Posts from the ‘Poetry’ Category
My name is Kevin. I’m Kevin Mathew Haas. My last name does not rhyme with moss. It does not rhyme with floss. To say so makes me cross. Many regard me as the motherfucking boss. I enjoy a little of the sauce. In fact, my last name — Haas – rhymes with gauze. (This should [...]
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Man, I ate like a pig for Thanksgiving. This was written by the late Ted Hughes, most famous, I think, for being the husband of Sylvia Plath: The pig lay on a barrow dead. It weighed, they said, as much as three men. Its eyes closed, pink white eyelashes. Its trotters stuck straight out. Such [...]
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Summer dies, the long days wane away. The heat in the sky melts like lead to liquid pools. The hills beyond are as white as clay. Now creep in the gentle autumn ghouls, Trailing behind their silken shawls of Lethe- an mist. Shadows warp, gourds enlarge. And now what is always there but not Quite [...]
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The cat eats the praying mantis By punching it to death, Pushing it with her paws, Playing soccer with it, Tossing it in the air, Carrying it around in her jaws And finally, when the insect Has no more motion or flutter, Chewing its green head off. — Karl Shapiro
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Spring Watching the wind unwind off the river’s face Creates in him a feeling he can’t quite name. Intently he stared into a corrugated Pool of jade, hearing (but not) its musical Slop and heave, the sousing waves. On either side Of him, a corridor of cottonwoods flank the river Into its bight: like lime-green [...]
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Among Robert Graves’s best and most famous poems, “Dead Cow Farm” is in essence a war poem (Robert Graves served in WWI and saw heavy fighting) wherein his gentle cow symbolizes peace and calm. It is, I think, a strange and lovely little poem. Dead Cow Farm An ancient saga tells us how In the [...]
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He trudged into the desert, taking almost nothing with him but water and a ghost- ly old photo of a lady beside the ocean. That first night, he lay above a dry creek bed. Below, he heard vipers moving through the sand with a side-winding motion, and he did not sleep. He’d grown obsessed with [...]
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That man behind the golden specs may not be the man you think. He is not yours. He is not God’s or State’s. Not postmodernistic, as those the colleges pump out like seed, he’s anachronistic, in his love of laissez-faire and the huge high sunset sky of pink. Lecturing on Lorca in Lima or the [...]
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The trucker who lives next door is seldom home. He’s a long-haul trucker, he’s over-the-road. He earns good money and does not spend. There’s something of the ascetical about him. He’s forty. His hair is long. He wears jeans and combat boots. Sallow and haggard, his face is handsome nevertheless. His willowy wife does not [...]
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Anton Chekhov answered that question this way: You could write a story about this ashtray, and a man and a woman. The man and the woman are always the two poles of your story. The North Pole and the South. Every story has these two poles — a he and she. The late Raymond Carver, [...]
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