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Selected poems
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Hardcover
Published January 1, 1972
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About the author
John Wieners
69 books16 followersJohn Joseph Wieners (January 6, 1934 – March 1, 2002) was an American poet.
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Displaying 1 of 1 review
January 24, 2022
1.
I'm infused with the day
even
tho
the
day
may
destroy
me
I'm out in it
Placating
it.
Saving
myself
from demons
who sit in blue
coats, carping
at us across
tables. Oh they
go out the doors.
I am done with
them. I am
done with faces
I have seen before.
For me now the new.
Unturned tricks
of the trade: the Place
of the heart where man
is afraid to go.
It is not doors. It is
the ground of my soul
where dinosaurs left
their marks. Their tracks
are upon me. They
walk flatfooted.
Leave heavy heels and
turn sour green
fields where I eat with
ease. Good to
throw them up, good
to hear my stomach growl.
After all, I am possessed
by wild animals and
long haired men
women who gallop
breaking over my beloved
places. Oh put down
thy vanity man the
old man told us under
the tent. You are over-
run with ants.
2.
Man lines up for his
breakfast in the dawn
unaware of the jungle
left behind
in his sleep. Where
fields flourished
with cacti, cauliflower
all the uneatable foots
that morning man
perished, if he remembered.
3.
And yet we must remember
The old forest, wild
screams in the backyard
or cries in the bedroom.
It is ours to nourish.
The nature to nurture.
Dark places where
women holds, hands
us herself, handles an
orange ball. Throwing it
up for spring. Like
the clot/my grandfather
vomited/months before
he died of cancer. And
spoke of later in terror.
* * *
We're back on the scene
again with linoleum floors
and Billie H blowing the blues
fine & mellow it is with PG
cooking in the kitchen,
Jennifer walking through the rooms
'What are you talking about
you know you're gonna get some.' -
she says to Melly but
it ain't the same, baby,
her old man's in Mexico and
mine, mine's a square in
San Francisco while we
haunt an old city on the Atlantic
waiting in the night for a fix.
* * *
Wind shakes a guitar in the house tonight
a dog barks just once
at the non-existent moon
A maiden strums alone in golden light
lovers say goodbye without words
their eyes to the rising sun
* * *
The night cold
I lie abed,
drugged.
The gas heater on.
I would it were
Off
To snuff out my life.
* * *
Petrified the wood
wherein we walk.
Frozen the fields.
Cruising these empty city streets
gets you nowhere.
Will you ever be saved, John?
I doubt it.
This world's got nothing for me.
* * *
listening with you.
On Sunday -
to old poems.
The mood hits us,
moves us on -
a higher plane.
Sunday
when I'm with you
All day long.
Lordy, isn't this a swell Sunday,
listening here with you.
* * *
An old man and a woman
came to torment me
in the desert with ants
and honey.
Three children set me free
marching proudly over the
clearing, tearing bands
of meat
from my arms, leaving
me empty to meet my love.
Who was waiting in bed
for me.
I'm infused with the day
even
tho
the
day
may
destroy
me
I'm out in it
Placating
it.
Saving
myself
from demons
who sit in blue
coats, carping
at us across
tables. Oh they
go out the doors.
I am done with
them. I am
done with faces
I have seen before.
For me now the new.
Unturned tricks
of the trade: the Place
of the heart where man
is afraid to go.
It is not doors. It is
the ground of my soul
where dinosaurs left
their marks. Their tracks
are upon me. They
walk flatfooted.
Leave heavy heels and
turn sour green
fields where I eat with
ease. Good to
throw them up, good
to hear my stomach growl.
After all, I am possessed
by wild animals and
long haired men
women who gallop
breaking over my beloved
places. Oh put down
thy vanity man the
old man told us under
the tent. You are over-
run with ants.
2.
Man lines up for his
breakfast in the dawn
unaware of the jungle
left behind
in his sleep. Where
fields flourished
with cacti, cauliflower
all the uneatable foots
that morning man
perished, if he remembered.
3.
And yet we must remember
The old forest, wild
screams in the backyard
or cries in the bedroom.
It is ours to nourish.
The nature to nurture.
Dark places where
women holds, hands
us herself, handles an
orange ball. Throwing it
up for spring. Like
the clot/my grandfather
vomited/months before
he died of cancer. And
spoke of later in terror.
- A poem for early risers, pg. 27-29
* * *
We're back on the scene
again with linoleum floors
and Billie H blowing the blues
fine & mellow it is with PG
cooking in the kitchen,
Jennifer walking through the rooms
'What are you talking about
you know you're gonna get some.' -
she says to Melly but
it ain't the same, baby,
her old man's in Mexico and
mine, mine's a square in
San Francisco while we
haunt an old city on the Atlantic
waiting in the night for a fix.
- 238 Cambridge Street: An Occasional verse, pg. 38
* * *
Wind shakes a guitar in the house tonight
a dog barks just once
at the non-existent moon
A maiden strums alone in golden light
lovers say goodbye without words
their eyes to the rising sun
- Louise, pg. 45
* * *
The night cold
I lie abed,
drugged.
The gas heater on.
I would it were
Off
To snuff out my life.
- 153 Avenue C, pg. 56
* * *
Petrified the wood
wherein we walk.
Frozen the fields.
Cruising these empty city streets
gets you nowhere.
Will you ever be saved, John?
I doubt it.
This world's got nothing for me.
- Berkeley St Bridge, pg. 91
* * *
listening with you.
On Sunday -
to old poems.
The mood hits us,
moves us on -
a higher plane.
Sunday
when I'm with you
All day long.
Lordy, isn't this a swell Sunday,
listening here with you.
- On Sunday..., pg. 95
* * *
An old man and a woman
came to torment me
in the desert with ants
and honey.
Three children set me free
marching proudly over the
clearing, tearing bands
of meat
from my arms, leaving
me empty to meet my love.
Who was waiting in bed
for me.
- Naked, pg. 115
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