Showing posts with label Wallace Stevens. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Wallace Stevens. Show all posts

Saturday, June 3, 2023

Bloody Getaway

 
A very good poet didn’t think so, 
But there’s nothing really 
 
Dangerous about poetry— 
It’s just too bad 
 
Too many poets think 
They can get away 
 
With murder—see, 
There’s another one right 
 
Over there already revving up 
His "menacing" poetic 
 
Vehicle of destruction, 
Heading your way and looking 
 
Too much like me.

 

Friday, March 13, 2020

Poetry Is A Destructive Force, Dude


But bloody murder? Surely
Wallace, you knew more

Than most of us, that more
Or less, we all have something

To say, and by coming
Back to the scene

Of that unspeakable
Crime day after day,

And by saying only
What has to be

Said and nothing
More, it’s the poet,

That unsung serial killer
Of silence that more

Or less paradoxically
Always gets away

With-it to his dying day.

Friday, October 4, 2019

Now You Think You See It, Know You Don't


Do not kid yourself 
Do not waste your time 
Do not write 

Poetry if you think 
Poetry’s a cheap trick 
And you a sleight of hand 

Man fobbing your audience 
In wonderland with a rabbit pulled up- 
Side down from a top hat—there’s more 

To poetry than that, so stop 
Your monkey business, get back 
To catching tigers in red weather, 

And leave it at that. 


Friday, October 18, 2013

Exhibitionists on Display at Annual Mount Parnassus Poetry Competition

“Poetry is a revelation in words by means of the words.” 
—Wallace Stevens 


MC: (through a bullhorn, bucolically) 

All right, you noble riders of the purple page, kindly listen up— 
Would the next round of supplicants willing and able 
To step out of line and sacrifice everything 
Save their skins please come forward and begin
Jockeying for positions to reveal themselves? 










Thursday, January 24, 2013

Of Being Struck Dead


Corazon, lovesick old dog 
On your last legs, 
If only you could talk, 
You would tell us 
Whether the heart 
Shot through in youth 
By that piercing, fatal
Arrow still quivers
At the thought.



Tuesday, December 6, 2011

Right As Rain till Kingdom Come and Still No Sign of Wear and Tear


Isn’t it terrible about metaphors? 
Folks have been trying 
To pin them down for ages 
And they’re still tearing about, 
Catching clichés in red weather. 



Sunday, August 14, 2011

The Sleight-Of-Hand Man

It doesn’t make sense—

We had almost no light left,
So this guy runs out and flies

Back into twilight before
We knew he had left.

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