Tag Archives: poetry

Sonnet 111: Almost December, Thanksgiving over

111 111 Almost December, Thanksgiving over outside is frozen once again. The warm TV is on and logs burn in the stove as I’m eating Aunt Fern’s dried tomatoes desiccated skins like mummies from the pyramids. Yum Yum Yum all of her love is ripe […]

Le Chat par Charles Baudelaire

… Le Chat Viens, mon beau chat, sur mon coeur amoureux; Retiens les griffes de ta patte, Et laisse-moi plonger dans tes beaux yeux, Mêlés de métal et d’agate. Lorsque mes doigts caressent à loisir Ta tête et ton dos élastique, Et que ma main […]

Robert Frost reads Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening

… … Whose woods these are I think I know. His house is in the village though; He will not see me stopping here To watch his woods fill up with snow. My little horse must think it queer To stop without a farmhouse near […]

Fucking II, part I: My phallus in a shaft of morning sunlight

… My phallus in a shaft of morning sunlight. Shall we examine it and its environment? Dust is also in this shaft of sunlight in, out of it, on things as equally as the light on the mattress and my books the wine bottle and […]

Sweet Mary

….. I lived at home as a young man full of fears that paralyze I was a believer in truth and the truth was a lie then I slept with Sweet Mary and she made me realize there are more ways to be born than […]

Fucking I: I will come to you with a candle burning

… Ouvrez-moi cette porte où je frappe en pleurant. …………—Apollinaire Open this door where I knock weeping. I I will come to you with a candle burning light a stick of incense comb and braid your hair with sparrows’ feathers gathered from the sidewalk cinnamon, […]


… I wake the snakes on the way to the lake Coiling in leaves, slithering at my feet Half-seen in the low branches, thick brown waists Headless, tailless stone still in wait for me To trip them into slithering again. Are they going to bite? […]


… Out of the drizzle and the fog they come boys dressed up like soldiers though they’re more like the hands that wind around a clock. Out of the Scotch mist’s chilly smoke and the cry of gulls they stop and click and turn their […]


… … To be understood words are objective yet we understand them subjectively. When Willa Cather writes, “The long main street began at the church, the town seemed to flow from it like a stream from a spring,” the prose forms naturally from the simile. […]


… She completely sparkles, the girl talking to her father in a conversation that must be a little funny because she starts to laugh as well as talk, talking of her final destination perhaps leaving this very morning on a trip from Lancaster on the […]


… At any moment it’s going to rain making the world for miles around all wet. As the sky’s growing darker the leaves get anxious—Or is it me? No I remain calm on this comfortable rock and see it’s the branches above start to rustle. […]

The Tuft of Flowers by Robert Frost

… Was Robert Frost chained resolutely to the laws of metrics? “Iamb the iamb,” he said. As strictly as The Tuft of Flowers sticks to form (couplets of iambic pentameter), in the reading Frost changes words: the instead of a in a reedy brook and […]