A new book of poems
by my brother
arrived in yesterday's mail:
 | ||
| Self Portrait Reading My Brother's Book, Parallel Lines. April 4, 2011. |
Here is the first poem in the book:
February, a rant interior.
Drinking, smoking, panic, fear.
(Pastoral dialogue:
I ran through the snow like a . . .
a sonnet.)
A guitar. Awake!
A city winter, Saturday afternoon.
A hospital
overlooking the river.
Day and night: the hosts of dreams.
Woman on a beach. Very rainy.
Two epitaphs. Written in January.
to Jane, to the mountains of New York.
Drinking, smoking, panic, fear.
(Pastoral dialogue:
I ran through the snow like a . . .
a sonnet.)
A guitar. Awake!
A city winter, Saturday afternoon.
A hospital
overlooking the river.
Day and night: the hosts of dreams.
Woman on a beach. Very rainy.
Two epitaphs. Written in January.
to Jane, to the mountains of New York.
elegies, horns of my desire.
Digression: it seems far away.
Anxiety: I will always love you.
To hell with it. Oh, full moon.
In Paris, man with tulip, 1950,
matted and framed, the sad thing
died. I am (whistle) a fine dust.
Digression: it seems far away.
Anxiety: I will always love you.
To hell with it. Oh, full moon.
In Paris, man with tulip, 1950,
matted and framed, the sad thing
died. I am (whistle) a fine dust.
~~~
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Hi Bruce,
ReplyDeletewish you and your daughter a wonderful day tomorrow and a nice weekend,
Yvonne
What a family of artists! It must come in the blood.
ReplyDeletewhat a very special thing, bruce. the poem is wonderful. it brought me to all sorts of places as though i were being tugged about the collar.
ReplyDeletexo
erin