Michael Palmer

(1943 / Manhattan, New York City, New York)

Michael Palmer Poems

1. The Republic of Dreams 5/27/2015
2. [As if by saying "morning" on January 8th] 4/18/2017
3. Disclosures 4/18/2017
4. False Portrait of D.B. as Niccolò Paganini 4/18/2017
5. [He stopped part way across the field to] 4/18/2017
6. Idem 1 4/18/2017
7. [In the Empire of Light] 4/18/2017
8. Letter 7 4/18/2017
9. Notes for Echo Lake 1 4/18/2017
10. Notes for Echo Lake 4 4/18/2017
11. [The order of islands here] 4/18/2017
12. Prelude 4/18/2017
13. The Project of Linear Inquiry 4/18/2017
14. Prose 22 4/18/2017
15. Prose 31 4/18/2017
16. Recursus 4/18/2017
17. Song of the Round Man 4/18/2017
18. Sonnet: Now I see them 4/18/2017
19. [To learn what to say to unlearn] 4/18/2017
20. Tomb of Baudelaire 4/18/2017
21. Wheel 4/18/2017
22. The Classical Study 4/19/2017
23. The Village of Reason 4/19/2017
24. Construction of the Museum 4/19/2017
25. As a Real House ( S a r a h ' s t h i r d s o n g ) 4/19/2017
26. Stone 4/19/2017
27. Una Noche 4/19/2017
28. Dream of a Language that Speaks 4/19/2017
29. [Ave manes a specter] 4/19/2017
30. [Chimera, sightless stars have colonized the meadow] 4/19/2017
31. [From the Mercury Fountain, Mahmoud] 4/19/2017
32. So, Alyosha, maybe it is true 4/19/2017
33. From the Mercury Fountain, Mahmoud, 4/19/2017
34. It is the role of the lovers to set fire to the book. 4/19/2017
35. We must count in Babylon. 4/19/2017
36. SAY 4/19/2017
37. What I did not say 4/19/2017
38. Last Request 4/19/2017
39. I Do Not 4/19/2017
40. L'AZUR 4/19/2017

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Best Poem of Michael Palmer


Write this. We have burned all their villages

Write this. We have burned all the villages and the people in them

Write this. We have adopted their customs and their manner of dress

Write this. A word may be shaped like a bed, a basket of tears or an X

In the notebook it says, It is the time of mutations, laughter at jokes,
secrets beyond the boundaries of speech

I now turn to my use of suffixes and punctuation, closing Mr. Circle
with a single stroke, tearing the canvas from its wall, joined to her,
experiencing the same thoughts at the same moment, ...

Read the full of Sun

Dearest Reader

He painted the mountain over and over again
from his place in the cave, agape
at the light, its absence, the mantled
skull with blue-tinted hollows, wren-
like bird plucking berries from the fire
her hair alight and so on
lemon grass in cafe in clear glass.
Dearest reader there were trees
formed of wire, broad entryways

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