Terence Winch

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Rating: 4.33

Terence Winch Poems

I can't think of anything else
to talk with you about. We have
discussed our jobs, our daily commute,

Old people cry too much.
They walk in the morning
to the railway station.

Whereas time has caught up with me and the boiler
broken down again, and day after day it snows and snows
and there I am, with my shovel, in the dark

Guy asks me for $1.80 on the subway.
White guy, bald, shirt and tie.
Says they towed his car with his wallet in it.

Small green couch in the living room. I come home at night and sit in it.
'Law & Order' is on TV. I have a glass of cheap cabernet and make eggs
for dinner. It gets later and later. I hit the mute button and listen

An old man arrived at my door with light bulbs.
I opened the door a crack
and asked what he wanted. He said he wanted

Father Ray Byrne quickly became
a star. He played sports, danced,
sang, told jokes. He was a man

All last night I kept speaking in this
archaic language, because I had been reading
Poe and thinking about him. I read 'The Murders

In the rain falling on her.
In wide open space I think of.
I wake up without you, smoking

The bar is filled with a foul odor, something
to do with the sewage system. People don't mind
one bit. They smoke, talk, make time, drink, dance.

My lovers have vanished. I used to have many.
One moved to Boston and married a Japanese photographer.
Another became a famous actress. Another one, who for a long time

The molecule bore a remarkable resemblance
to Elizabeth Taylor in a bikini shaving her legs.
I thought I was in Paris and behaved accordingly,

we lived one flight up in our
apartment building and whenever someone
would ring the downstairs bell

Everything was exactly the way it had always been:
the limos waiting at the hotel in the square, the boutiques,
scalpers, the patter of salespeople, the elaborate

Maybe it was the cars crashing tonight,
the full moon, that made us wild.
In the living room there was a big fight

These Indian pictures never lie.
Their rules against extravagant innocence
are always religiously obeyed. Old people

1642 Argonne Place, NW
Alley of giant air conditioners, you roared
your ill wind our way day and night. We burned
you down, little house, but you rose right up again.

In my work, at any given point,
the great issues of identity politics
and dialectical absolutism assume

The Documents are weeping, fading,
fearing the worst.


Q. How important is theory in this poem? It seems as though
it just starts, goes nowhere, tells us nothing we need to know.

Terence Winch Biography

Terence Winch is an Irish-American poet, writer and musician. Terence Patrick Winch was born in New York City in 1945. He grew up in an Irish neighborhood in the Bronx, the child of Irish immigrants. In 1971, he moved to Washington, DC, where he became involved with the Mass Transit readings in Dupont Circle. He published the first issue of Mass Transit magazine and co-founded Some of Us Press with Michael Lally and others. His writing, which shows New York School and other influences, has been widely published and anthologized. Primarily a poet, he has published fiction and non-fiction as well. He was the subject of a profile on National Public Radio's All Things Considered in 1986, and has been featured a number of times on The Writer's Almanac radio program. From 1975 to 1981, he was a regular book reviewer for The Washington Post and has also been a contributor to The Village Voice, The Washingtonian, The Dictionary of Irish Literature, The Oxford Companion to American Poetry, and other publications. Terence Winch has also played Irish traditional music from childhood, and co-founded the band Celtic Thunder in 1977, writing much of the band's material for its three albums. His best-known composition is When New York Was Irish, which has been covered by many other artists.)

The Best Poem Of Terence Winch


I can't think of anything else
to talk with you about. We have
discussed our jobs, our daily commute,
the foods we like and don't like.
You have ordered wine. I get a Pepsi.
People have died. We acknowledge that.
We're here and they're not. You get up
early. I get up late. I want to tell you
that I see your special dead person still,
mostly in the subway. She was wonderful.
Your new girlfriend is also a gem. How is
it possible to love people who no longer
exist? But they're everywhere, coming
and going in the world of the dead
as though they haven't torn us in pieces
with their absence. They observe us
intently. We are fish in a fishbowl to them.
They watch from afar while we struggle to swim.

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