Thom Gunn Poems
|5.||Tamer And Hawk||8/29/2014|
|7.||For A Birthday||12/3/2014|
|8.||Painting By Vuillard||1/3/2003|
|9.||To Yvor Winters||1/3/2003|
|10.||A Map Of The City||11/12/2005|
|12.||The Butcher's Son||1/3/2003|
|14.||From The Wave||11/7/2005|
|17.||My Sad Captains||1/13/2003|
|18.||Considering The Snail||1/3/2003|
|20.||On The Move 'Man, You Gotta Go.'||1/13/2003|
|21.||The Man With Night Sweats||1/3/2003|
Comments about Thom Gunn
I am too young to grow a beard
But yes man it was me you heard
In dirty denim and dark glasses.
I look through everyone who passes
But ask him clear, I do not plead,
Keys Lids acid and speed.
My grass is not oregano.
Some of it grew in Mexico.
You cannot guess the weed I hold,
Clara Green, Acapulco Gold,
Panama Red, you name it man,
Best on the street since I began.
My methedrine, my double-sun,
Will give you too lives in your one,
Five days of power before you crash.
At which time use these lumps of hash
- They burn so sweet, they smoke ...
Considering The Snail
The snail pushes through a green
night, for the grass is heavy
with water and meets over
the bright path he makes, where rain
has darkened the earth's dark. He
moves in a wood of desire,
pale antlers barely stirring
as he hunts. I cannot tell