red and orange.
Show Me The Human
She shows up, time to time, her head Just visible, a prairie dog, her home Somewhere beneath the rubble of The palace we once built to celebrate
Time, the third-rate conjurer, has run Through all his parlor tricks, and left Me half fooled once again. The mountains Have remained unchanged, the trees
The parking lot is full each Sunday morning. All the locals leave their cars to come inside The unassuming, pre-fab metal church, Not so much to receive grace as to alleviate
Two Figures In Gray
We could be in England, in the tube, Umbrellas in our hands. We have That little derring-do. The tube, This store, our separate homes,
On Behalf Of Italy
I shall die as heroes tend to do, With one foot pushed ahead Upon some stairs within a Square below a castle in Liguria.
The Buddha's Stomach Growls
There's his bowl. It must be filled. The man in saffron smiles and swears Transcendence is a lasting thing, But he is not a lasting thing. He's
The shadows lengthen as the sun retreats. A subtle sort of sadness settles on the Soybean fields. Another day is near to death. Another list of tasks which should have been
A Replica Of Guantanamo In Nebraska
I've told you. You're the one I love. I've told myself That, even if you love me back, you never will come Close again, but what is "close? " I start to wonder. You sit near to me each day. You dropped down
Two more months have passed, a pair to cast Upon the pile of others, some with her in sight, And some, like these which just have ended, In which she could not be seen. A dawn
On Behalf Of Italy
I shall die as heroes tend to do,
With one foot pushed ahead
Upon some stairs within a
Square below a castle in Liguria.
The castle will, of course, long
Have been put into the public's
Hands, its parapets and battlements
Now only places in which iron
Maidens display discount Chinese