Poetry

I have been sculpting my father’s head. I began it when he died, when his head was most familiar, when the priest called him a liar. I have been sculpting my father’s eye. It had been wide and black, they say, peerless in the art of sinking; my father was a king. I have been…

The clothes are black and unstructured this fall,                           enlivened               here and there by what appears to be monastic chic: a crucifix of vaguely Eastern pro-                           venance,               a cowl. My friend, fresh out of drama school, explains to me how starkly medieval woolens                           were cut:               few seams, to spare unraveling,…

A monster has risen out of somewhere— its left foot clawed, gripping the earth; the most terrible things coming out of its giant mouth— fire, and at the same time poisonous black spears— for the monster is not of nature entirely.               In front of the monster is a figure in black that seems to…

What are the sounds that crowd the path And linger above the unmown field? Do you hear? —The winds of heaven are talking In the language of the heart. “June, June,” They say. “June. The lilacs are gone.” Wonderful things are weary of me: The groaning meteors on the August road; The pressed grasses where…

after “Farmhouse in Auvers with Two Figures” Talk about modern. The roof as flat as the sky, as the people. Forget Cézanne. Just look at this. And the shape of the roof: a fish, a car, a revolver. And the bushes like green fire, and the bush which seems to be growing out of the…

Ned loved Betsy, a blond waitress who lived in the suburbs. Only Betsy was in love with Peter, the race-car mechanic, who had muscles and a black Corvette, and wore a cross inside his T-shirt. But Peter was half-crazy over Anne, his     beautiful X- lover, who said, “You’re nothing but a loser,” and left…

1. The Eskimo children balance their blackboards on their knees and write with soft fat chalk. A storm skitters across the frozen sea. Smidgeons of ice have swirled into pinwheels. 2. The painter Magritte is dabbing black paint on his canvas. Beneath the clock he writes “wind,” beneath the door “horse.” 3. The Eskimo children…

Narcissist #1 I’m so amazing I could lick myself.   Narcissist #2 Did you see how well I licked myself?   Narcissist #3 I was so upset. They barely noticed the way I licked myself.