"amherst" poems
215
What is—”Paradise”—
Who live there—
Are they “Farmers”—
Do they ***
Do they know that this is “Amherst”—
And that I—am coming—too—
Do they wear “new shoes”—in “Eden”—
Is it always pleasant—there—
Won’t they scold us—when we’re homesick—
Or tell God—how cross we are—
You are sure there’s such a person
As “a Father”—in the sky—
So if I get lost—there—ever—
Or do what the Nurse calls “die”—
I shan’t walk the “Jasper”—barefoot—
Ransomed folks—won’t laugh at me—
Maybe—”Eden” a’n't so lonesome
As New England used to be!
6.2k
Drums of Autumn tell us, grandmother,
what did they mean?
Did you ever get the Lincoln cane? Did you cry?
Kenny, I'as a orphan. I never knew.
---That happened, Kenny was my name.
I looked past the rim,
there was the Corn Mother,
I think that's what I coulda seen,
but then it's only Grandma, with a grin.
Kenneth means know, Grandma said, I gave you that name.
kenning handy, a knower, by God,
not handsome in that vain way they have today,
handy,
winsome in puzzles 'n' riddles 'n' such
Kokopelli's play mate, some day.
Mistooken words rot,
if they lie, idle, in the dust
meaning
nothing ever. I shall not want,
I was taught a mistooken truth,
I took it,
gript it tight,
Get a job. Live with some class, join
a club that
takes your kind. Some churches used to
use
the Rotary test, if you could pass that test
you could eat,
after the message at the mission.
true? fair? goodwill? wait
if the first test is failed, what matters?
fair good will benes d'vitas?
from the treaty bound liars who called my grand
mothers savages, all of them,
right by
right of conquest. their treaty verified it to me,
then they gave me blankets,
General Leonardwood,
nope, Lord Jeff Amherst did that, then we died.
Read the treaty, 1763, small print. Blankets.
From the small pox ward, went unsaid.
That was just,
after
the French and Indian war, where the father of
the force that claims world-wide military
superiority
sufficient unto the evil of today,
George, the man on the horse,
surveyor for the future,
fought injuns,
so the king could sell their measured land to freed slaves,
thus making the mortgage chain, so popular today.
Build a casino, get rich quick, it's in the treaty,
lotsajobs,
busboy, bus driver, maid, Sioux chef and so
many, many more.
Grandma, in my vision, turned and walked
into the desert.
I took her word.
Brushed the dust and breathed it in.
Then I spit against the wind,
winked at you and rode my wind away.
Free is easy, if you can ride on wind.
Oct 17, 2018
Oct 17, 2018 at 4:38 PM UTC
Dylan is dead.
no, not Bob, you Philistine,
Dylan Thomas who implored us
to rage against the night;
so are a passel of poets
and penners, but not I
Emily heard her fly buzz,
well before her eyes shut; she
was a wee bit obsessed
with the reaper
Hemingway's also a goner;
guts enough to shove a shotgun
in his mouth--mostly I wonder if
he tasted blue gunmetal like I did,
and who cleaned his brains
off the wall?
nobody had to clean a red dollop
of mine, for the firing pin was askew
and all I got was a click, and a sense of shame,
and impotence more flaccid than
the one which put the barrel
in my mouth
hell, how hard is it
to **** yourself--I guess harder
than I thought, since I never bought
another rifle
so Dylan is dead
Em and Hem too, but you
are reading these lines without
contemplating your own demise
I suspect
after all, it's early spring
and a time of new things
clawing their way into the light
thinking nothing of the terminal
night -- but it's just a sun dip away:
ask Dylan or Hemingway, or even JFK
but I wouldn't bother the Belle
of Amherst
she would make parting
sweeter than sorrow, and she
never tasted the cold lead, or spoke
with fear or dread of the dumb
and the dead
she never murdered
men in black pajamas
in a forest primeval...
I didn't see their spirits
ascending, in ribbons of light,
only rivers of their red blood
soaking the green ground,
yet today ravenous
for more it seems
why would she rage
against the good night, when
her carriage waited patiently for her,
and immortality, her vessel bound
for a light Dylan and I
will never see
May 4, 2017
May 4, 2017 at 6:42 PM UTC
179
If I could bribe them by a Rose
I’d bring them every flower that grows
From Amherst to Cashmere!
I would not stop for night, or storm—
Or frost, or death, or anyone—
My business were so dear!
If they would linger for a Bird
My Tambourin were soonest heard
Among the April Woods!
Unwearied, all the summer long,
Only to break in wilder song
When Winter shook the boughs!
What if they hear me!
Who shall say
That such an importunity
May not at last avail?
That, weary of this Beggar’s face—
They may not finally say, Yes—
To drive her from the Hall?
1.7k
I remember Buffalo-
Amherst actually, but the suburb not the college town
My nephew lives in Amherst
But the college town not the suburb
My grandmother lived in Buffalo
Amherst really
and my dad too
My grandfather died there, before I was born
We never said we were going to Amherst
We said Buffalo
Like someone from Los Alamitos might say
they were from Los Angeles
But Buffalo was where grandmother was
But not the fun one
The fun one lived in Gloversville
Which is near Amsterdam, my mom used to tell us it was Amstergosh
Still, Amherst had soft boiled eggs for breakfast
a giant oriental rug on which a small boy could play
but just with his Matchbox cars
and a blow-up Sinclair dinosaur
There was the garage with doors at both ends
Perfect for hiding a car
From brothers-in-law
On a wedding day
There was the giant Chrysler
light green as I recall
In the driveway past which the neighbors lived
with their iced tea with mint and lemon
There were Uncle John and aunt Mimi
Who were like my great uncle and aunt
Except they weren't
Just really close family friends
Uncle John was the one who told me at the age of five
"Always tell a woman you need to leave an hour before you actually have to leave"
We were waiting for Mimi to "get ready" so we could go somewhere
She was taking forever
I do remember Buffalo
Amherst really
But I know there is so much more
that I've forgotten
May 12, 2013
May 12, 2013 at 11:17 AM UTC
This heart does not
beat for me or them
for the whiskey or
the American sin
nor the outstretched
hand of greed in
countries where
their citizens don't
even have the basic
right to eat (animals).
The rhythmic thwap,
thwap, thwap is not
for the rushing rivers
in Colorado, nor for
the glowing canyons
of Utah or the grassy
hills in Amherst, not
even for the grandest
of all canyons (ever)!
Because I have an
angry heart filled with
cancers and pesticides
and processed sugars,
I'm sure of [my health].
No one ever told me
the American dream
was to die of McDonald-
ization or Burger King
Nation or a slew of other
man-made diseases.
My congested arteries
thank you, capitalism.
My oil-coated cells want
to shake hands with the
one and only Donald
Trump. My rotting lungs
and intestines can't wait
to meet the President.
My heart beats for you,
America (the beautiful).
Nov 15, 2011
Nov 15, 2011 at 11:43 AM UTC
There was a famed Missus in Amherst,
Who married three times in her home nest;
Her two Lords - ere the third -
Lay low deep in the dirt
And were probably cussing in earnest.
(c)kRu, 12.11.2011
Feb 4, 2012
Feb 4, 2012 at 10:06 AM UTC
how could I not love you,
when you wrote of death, while others
courted coy flowers--I know you were not
a comely creature, and if you were Aphrodite,
perhaps you would have been love lathered
on cold Amherst nights, though I
suspect you would not have heard
a fly buzz when you died, for you
would not have been listening
for such a beatific symphony
Feb 19, 2015
Feb 19, 2015 at 9:18 PM UTC
I sit down with the Myth of Amherst
And soon troubles and worries
I forget.
I look to see if her verse still breathes
And find with hearty satisfaction
They do still yet.
I entwine myself in her arrangements
Enigmatic and she kindly takes
My hand…
She leads me through gardens of
Imagination replete with untitled topiary
And genius meter.
Where I encountered first
The Myth of Amherst,
I'm not exactly sure.
Her words--canteens of obscure mysts
To slake an interested thirst.
May 11, 2017
May 11, 2017 at 12:34 AM UTC
Come On All You Ghosts
<>
I heard a little cough
in the room, and turned
but no one was there
except the flowers
Sarah bought me
and my death’s head
glow in the dark key chain
that lights up and moans
when I press the button
on top of its skull
and the ghost
I shyly name Aglow.
Are you there Aglow
I said in my mind,
reader, exactly the way
you just heard it
in yours about four
poem time units ago
unless you have already
put down the paper directly
after the mention
of poetry or ghosts.
Readers I am sorry
for some of you
this is not a novel.
Good-bye. Now it is just
us and the death’s head
and the flowers and the ghost
in San Francisco thinking
together by means
of the ancient transmission device.
I am sorry
but together we are
right now thinking
along by means
of an ancient mechanistic
system no one invented
involving super-microscopic
particles that somehow
(weird!) enter through
your eyes or ears
depending on where
you are right now
reading or listening.
To me it seems
like being together
one body made of light
clanging down through
a metal structure
for pleasure and edification.
Reader when I think of you
you are in a giant purple chair
in a Starbucks gradually leaking power
while Neil Young
eats a campfire then drinks
a glass of tears
on satellite radio.
Hello. I am 40.
I have lived in Maryland,
Amherst, San Francisco,
New York, Ljubljana,
Stonington (house
of the great ornate wooden frame
holding the mirror the dead
saw us in whenever
we walked past),
New Hampshire at the base
of the White Mountains
on clear blue days
full of dark blue jays
beyond emotion jaggedly piercing,
Minneapolis of which
I have spoken
earlier and quite enough,
Paris, and now
San Francisco again.
Reader, you are right now
in what for me is the future
experiencing something
you cannot
without this poem.
I myself am suspicious
and cruel. Sometimes
when I close my eyes
I hear a billion workers
in my skull
hammering nails from which
all the things I see
get hung. But poems
are not museums,
they are machines
made of words,
you pour as best
you can your attention
in and in you the poetic
state of mind is produced
said one of the many
French poets with whom
I feel I must agree.
Another I know
writes his poems on silver
paint in a mirror.
I feel like a president
raising his fist in the sun.
Jun 6, 2023
Jun 6, 2023 at 10:28 AM UTC
I never thought it possible to ache
for a place like a person
or time
I miss the skies wider than space
I miss endless sheets of electric blue
Blanketing my every worry
Anxiety swallowed whole
Skies that left me unknown happiness
A feeling I no longer know
I miss the leaves
crunched between finger and thumb
specks of sand and muck that stain my skin
I could live with such stains for eternity
If it meant a life simple
Amongst the trees and scorching sun
I miss the sense of knowledge
knowing I had found
Where I belong
The thrill of discovery
Upon finding a missing puzzle piece
Lost long ago
I pluck it from hot tarmac
of a street walked years before
Pocketed immediately
Never again
will I let it go
I miss cricket filled nights
And days of smiles unexpected
Warmer than the air clinging to my skin
On even the most humid of summer afternoons
I long for this place
Three thousand miles away
Please save me from suburbia
Where I can't pick apart the days
Sep 10, 2014
Sep 10, 2014 at 7:30 PM UTC
I told myself not to feel
You came out of nowhere, i laughed at the irony of our collision into an awkward yet somehow
fitting setting
You drew me in on every word
every line oozing with sweet sticky promises
Promises that you almost give up on
No one knows
What I want
How I feel
How I view the world
What holds me back
But you…
You ******* got me
Unguarded
Unafraid
To say how I truly feel
Except; when it comes to us
I can still feel your hands on my face
Inky eyes locked with mine
Intertwined, bound, and tied to each other motionless
We could have stayed there
Forever
Yet, we didn’t
Weekends turned every other
Which then became maybes
My body no longer stamped by the passion you left behind
My heart no longer topped off by the hopes of seeing you
No more countdowns
Now I count how long it takes for the next one to break me down
Tearing through my heart like a giant Christmas present that no one ends up needing
Placed in the corner with the others to be regifted
Leaving behind filaments of gift wrap and fancy ribbon, used to hide the well intentioned gift
No one wants the gift of a heart these days
They want houses, cars, well oiled and machine-like bodies that crawl to them, and classy like a
sorority sister at a keg party (who went to Amherst)
The heart is overdone
The passion that at one time exhumed from our bodies was now beginning to fade into a pitch
black abyss
All that is left is a few memories of Saturdays well-spent
Conversations that went on for hours
And a heart that once again,
Has been drained and bled dry to stop the very beating that you caused
All that’s left is an empty shell
One that i’ll pick up, dust off, wash out and pour myself into again…
This one ******* hurts
Jul 2, 2018
Jul 2, 2018 at 4:04 PM UTC
The delusions of
Amherst virgins
be ******
hope is a plucked fowl
about to be tossed
into a cook ***
~mce
Jan 16, 2016
Jan 16, 2016 at 6:10 AM UTC
the Belle of Amherst -
because she'd not stop for death --
her poems still breathe
Apr 5, 2015
Apr 5, 2015 at 10:44 PM UTC
emerald hometown
hello hello
kiss me on both cheeks
like the french
I drew my first love
neon naked
crooked and empty
just like her tiny
freckled hands wrapped
around the wheel
towards milkshake heaven
gay okay
just like her
smoothed spiked shoulders
poured like cream
on bone
rolling in peaks down her flat back
and her lace spun spine
to her razor knees
just like me sharp and
pointed by the outside
but I know how soft
and faint hearted you are
like a flower
grasping grazing raising
goosebumps just like your
pine tree time starts
amherst and oxford nearly
miss you as much as I do
frazzled like your bangs
and ragged like your ends
sweet and daisy fresh
Feb 5, 2016
Feb 5, 2016 at 9:44 PM UTC
I sat on the rock,
With the statue of Robert Frost,
And thought.
I laid on the stone,
With the metal cutout of Emily Dickenson,
And cried.
Jan 10, 2025
Jan 10, 2025 at 10:34 AM UTC
Like Batman
Emily Dickinson was reclusive
Like Superman
A Fortress of Solitude
I spend much time alone
But I am not a hermit
Drive my son to work
Eat at the little diner
Unde Malum?
Tormented Saint Augustine
Tormented Camus
Writing often ensued
I visited Amherst
This World Is Not Conclusion
Mabel Loomis Todd
World of strange designer
Wild Nights
Dec 21, 2022
Dec 21, 2022 at 5:27 PM UTC