My advice to anyone reading one of my poems: read it so quickly as you can the first time through. Since I write in a rush, my melody will become most evident if you read in a rush.
I have a web site, www.lawrencebeck.net, which contains more of my recent poems than the 50 I leave up here. I refresh this site every other month.
Alas, I must add this: if you write to me ... more »
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- You Tried -new-
- Unearthed -new-
- I'd Like to be Myself Again -new-
- Gift -new-
- There's Something Familiar About You -new-
- When the Storm Arrives -new-
- On a Rainy Day -new-
- Your Gift -new-
- Thirty Seconds -new-
- A Perfectly Ridiculous Poem -new-
- On the 12: 30 from Denver to Omaha -new-
- It's There in Black and White -new-
- Not Grimm
Lawrence Beck Poems
Is this what I am to you: That boy who won't stay In his seat, the one who Doesn't do his homework,
When the Storm Arrives -new-
It's time to turn, to cover up. The wind has cut, as have The words. The swirling Clouds deliver hail, and what's
The Eye of the Storm
Her picture's in its modest frame, Upon the mantel, fixed and Reassuring, as all else blows by. The price of oil jumps and falls.
It's barely there, amid the noise of traffic, People talking, music, television's drone: A tiny mass of silence, yours, a thing Which, hidden, slowly grows. I feel as
Why, Ms. Turtle, You're Naked
I will say the sun is out (it's not) , The weather (which is cold) is warm. I'll say that I'm at ease, afloat upon A bed of stale misgivings, poised
On the 12: 30 from Denver to Omaha -new-
He beams. He seems a little shallow, Suit and tie, a laptop and a sheaf of Boring-looking papers poised to slide Off of the tiny table top in front of him.
Let's say we're Plato's playthings, in a Cave, and we are watching shadows. Chained, we'll never know what's real Among all that is said to be, and I imagine
Friday What sort of alchemy is this, what sort Of trick? What's wrong with me?
On the Eve of Our Reunion
Why be so nervous now when all was well Last week, before I left? Precisely because All was well. Nine days have passed. What may Have changed? The sun which was her smiling
Go Out with a Win
Pull the string. That's how you are, And watch, or tell yourself you've Watched, a world (all imagined, It would seem) unravel. Close
Welcome, Islamic State
The end arrived as we were saying How we wouldn't mind an end. The seminar had gotten long. The faces all around the table
A Quiet Afternoon at Home
'Let it die, ' the serpent says. He means my love. I understand. 'She doesn't love you, never will.' 'That isn't true. I think she does.'
Almost Obscured by Chatter
Language! Jesus, what's its use, A droning bit of background music, Truths and falsehoods intertwined, And mouthed to serve the self who
To the Faerie King
I'm sixty-one, too weak to ape you, Ed, And allegories, frankly, leave me cold. Your verse is splendid, as so many said, But I've no use for language falsely old.
(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)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
(31 May 1819 - 26 March 1892)
(16 August 1920 – 9 March 1994)
Is this what I am to you:
That boy who won't stay
In his seat, the one who
Doesn't do his homework,
Laughs, and ends up sent
Away to cool his heels
In someone's office?
Am I Mongol, dressed
In leather, racing, solo,
On the prairie, always
Circling back to you,
And you are order,
Grim and neat, within
A castle, safe, and, if
Not wholly happy,
Reassured that your life's
Moving, like a glacier,
To a careful plan?
I see you on the parapet.
I see your smile when
I wave. I know you'll
Never leave the castle,
But I cannot ...