Poetry
There is at least one pair in every thrift shop in America, molded in plastic or plaster of paris and glued to a plaque, or printed in church-pamphlet colors and framed under glass. Today I …
She did not graze on all fours but wrapped her arms and legs around Adam and said, “Oh, Daddy. It feels so good,” and he promised her a little place of her own in Manhattan. …
And you as well must die, belovèd dust, And all your beauty stand you in no stead; This flawless, vital hand, this perfect head, This body of flame and steel, before the gust Of Death, …
Old Eben Flood, climbing alone one night Over the hill between the town below And the forsaken upland hermitage That held as much as he should ever know On earth again of home, paused warily. …
One day I wrote her name upon the strand, But came the waves and washed it away: Again I wrote it with a second hand, But came the tide, and made my pains his prey. …
I hate this entire year, the way it stops and starts, dries you out, soaks you, lulls you to sleep, then wakes you up in a cold sweat. Not to mention the pills that are …
What lips my lips have kissed, and where, and why, I have forgotten, and what arms have lain Under my head till morning; but the rain Is full of ghosts tonight, that tap and sigh …
Wigs are in style. There’s a store in every town. There’s a kiosk in every mall. Golden blond, near crimson, silky black, cascading brown. They glamorize, maximize, voluminize and dramatize. Human hair or synthetic? Not …
A bland young hunter named Shepherd was eaten for lunch by a leopard. Said the leopard, “Egad! You’d be tastier, lad, if you had been salted and peppered!” There was a young woman named Spright …
A poem by Mei Yao Ch’en Translated by Kenneth Rexroth Who says that the dead do not think of us? Whenever I travel, she goes with me. She was uneasy when I was on a …
she was the great baby sitter — tall dignified rich warm brown we’d scream her name pretend to be endangered run and hide in mama’s clothes closet she’d search house and yard get angry and …
As if he has decided on a nap but feels too pressed for time to find his bed or even shift the napkin from his lap, the man across the table drops his head mid-anecdote, …
to Yüan Chēn (A.D. 810) The flower of the pear-tree gathers and turns to fruit; The swallows’ eggs have hatched into young birds. When the Seasons’ changes thus confront the mind What comfort can the …
I know there is perfection in the being of my being, that I am holy in amness as stars or paperclips, that the universe, moving from void to void, pours in and out through me: …
What is the price of experience? Do men buy it for a song? Or wisdom for a dance in the street? No, it is bought with the price Of all a man hath, his house, …