The poems I wrote last week after I'd used up my quota.
In my mind, I call her
“My beautiful girl,”
And she is a beauty.
There's no doubting
That, but she isn't
Mine. She's with
Somebody else, and
She isn't a girl.
She's grown.
Nothing I Want Back
The past? I haven't much use for it.
I find it hard to recollect in detail.
There's so much of it, and no part
Gleams back halcyon. The whole
Mess went gray as it passed, the
Joys stirred into all the sorrows,
Triumphs turned into defeats,
And what's recalled before all else
Is that great rising tide of grief
In which I drowned so long ago,
And drown again with each new
Day. This tide pulls my past out
Of reach, and I don't want it,
Anyway. It is a heap of what
Were presents once, each dreary,
Like this one, for which
I clearly haven't any use.
Elevation
Do you like being made a goddess,
Image seared into the mind of
Some unstable pilgrim on his
Knees upon a rutted road?
I didn't mean to fashion you
Into a myth who can't exist,
And, as myth, never will be
Reached by that poor pilgrim
On the road. I taught myself
To worship you. I shouldn't
Have. I inch my way in your
Direction on my aching, bleeding
Knees, but you withdraw into
The clouds to dress again in
Mortal's clothes, as I affirm
My fealty to the goddess
I have made.
I Cannot Do That
I age. My dreams grow
Less impressive, costlier, and
Thus, less worth the effort to
Obtain. What price would
I have to pay to doze each
Day upon a sunny beach
In far-off Uruguay? I'd be
Alone. I'm used to that,
But my kids would be out
Of reach, and I, not good
At Spanish, would be forced
To pantomime my way
Though restaurants and
Grocery stores. What would
I lose if, suddenly, whoever
Gets to make such calls
Declares that I'm the greatest
Poet living? Who would
Bother me? Would I become
Obliged to always write as
I had done before? Would
Elevation make me rich?
I don't believe it would.
And this, the dearest dream
Of all, that you would come
And never leave, and we,
At last, could be the lovers
It seems that we ought to be;
I fear the price of gaining that.
You don't like sun. You'd
Shun the beach, and, holed
Up in our home, I doubt
That you'd think much of
Uruguay. You'd miss your
Parents and your friends,
And, worse, you'd watch me
Growing old. I'll die decades
Ahead of you, and that's not
Fair. I cannot bear the
Thought that what it costs
To claim my paltry dreams
Would end up borne by you.
Verona, Omaha, What's the Difference?
We are Romeo and Juliet, updated,
In the suburbs, so there is no drama.
No one dies. One day, I fell in love
With her, insanely, you could say,
As I am altogether wrong for her:
Too old, too married, without means,
And she, so quiet, has a life which
Brims with family and friends,
And a young man she truly loves.
I should have kept away from
Her. I don't think she'd have missed
Me long, especially when I first fell,
But now more than a year has passed.
I'm Romeo. I cannot stop myself
From slipping up to her, and she's
A red-haired Juliet, who knows she
Should, but cannot, tell me I should
Stay away. Still, we know how this
Story goes. We'll reach a point
Where we must part, and, when we
Do, I will not know how much
She'll miss me. I won't die,
But I believe, from then on, I won't
Live. No bodies will be on the
Stage, no voices raised, no
Confrontations. There won't be
A hint of drama, but there will
Be tragedy, the sort which no one
Sees.
Poetry by Lawrence Beck
Read 95 times
Written on 2016-01-18 at 01:05
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Hydra
My Beautiful GirlIn my mind, I call her
“My beautiful girl,”
And she is a beauty.
There's no doubting
That, but she isn't
Mine. She's with
Somebody else, and
She isn't a girl.
She's grown.
Nothing I Want Back
The past? I haven't much use for it.
I find it hard to recollect in detail.
There's so much of it, and no part
Gleams back halcyon. The whole
Mess went gray as it passed, the
Joys stirred into all the sorrows,
Triumphs turned into defeats,
And what's recalled before all else
Is that great rising tide of grief
In which I drowned so long ago,
And drown again with each new
Day. This tide pulls my past out
Of reach, and I don't want it,
Anyway. It is a heap of what
Were presents once, each dreary,
Like this one, for which
I clearly haven't any use.
Elevation
Do you like being made a goddess,
Image seared into the mind of
Some unstable pilgrim on his
Knees upon a rutted road?
I didn't mean to fashion you
Into a myth who can't exist,
And, as myth, never will be
Reached by that poor pilgrim
On the road. I taught myself
To worship you. I shouldn't
Have. I inch my way in your
Direction on my aching, bleeding
Knees, but you withdraw into
The clouds to dress again in
Mortal's clothes, as I affirm
My fealty to the goddess
I have made.
I Cannot Do That
I age. My dreams grow
Less impressive, costlier, and
Thus, less worth the effort to
Obtain. What price would
I have to pay to doze each
Day upon a sunny beach
In far-off Uruguay? I'd be
Alone. I'm used to that,
But my kids would be out
Of reach, and I, not good
At Spanish, would be forced
To pantomime my way
Though restaurants and
Grocery stores. What would
I lose if, suddenly, whoever
Gets to make such calls
Declares that I'm the greatest
Poet living? Who would
Bother me? Would I become
Obliged to always write as
I had done before? Would
Elevation make me rich?
I don't believe it would.
And this, the dearest dream
Of all, that you would come
And never leave, and we,
At last, could be the lovers
It seems that we ought to be;
I fear the price of gaining that.
You don't like sun. You'd
Shun the beach, and, holed
Up in our home, I doubt
That you'd think much of
Uruguay. You'd miss your
Parents and your friends,
And, worse, you'd watch me
Growing old. I'll die decades
Ahead of you, and that's not
Fair. I cannot bear the
Thought that what it costs
To claim my paltry dreams
Would end up borne by you.
Verona, Omaha, What's the Difference?
We are Romeo and Juliet, updated,
In the suburbs, so there is no drama.
No one dies. One day, I fell in love
With her, insanely, you could say,
As I am altogether wrong for her:
Too old, too married, without means,
And she, so quiet, has a life which
Brims with family and friends,
And a young man she truly loves.
I should have kept away from
Her. I don't think she'd have missed
Me long, especially when I first fell,
But now more than a year has passed.
I'm Romeo. I cannot stop myself
From slipping up to her, and she's
A red-haired Juliet, who knows she
Should, but cannot, tell me I should
Stay away. Still, we know how this
Story goes. We'll reach a point
Where we must part, and, when we
Do, I will not know how much
She'll miss me. I won't die,
But I believe, from then on, I won't
Live. No bodies will be on the
Stage, no voices raised, no
Confrontations. There won't be
A hint of drama, but there will
Be tragedy, the sort which no one
Sees.
Poetry by Lawrence Beck
Read 95 times
Written on 2016-01-18 at 01:05
Save as a bookmark (requires login) Write a comment (requires login) Send as email (requires login) Print text| Texts |
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