Biography of Lawrence Beck
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 asking me to read your poems, I may, but I will not comment on them. I am very sick of numbers hogs who troll through a day's list of contributing poets, and ask each one to read his or her poem. If you write well, someone may notice and comment. If you browbeat people into reading your poetry, the comments you receive are worth nothing.
Lawrence Beck's Works:
- Living Inside The Box -new-
- Thinking Inside The Box -new-
- Not A Life, An Existence -new-
- Offspring Of An Era Of Diminished Expect... -new-
- For Sir Philip Sydney -new-
- Me, Of Little Faith -new-
- Also, I Haven't Yet Killed My Uncle -new-
- Starting Over South Of Here -new-
- Rainy Tuesday -new-
- How I Spent My Weekend, The Latest Insta...
- Too Soon
- The Fish, At Least, Proved To Have Had A...
Lawrence Beck Poems
She never leaves for good. She doesn't let me Go. She has this unexplained persistence I, so quick to claim defeat, so fidgety, Can't understand. She smiles beatifically
No line is drawn. No tape is stretched Across the road to indicate that one is Done, but I am close, and I will place Your memory inside the box which
Almost like that day when one wakes up, And, after hours pass, discovers that the Pain which had bedeviled him for weeks Or months has gone, it has occurred to
The pattern of the worn-out Persian Rug, the patches where the fabric's Gone and netting's showing through, Grow ever more significant. The
Come, Look Over My Shoulder
There isn't anything here, you know, A woman's image, made of words, A love that lingers in the room, so Like the scent of someone gone,
I May Have Been Mistaken
All the sages lie, of course, to us, Their needy acolytes, and to Themselves. We're living things. As such, we are insatiable.
Night must come at last, and it has, And in its darkness, all we have is This, the little fire we've made. It Isn't much. It warms us some.
The Inadequacy Of Words
Can't howl on paper, can you? Can't hear snap of heartbreak, Feel sear pain or chest heave, Hand smashed hard on wall,
We are cripples, leaning on each other. We both are aware of that. I'd saved My love to give to one who desperately Needed it, and her sole need was love
I've seen my share of paradises, strolled The Prado in Madrid, and stood in awe Below the crypts and statues in Saint John's in Rome. I've snorkled among
I may be a bigger fool than even I Believed I was. There's so much I don't understand. I've made up Lots of tidy theories, noise to fill
Two Sad Poems
From Row 15, Seat K If only life was more like this, I'd be a movie Superhero, saving all humanity from some
This town is too damned small for me To do what I'd do in a city: change my Job, how I drive home, and find another Place to drink. I wouldn't have to worry
Our love is a potted plant we've placed Upon a window sill. It never got too Large or lush, but I, as water, you, as Light, have kept the tiny thing alive.
I may be a bigger fool than even I
Believed I was. There's so much
I don't understand. I've made up
Lots of tidy theories, noise to fill
The silence that surrounds her so
Much of the time. I've told myself
From the beginning that I am so
Old and strange that I could never
Win her love. She'd want me close