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:
Lawrence Beck Poems
John's up. I see the light in his kitchen. He'll put on his suit, and drive to his office To balance the books of some part of his Firm. He'll be drinking coffee and going
Left And Right
I stand at the entrance to her kitchen. She's somewhere around a corner. Nothing's wrong, but something isn't Right. I know it's me. I feel that I'm
I didn't like the box. I didn't want to be Inside the purse. I hoped we'd get to run And play, but, no, she always carried me. She said, "Be still." I couldn't speak.
I knew what I wanted from her: everything. I wanted her with me. I wanted to see her Eyes brighten, her smile. I warmed like an Oven when she chose to speak, but I don't
Land Of Opportunity!
Of course, you're of some use to them. You needn't sit and hang your head. You have to buy the things they sell, Though they're all made in Asia now.
Evening Another Lenten Friday night. The church's Basement's tables all are filled, and I watch
A Dash Of Bitters
Antidepressant notwithstanding, I see nothing Wrong with trudging humorlessly down the Street. Enthusiasms aren't for me, so, as you Vomit flights of fancy, rapt words wrapped in
On the surface, on her side, alive, But barely, injured, gasping, this Fish now's not all I see. Beneath Her, I watch others swim. They're
Weddings, Obituaries, Page B11
So, there they are, in front of an altar. He's in a tux. She, still imperfect, Heartbreaking, beautiful, clings to his Hand in her ornate white dress. She
Movement recollected, reenacted. I feel my feet stepping in the fading light Around and over roots across the path. I'm on my way again from east of
The sun burned through the clouds at five To bathe the fields in brilliant light, and, Likewise, make the river sparkle. Two Hawks floated overhead, and I sat, rapt
Napoleon And Me
One cannot know what he was thinking, Stuck, imprisoned, staring out at endless Miles of empty sea. Did he retain a Bitter pride? "They have me now, these
One Never Really Knows
I step outside my door to smoke, and find A deer, a doe, a little way across the yard From me. It starts, of course, but doesn't Bolt. It stares. It chews, Its eyes appear
Thirty years ago, I paced the floor inside The railroad station, ticket, my MA, in Hand. The big clock overhead was Racing. One last train was due to come,
A Dash Of Bitters
Antidepressant notwithstanding, I see nothing
Wrong with trudging humorlessly down the
Street. Enthusiasms aren't for me, so, as you
Vomit flights of fancy, rapt words wrapped in
Incoherence, stars and lilacs, all that shit, I'll
Turn from you and walk away, or, if you choose
To wave the flag, I'll sneer. Bend over, Uncle
Sam, and get what you've been dishing out.
A rotten nation, rife with guns, should give