Stephen Dobyns


Stephen Dobyns Poems

1. Waking 8/27/2016
2. Where We Are 8/27/2016
3. Why Fool Around? 8/27/2016
4. Thus He Endured 8/27/2016
5. Thelonious Monk 8/27/2016
6. The Invitations Overhead 8/27/2016
7. Cezanne and the Love of Color 8/27/2016
8. Cecil 8/27/2016
9. Sun Gazers 8/27/2016
10. Cezanne's Seclusion 8/27/2016
11. The Last Take-Out Supper 8/27/2016
12. SANTIAGO: FIVE MEN IN THE STREET: NUMBER ONE 8/27/2016
13. Pablo Neruda 8/27/2016
14. At the Ocean He Studied the Waves 8/27/2016
15. Sometimes Confusion Was Veil 8/27/2016
16. The Clouds Above the Mountains 8/27/2016
17. The New Austerity 8/27/2016
18. Visitor 8/27/2016
19. Consolations of Water 8/27/2016
20. The Body's Joy 8/27/2016
21. Song of Basic Necessities 8/27/2016
22. Can Poetry Matter? 8/27/2016
23. Yellow Beak 6/18/2015
24. The Street 9/30/2015
25. Over a Cup of Coffee 8/27/2016
26. It's Like This 8/27/2016
27. Lost 8/27/2016
28. Oh, Immobility, Death 8/27/2016
29. No Map 8/27/2016
30. Freight Cars 8/27/2016
31. Cezanne's Success 8/27/2016
32. The Birth Of Angels 8/27/2016
33. Tomatoes 8/27/2016
34. The Delicate, Plummeting Bodies 8/27/2016
35. Do They Have A Reason? 8/27/2016
36. Cemetery Nights 8/27/2016
37. Pursuit 8/27/2016
38. Grief 8/27/2016
39. How To Like It 8/27/2016
40. Loud Music 1/13/2003

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Best Poem of Stephen Dobyns

Loud Music

My stepdaughter and I circle round and round.
You see, I like the music loud, the speakers
throbbing, jam-packing the room with sound whether
Bach or rock and roll, the volume cranked up so
each bass notes is like a hand smacking the gut.
But my stepdaughter disagrees. She is four
and likes the music decorous, pitched below
her own voice-that tenuous projection of self.
With music blasting, she feels she disappears,
is lost within the blare, which in fact I like.
But at four what she wants is self-location
and uses her voice as a porpoise uses
its sonar: to...

Read the full of Loud Music

It's Like This

for Peter Parrish
Each morning the man rises from bed because the invisible
cord leading from his neck to someplace in the dark,
the cord that makes him always dissatisfied,
has been wound tighter and tighter until he wakes.

He greets his family, looking for himself in their eyes,
but instead he sees shorter or taller men, men with
different degrees of anger or love, the kind of men

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