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:
- Here's What's in the Tea Leaves, Babycak... -new-
- 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-
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.
I slept very well, yes. Thank you
For asking. Had a good cigarette;
Breakfast was fine. It's comforting,
Somewhat, to be where I grew,
Weighed down by the weather,
The soul-killing clouds, and
Surrounded by mountains and
Light-stealing trees, and it's been
Nice to see you, old pal. That's