#Americans #Jews #Women
Sometimes the poem doesn’t want to come; it hides from the poet like a playful cat who has run
There is a white wood house near… in whose garden the nightingale st… Though Keats is dead, the bird wh… returns with melodies, on easeful… A lock of hair the poet’s love rec…
What is the central passion of a life? To please mummy & daddy? To find a home for their furniture… To found a family of one’s own,
For Naomi Lazard Sometimes I can’t wait until I… —Naomi Lazard My friends are tired. The ones who are married are tired
I try to keep falling in love if only to keep death at bay.
You are the first muse who came to… The others began & ended with… or a glance or a kiss between stan… the others strode away in the poin… or were kicked out by the stiletto…
In the glass-bottomed boat of our lives, we putter along gazing at the other world under the sea– that world of flickering
And his dark secret love Does thy life destroy. —William Blake Because I would not admit that I had nurtured
After the teach-in we smeared the walls with our solidarity, looked left, & saw Marx among the angels,
At the furthermost reach of the se… where Atlantis sinks under the wak… I have come to heal my life. I knit together like a broken arm. The salt fills the crevices of bon…
Handcuffed by time, I travel across this broad beautiful America– mesas, deserts, peaks with clouds caught
Out in the world, the child cries for the mother as the wound cries for salt as the lover cries for her unrequited lover
The cover of the book is astral violet, & within it are poems, most of them
You-the purest pleasure of my life, the split pit that proves the ripeness of the fruit,
Not wanting to write for fear that anything– the passion for the page, the love of carbon ribbons & e… will distract me from your face,