Philip Roth

Wikipedia Poem, No. 788

roth

yorker prize-winning novelist and often blackly come
lo saggi ad annuncia carriera stanco soffriva

de philip roth ha pastoral won a pulitzerovu
cenuo en un terribile mal decades autors dann bestät

che died on todos los fardos los fardos los fardos
los 85 años intentando ha pastorben von engen fre

durante da annunciarne la sua lunga carriera stanco
soffriva ma solo saggi ad annunciarne la segunda

média k nejvýznamnějších american pastoral
die negli ultiple reportantes de philip roth assimilation

assimilation in 20th cenutoral won a prestižní
pulitzerovu cenuia carriera stato contare in 1969

decades autors dann best-known for téměř tří
des son leggere più scritto philip roth jeden gestorben

a la psicología de philip roth the comic novelist whose
nostro tempo smascherato che novelista más i

Lucie Brock-Broido

Wikipedia Poem, No. 739

coda-2

“According to the census I am unmarried / And unchurched. // The woman in the field dressed only in the sun.” Brock-Broido

  crown of smoke nation hunger as portable illusion any old hunger . . . . . . . 
. . . . . . . theory subsumes hunger and mortality illusions     hunger as . . . . . . . 
. . . . . a hunger as . . . . . . . moralist for nations hunger is always potable 
illusion          seeming syntax    branch from trunk spore from gill 
      as an 
   as 
a    

        gettering 
       to the field 
   dressed now 
     told
      whom is dying to 
come to terms with 
        our self 
          like arctic 
arctic caps a married possible 
field dressed 
in the big beautiful blubbery suit whom dying dying dying  
a ring too far gone to the
great am unmarried 
   according to the census i am dying

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Source: Brock-Broido, Lucie. “You Have Harnessed Yourself Ridiculously to This World.” Poetry Foundation, Oct. 2013.

John Ashbery, 1927-2017

ash

“Fear of Death” by John Ashbery

What is it now with me
And is it as I have become?
Is there no state free from the boundry lines
Of before and after? The window is open today

And the air pours in with piano notes
In its skirts, as though to say, “Look, John,
I’ve brought these and these”—that is,
A few Beethovens, some, Brahmses,

A few choice Poulenc notes. . . . Yes,
It is being free again, the air, it has to keep coming back
Because that’s all it’s good for.
I want to stay with it out of fear

That keeps me from walking up certain steps,
Knocking at certain doors, fear of growing old
Alone, and of finding no one at the evening end
Of the path except another myself

Nodding a curt greeting: “Well, you’ve been awhile
But now we’re back together, which is what counts.”
Air in My path, you could shorten this,
But the breeze has dropped, and silence is the last word.

Denis Johnson (1949-2017)

Wikipedia Poem, No. 491

w491-2-sm

“My office smells like a theory, but here one weeps / to see the goodness of the world laid bare / and rising with the government on its lips, / the alphabet congealing in the air / around our heads.” Denis Johnson

 

his lips laid
& rising with the warm
goodness of theory
there they wept rivers
over their alphabet
that would not congeal
despite
how grave their wound
who inter their gravity