Diane Seuss is the author of three collections of poetry: it Blows You Hollow (New issues Poetry Press 1998), Wolf Lake, White Gown Blown Open (Juniper Prize, University of Massachusetts Press, 2010) and Four-Legged Girl (Graywolf Press, forthcoming in 2015). A poem that originally appeared in Blackbird received a 2013 Pushcart Prize. Her poem “Free Beer” is included in The Best American Poetry ... more »
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Diane Seuss Poems
Don't say Paris
No one says Paris anymore. There's no such thing as Paris, no Café de la Paix, no Titian's Entombment in the Louvre or Hotel La Sanguin
I went downtown and went down
on the We Buy Gold guy. I have a thing for debauched hucksters in ape costumes. Before that I loved the girl who holds the sign
He took to reading Chekhov late at night and studied up on Fox Talbot and calotypes. Watched the History Channel, anything
Nothing lasts for long here
You can be one of the richest men in town today and just a splatter at the bottom of your grain elevator tomorrow, you can be a town in the morning and by evening a pile of cinders, the old barber shop
The Lee girls had it bad
and their little brother Sonny but they were busy for a long time on the top floor of that old barn at the edge of their dad's property and finally one day led me up the stairs into what had been
what Marge would say if she'd lived to s...
thatched roof like the one on Stack's garage and inside six stools covered in split red plastic, five booths, a cement floor (I'm being honest about its frailties) and an oil heater the kids gathered around drinking their cocoa, no I didn't
it was the barber and the undertaker who got into the heart of the village earlier than even the firemen and the pharmacist the barber would call hey pauly that's what he called paul the undertaker and they'd head for marge taylor's place
The grief, when I finally contacted it decades later, was black, tarry, hot, like the yarrow-edged side roads we walked barefoot in the summer.
There's always one on the driveway, feat...
transparent stomach fat as a coin purse. Beak too big for its face, like a baby wearing huge sunglasses. Tuft of white fuzz, oh darling old man. Always
Hopes and dreams I tell you
are nougat but there is something else though not so sweet, no merging, no synchrony of watches but a kind of—
Even in hell there are songbirds
Not just cawing but full trills, music rising like swells on a windy ocean, each bird a chip off of some brilliantly-colored abstraction, beaks gold as trumpets
Soft pink apple covered in bees
Fingernail against zipper. Apple covered in bees. It's none of my business unless I'm the apple.
Men displayed the things we didn't want ...
but needed to see anyway, they'd put on their work gloves and grab a bat sleeping upside down in the attic and hold it still so we'd have to look at its small eyes
It was the idea of the calf i loved
and not the calf though it licked me with its tongue covered in taste buds like barnacles. I'd sleep with my head on its warm side. Pretend to sleep. Pretend to like to be alone
Comments about Diane Seuss
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
(26 April 1564 - 23 April 1616)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(31 May 1819 - 26 March 1892)
(16 August 1920 – 9 March 1994)
Don't say Paris
No one says Paris anymore.
There's no such thing as Paris, no
Café de la Paix, no Titian's Entombment
in the Louvre or Hotel La Sanguin
with amaranth petals on the sheets. Don't
say Paris. When you utter the word
I take off my long red gloves. I prepare
my hands to be stroked. I'm an idiot
that way, a Parisian to the bone. Once,
on some Rue or other, I was not alone.
The city, blue. My black coat opened
and gave birth to my body as I walked.
You dare speak of Paris? You unlatch
the door in the cage, that word comes
blooming out, ...