Currently Browsing: Monday Poem

Federico Garcia Lorca: Pause of the Clock (a poem)

I sat down inside a pause in time In a still pool of silence a formidable ring, where bright stars crashed into the twelve black, floating numerals. from Ode to Walt Whitman and Other Poems, Translated by Carlos Bauer (1988 City Lights Books)
read more

James Broughton: Here Comes Your Messiah (a poem)

Hello again  This is your overhead operator I am the big message at the end of your beep If I plug you in   will you return my call? Call me Old Man Puck   Call me Peter Panic Call me what you will but call for dear life I offer any number of far out connections As an unlisted long-distance metaphysician I service a direct line to outer spaces but I’m a down-to-earth sugeon when it comes to the heart My goal is to make the world safe for the amorous Are you primed for a bypass from miserty to mirth? Or are you addicted to a habit of agony? I teach the sex of loving and the love of sexing i...
read more

Rudy Kikel: Doug (a poem)

“How could you have corrupted a nice boy like that? my father asked me out of your hearing when for Thanksgiving I brought you home. It was easy — I drew on your already having been corrupted by a dream, which after meeting you that night at Chaps I helped you realize. I only failed in not being able to draw corruption out for good.  Instead, we became friends — with a similar dream. Or is it — corrupt, I mean? Why should I think so when you’ve not once visited baths in Boston, claiming that they’re reputed to be not very good — as if that ever kept anyone out of them!...
read more

Peter Orlovsky: Some One Liked Me When I Was Twelve (a poem)

When I was a kid in summer camp, around 13teen & one night I lay asleep in bungalow bed with 13teen other boys, when in comes one of the camp councilors who is nice fellow that likes ya, comeing to my bed, sits down & starts to say: now you will be leaving soon back to Flushing & I may never see you again — but if theres ever aneything I can do to help ya let me know, my farther is a lawyer & I live at such & such a place & this is my adress — I like you very much — & if yr ever alone int he world come to me. So I loked at him getting sad & tuched & then...
read more

Mark Doty: Tiara (a poem)

Peter died in a paper tiara cut from a book of princess paper dolls; he loved royalty, sashes and jewels. I don’t know, he said, when he woke in the hospice, I was watching the Bette Davis film festival on Channel 57 and then — At the wake, the tension broke when someone guessed the casket closed because he was in there in a big wig and heels, and someone said, You know he’s always late, he probably isn’t here yet — he’s still fixing his makeup. And someone said he asked for it. Asked for it — when all he did was go down into the salt tide of wanting as much as he...
read more

Emanuel Xavier: Abandonment (a poem)

Somewhere between the restless whispers and silent promises, before this war even reached the homeland, ex-lovers lingered like replases and fractured friendships staggered like fresh brush strokes distorting the unfinished canvas of collaboration My art has become casualty to a tained struggle over land unholy I have been left blinded by the stillness of abstract portraits of pleasures past Intoxicated by the fumes of jealousy My name will not be lent to this revolution I will not fall deaf to these bombs and chorus of laughter My faith will not die in these battlefields These bones will not...
read more

Chloe Poems: What is this thing called gay? (a poem)

read more

Lou Harrison: Another View of Video (a poem)

A central city is males up. A central city’s a cluster of corporate cocks and capital’s pride.* Video is the ejaculate of the gleaming corporate cocks; by video they assert  & cum inside your home to breed their money-fodder   *right now Chicago’s Mr. Sears has the biggest one. from Joys & Perplexities (1992, The Jargon Society) 
read more

Oscar Wilde: My Voice (a poem)

Within this restless, hurried, modern world We took our hearts’ full pleasure – You and I, And now the white sails of our ships are furled, And spent the lading of our argosy. Wherefore my cheeks before their time are wan, For very weeping is my gladness fled, Sorrow has paled my young mouth’s vermilion, And Ruin draws the curtais of my bed. But all this crowded life has been to thee No more then lyre, or lute, or subtle spell Of viols, or the music of the sea That sleeps, a mimic echo, in the shell.
read more

Dan Nowak: Elvis Had It Right Trading This Night for Sequins (a poem)

“Chariots of Fire” playing off the back of a semi-truck becomes more than a metaphor for life after this neo heaven gives its last call without the help of stars lacking contracts. Tonight I’ve danec slow with topless women, ancient couples and men who own the irng but not the wife; we hold each other with passiong found in the bottom of us. Our tongues are breathalysters proecting us from mourning sobriety. We inherit our new debts like misplaced surfboards found miles from water – clunky and leaving fingertips stiff with wax. We may not always wants crwods full of eye patches,...
read more

« Previous Entries