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:
- The Toe Actually Is More Dangerous Than ... -new-
- Happy Memorial Day! -new-
- Something Like Emancipation -new-
- Incongruent -new-
- For Those On Break -new-
- Red-Haired Woman With A Sponge -new-
- Now, The Metaphor Flogs Me -new-
- Flogging A Metaphor For All It's Worth -new-
- Solipsism Summarized -new-
- John Locke Spins In His Grave
- Overcast Am, Partial Clearing Later
- Boo Hoo
- On A Gloomy Day
Lawrence Beck Poems
On The 12: 30 From Denver To Omaha
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.
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
I dream that I am saving her, the aging Lifeguard churning through the waves To where she flails. She's doomed. The tide has taken her. She's so far
A Perfectly Ridiculous Poem
When all else fails...that's not The word; when all else cannot Nourish, one must dig the earth To find ideas, and chew them,
When The Storm Arrives
It's time to turn, to cover up. The wind has cut, as have The words. The swirling Clouds deliver hail, and what's
Your man, as you well know, is short Of patience, tense, compressed and Coiled; prone to overdoing things, And, subsequently, filled with guilt.
It's There In Black And White
I try to read the business news, but can't. I've gotten antsy, fearing I have been so Long away that she's developed second Thoughts (assuming some had come up
The hours pass like prisoners in shackles, And I plod with them, condemned. I Know where we must go: to see my love For thirty seconds, feel again the iron
Here's What's In The Tea Leaves, Babycak...
I am disinclined to see a lot in your Epiphanies. My bronze-age self Had just such thoughts, but now I'm many layers higher, wiser, maybe,
I know what I've done. I am the Irish wolfhound in your studio. I've Seen the things I've ruined. One of Them is us, I fear. Take me to the
A cop or archaeologist would see at once How far I fell throughout this week, since She's been gone: the dishes piled in the Sink, the liquor bottles in the trash, the
I'D Like To Be Myself Again
At this point, I'd be pleased to have her Slip from mind so easily, so frequently, As she evades possession by my eyes. I'd like to be myself again, the one who's
I must live within my means, and have, I guess, since I was poor. I am not now, But what I want is modest. I wear simple Clothes. I do not drive a fancy car. I eat
There's Something Familiar About You
I have no use for your sort, pal: The two-bit tyrants, keen on Bending all the world to their Wills, the ones who always
On A Rainy Day
The crows arrived. They circled, spoke,
A rabbit carcass on the road the subject
Of their conversation. Rainfall whispered
On the lawn. A man and woman brightly
Peddled gossip on the radio. I watched
The window, formulating things to say
When she had come. The hours passed.
She never did, and I alone was mute.