Burned Man by David Huddle Share When I was twelve, a man was burned not quite to death at my father's
If I pass a mirror, I turn away,I do not want to look at her,and she does not want to be seen. SometimesI don't see how I’m going to go on doing this.Often, when I feel that way,within a few minutes I am crying, rememberinghis body, or an area of it,his backside often, a part of himperfect to think of, luscious, not toodetailed, and his back turned to me.After tears, the heart is less sore,as if some goddess of humannesswithin us has caressed us with a gush of tenderness.I guess that’s how people go on, withoutknowing how. I am so ashamedbefore my friends—to be known to be leftby the one who supposedly knew me best,each hour is a room of shame, and I amswimming, swimming, holding my head up,smiling, joking, ashamed, ashamed,like being naked with the clothed, or beinga child, having to try to behavewhile hating the terms of your life. In me nowthere's a being of sheer hate, like an angelof hate. I Eat Poetry
their high school principal told me I couldn’t teach poetry with profanity so I asked my students, “Raise your hand if you’ve heard of the Holocaust.” in unison, their arms rose up like poisonous gas then straightened out like an SS infantry “Okay. Please put your hands down. Now raise your hand if you’ve heard of the Rwandan genocide.” blank stares mixed with curious ignorance a quivering hand out of the crowd half-way raised, like a lone survivor struggling to stand up in Kigali “Luz, are you sure about that?”
the illusion is that you are simply reading this poem. the reality is that this is more than a poem. this is a beggar's knife. this is a tulip. this is a soldier marching through Madrid. this is you on your death bed. this is Li Po laughing underground. this is not a god-damned poem. this is a horse asleep. a butterfly in your brain. this is the devil's circus. you are not reading this on a page. the page is reading you. feel it? it's like a cobra. it's a hungry eagle circling the room. this is not a poem. poems are dull, they make you sleep. splash - Charles Bukowski
Inner Peace - Poems Only
James Merrill's "Lost In Translation" with link to audio Hear Merrill read the first four stanzas through the wonders of RealPlayer. For Richard Howard Diese Tage, die leer dir scheinen und wertlos für das All, haben Wurzeln zwischen den Steinen und trinken dort überall. A card table in the library stands ready To receive the puzzle which keeps never coming.
The beauty, the balance, the Brazilians by robert martin - Hello Poetry