Marilyn Hacker Poems
|1.||[Didn't Sappho say her guts clutched up like this?]||5/23/2016|
|3.||Crepuscule with Muriel||5/23/2016|
|4.||Days of 1994: Alexandrians||5/23/2016|
|6.||Elegy for a Soldier||5/23/2016|
|8.||For K. J., Leaving And Coming Back||1/3/2003|
|9.||from Paragraphs from a Day-Book (section 1 only)||5/23/2016|
|14.||Nearly A Valediction||1/3/2003|
|15.||Nights of 1964—1966: The Old Reliable||5/23/2016|
|17.||Paragraphs From A Day-Book||1/3/2003|
|18.||Rune Of The Finland Woman||1/3/2003|
|19.||Scars On Paper||1/3/2003|
Comments about Marilyn Hacker
Her brown falcon perches above the sink
as steaming water forks over my hands.
Below the wrists they shrivel and turn pink.
I am in exile in my own land.
Her half-grown cats scuffle across the floor
trailing a slime of blood from where they fed.
I lock the door. They claw under the door.
I am an exile in my own bed.
Her spotted mongrel, bristling with red mange,
sleeps on the threshold of the Third Street bar
where I drink brandy as the couples change.
I am in exile where my neighbors are.
On the pavement, cans of ashes burn.
Her green lizard ...
This is for Elsa, also known as Liz,
an ample-bosomed gospel singer: five
discrete malignancies in one full breast.
This is for auburn Jacqueline, who is
celebrating fifty years alive,
one since she finished chemotherapy.
with fireworks on the fifteenth of July.
This is for June, whose words are lean and mean
as she is, elucidating our protest.