ON TRYING TO LIKE A POEM I DON’T UNDERSTAND
the title seems clear
enough tho even after
7 readings, I’m not
sure what it mans.
Somehow, there are
boys and grasshoppers
and capitals in the
middle of a line.
Someone not there
is wanting something
so much he could do
anything to get it.
Adjectives and
jesters stud the poem
somebody must have
understood to give
it a prize. Somebody
in the poem is having
nightmares. Or they
could be dreams. In
fact, every image in the
poem could be what
ever you want it to be
—Lyn Lifshin
LIKE A DARK LANTERN
I move thru the first
floor at 3 AM, past
the cat who is curled
in a chair half made
of her fur, turning
her back on air
conditioning, startled
to find me prowling
in the dark as if I was
intruding on stars and
moon and the ripple
in water that spits
back the plum trees.
Grass smells grassier.
The clock inches slowly
toward the light. A
creak of wood and the
soft scratch on the blue
Persian rug the cat claws
gently merge with some
night bird I’ve never
seen like a poem that
goes along and suddenly,
at the end, like a banked
fire, explodes into the
wildest flame that finishes
off everything that has
come before it perfectly
—Lyn Lifshin
THE FIRST WEEK AT THE ARTIST’S RETREAT
When I went to
type rain fills the
morning
it came out
pain
You would have liked, you
always saw things
as unfolding (said you
never knew past the
next plane
ticket where
I’ve been living in a house
with paper partitions,
like in Japan, keeping
everyone separate
But I didn’t know that
when I started this poem
—Lyn Lifshin
TO POEM OR,
TODAY YOU'RE LIKE A PHONE I ALMOST DON'T ANSWER
21 feet high in
Philadelphia, the
no poem deep
quiet, the
February snow
peeling away. I'm
sitting near glass
pulled into sun, into
this poem
somehow far
off un-
real like those
roofs down there, the
small cars. Poem,
you're like a
phone I almost
don't answer
putting its mouth
on me, a
voice I'd been
looking for and then
half avoided
Meet me in an hour
It's always yes
—Lyn Lifshin
TO POEM
all night
you banged
in my head
poking your fingers
thru me, hot for
blood and then
in the morning
stretching out on
the table
flaunting your muscles
when you knew there wasn't time.
Later in the car
you made me dizzy.
But worse, how you
made my love jealous
perching in my hair
with those stiff wings.
And now, bastard,
alone with me finally
the chance to
scares you off
—Lyn Lifshin
POETRY READING BENEFIT
there are women
in navy blue suits
who leave when some
one says prick in
a room where you
can hear it. It?s
45 and there?s only
cold apple juice.
Someone pulls a
blanket closer.
There is a long
haired pale, thin
woman in a rose
flowered dress
pulling her arms so
tight around her you
nearly hear a rib
crack. One poet
listens for lines
he can use and jots
them down on a
boot heel. None of
the poets have watches.
The mic hums and
buzzes, a nest of
bees a giant stamps
on. There is more pain
than apple juice.
The poet who talks
about splitting
wood and seeing his
breath over a
desolate frozen
stream has written
a thirty one part
poem about this.
Someone tries to listen,
sniffs patchoulli as
if that could help.
The poet who is
building his body takes
off his clothes and
reads a poem about
how people prefer wrestling
to poetry readings and for
the first time so far
the audience knows
what he means
—Lyn Lifshin