Stephen Dobyns

Stephen Dobyns Poems

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

Yellow Beak

A man owns a green parrot with a yellow beak
that he carries on his shoulder each day to work.
He runs a pet shop and the parrot is his trademark.

Each morning the man winds his way from his bus
through the square, four or five blocks. There goes
the parrot, people say. Then at night, he comes back.

The man himself is nondescript—a little overweight,

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