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Auguries of Innocence: Poems
Auguries of Innocence is the first book of poetry from Patti Smith in more than a decade. It marks a major accomplishment from a poet and performer who has inscribed her vision of our world in powerful anthems, ballads, and lyrics. In this intimate and searing collection of poems, Smith joins in that great tradition of troubadours, journeymen, wordsmiths, and artists who respond to the world around them in fresh and original language. Her influences are eclectic and Blake, Rimbaud, Picasso, Arbus, and Johnny Appleseed. Smith is an American original; her poems are oracles for our times.
80 pages, Kindle Edition
First published October 11, 2005
129 people are currently reading
3988 people want to read
About the author
Patti Smith
153 books13.7k followersPATTI SMITH is a writer, performer, and visual artist. She gained recognition in the 1970s for her revolutionary merging of poetry and rock. She has released twelve albums, including Horses, which has been hailed as one of the top one hundred albums of all time by Rolling Stone.
Smith had her first exhibit of drawings at the Gotham Book Mart in 1973 and has been represented by the Robert Miller Gallery since 1978. Her books include Just Kids, winner of the National Book Award in 2010, Wītt, Babel, Woolgathering, The Coral Sea, and Auguries of Innocence.
In 2005, the French Ministry of Culture awarded Smith the title of Commandeur des Arts et des Lettres, the highest honor given to an artist by the French Republic. She was inducted into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame in 2007.
Smith married the musician Fred Sonic Smith in Detroit in 1980. They had a son, Jackson, and a daughter, Jesse. Smith resides in New York City.
Smith had her first exhibit of drawings at the Gotham Book Mart in 1973 and has been represented by the Robert Miller Gallery since 1978. Her books include Just Kids, winner of the National Book Award in 2010, Wītt, Babel, Woolgathering, The Coral Sea, and Auguries of Innocence.
In 2005, the French Ministry of Culture awarded Smith the title of Commandeur des Arts et des Lettres, the highest honor given to an artist by the French Republic. She was inducted into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame in 2007.
Smith married the musician Fred Sonic Smith in Detroit in 1980. They had a son, Jackson, and a daughter, Jesse. Smith resides in New York City.
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Displaying 1 - 30 of 182 reviews
April 15, 2020
Sorprendente y asombrosa lectura, cómo me gusta la forma de contar la vida en la poesía.....
July 11, 2016
Written by a Lake
New Year’s Day. Rain. Two candles light the room where they sleep. She confesses. This is where she weeps. She is the cause of the rain. She could not stop weeping and the sky obliged to follow.
(How is it mapped? What is the refrain? Why must the sky follow?) The heart drops in the center of an inexhaustible lake. How light the heart appears, yet how weighty a thing. A powerful stone carved in the shape of an organ with chambers pumping. How slick a shadow it leaks as its signature. Sticky, oxblood, the colour of new shoes. High toppped, gold laced and worn with expectations poised to ride out life on horseback. Racing from hill to hill with humour, horror, bit of Spanish stitched on leaves.
The work wrung with this cry. Look you radiant wash yard. The sheets billow. Their wet folds tell a tale. Once there was a girl who walked straight, yet she was truly lame. She walked upright in new boots, yet I tell you her feet were bare. She lives forever, yet she lies buried in a vault of fertile air.
New Year’s Day. The wicks twist. The insistent mirror winks. An eye with time as her lashes. And if he-slipping at last, face pressed against the glass, releasing beads of spittle from parting lips-should suddenly speak, what would he say? And if she, shaken from her torpor, should rise to write, what would she write? Their table is laid with the promise of the lake. Water sighs for want of blood. These remains, malleable ash, are nothing. Signs for want of substance. A sack of sticks spilling order upon the surface. Words traced on a slab hewn from another forested mind.
a postscript prefiguring
Your finger press the door triggering a spring exposing the hard corner where you have walked. You shall not stumble. Offering a first encasing rivets extracted from the wet pout of this time or that. Prick the hour’s hand with nothing but eyes. Think nothing of it. For what remains to flush is nothing but salt jamming the mechanism of formal delights of, former misery. Nothing but salt to bundle and fling over a shoulder. Nothing but clumps of salt to toss, years later, like dice across a board of glass where you’ll sit on a ledge circling a glowing body, unfastening the dressings of a burden gone. The cremation of all my sorrow-may you spread the singed grains with your fingers, and without thought brush them aside.
Thus free to drown in sorrow of your own, may you sit in the shadows of our lost life, immersed in stillness, flanked by translucent hills, one a mountain coated immaculate and ringed at the throat with beads of cloud.
These words were written by a lake.
String them around a wrist. Do not grip a sword or draw what might be drawn, for wisdom is a dying bird, engraved on a palm. Next to nothing. And these words were written by a lake, before being as being was scripted and dealt. A pack of lives, each with a winning face, each with this blushing command.
Prick this. This moment the hand is free.
New Year’s Day. Rain. Two candles light the room where they sleep. She confesses. This is where she weeps. She is the cause of the rain. She could not stop weeping and the sky obliged to follow.
(How is it mapped? What is the refrain? Why must the sky follow?) The heart drops in the center of an inexhaustible lake. How light the heart appears, yet how weighty a thing. A powerful stone carved in the shape of an organ with chambers pumping. How slick a shadow it leaks as its signature. Sticky, oxblood, the colour of new shoes. High toppped, gold laced and worn with expectations poised to ride out life on horseback. Racing from hill to hill with humour, horror, bit of Spanish stitched on leaves.
The work wrung with this cry. Look you radiant wash yard. The sheets billow. Their wet folds tell a tale. Once there was a girl who walked straight, yet she was truly lame. She walked upright in new boots, yet I tell you her feet were bare. She lives forever, yet she lies buried in a vault of fertile air.
New Year’s Day. The wicks twist. The insistent mirror winks. An eye with time as her lashes. And if he-slipping at last, face pressed against the glass, releasing beads of spittle from parting lips-should suddenly speak, what would he say? And if she, shaken from her torpor, should rise to write, what would she write? Their table is laid with the promise of the lake. Water sighs for want of blood. These remains, malleable ash, are nothing. Signs for want of substance. A sack of sticks spilling order upon the surface. Words traced on a slab hewn from another forested mind.
a postscript prefiguring
Your finger press the door triggering a spring exposing the hard corner where you have walked. You shall not stumble. Offering a first encasing rivets extracted from the wet pout of this time or that. Prick the hour’s hand with nothing but eyes. Think nothing of it. For what remains to flush is nothing but salt jamming the mechanism of formal delights of, former misery. Nothing but salt to bundle and fling over a shoulder. Nothing but clumps of salt to toss, years later, like dice across a board of glass where you’ll sit on a ledge circling a glowing body, unfastening the dressings of a burden gone. The cremation of all my sorrow-may you spread the singed grains with your fingers, and without thought brush them aside.
Thus free to drown in sorrow of your own, may you sit in the shadows of our lost life, immersed in stillness, flanked by translucent hills, one a mountain coated immaculate and ringed at the throat with beads of cloud.
These words were written by a lake.
String them around a wrist. Do not grip a sword or draw what might be drawn, for wisdom is a dying bird, engraved on a palm. Next to nothing. And these words were written by a lake, before being as being was scripted and dealt. A pack of lives, each with a winning face, each with this blushing command.
Prick this. This moment the hand is free.
September 8, 2019
Me costó entrar a Patti Smith, me ha pasado antes, pero una vez que caigo en ella no puedo salir. Es tan hermosa, tan profunda, tan compleja, tan difícil. Escribe reuniendo palabras quizá azarosas pero bellas que unidas generan un efecto emotivo poderoso. En la poesía no importa el sentido, sino lo sentido. El efecto de las palabras reunidas. Su mundo está dañado, torcido. Como si escondiera su corazón de niña triste y poco a poco abriera los brazos para mostrarlo. Tan bella, tan honesta, tan noble. Como dice Javiera Mena: es una tristeza tan linda. El poema de la mujer que llora tanto que hace el cielo llover. Los párrafos sobre la belleza. El poema narrado del sueño de la muñeca azul sin cabeza. "Pájaros de Irak", donde habla de una infancia con madre herida e hiriente, como la mía. La alusión permanente a las ratas y la luna. Ella diciendo: me vine a New York sin nada ni nadie, y sentirme allí, en esas palabras desamparadas. Algunas frases que subrayé:
Te vi a ti que eras yo.
La violencia sin mala voluntad.
El nuestro era un país de hoyos.
Le rompimos el corazón a nuestra madre y nos convertimos en quienes somos.
Dios no nos abandona nunca / Somos lo único que conoce.
¿Me conocen? ¿Saben que estoy aquí escribiendo mientras se descomponen?
Qué ligero parece el corazón y a la vez que cosa tan pesada.
La argolla que nos rodea el cuello / pesa, vaya si pesa.
Ella lo rodeó / y él perdió la cabeza.
Porque tu hermoso dolor brotó como una rama, / floreció en caligrafía [¿acaso mejor definición de literatura?]
Un corazón estéril es un corazón que no elige.
Ser para sentir.
Siempre habrá romances.
¿Cómo pude pensar algo tan violento?
Y el corazón es libre / no sigue los planes de dios.
¿Qué es el corazón sino un puñado de agonías?
¿Acaso lloran los animales como humanos?
Has venido / la puerta está abierta / no me hallarás a mí / hallarás mi amor.
Llorar la muerte de las estrellas.
Ansío ver, oír lo que voy a crear.
Conozco tu soledad / que deseaba llenar con la mía propia.
Estoy aquí con un propósito / el propósito varía.
Escribí un poema leyéndola. Le robé una fórmula para otro poema. Al final, escribí en los márgenes: la poesía es una canción silenciosa. Gracias a Random que me regaló el libro.
Te vi a ti que eras yo.
La violencia sin mala voluntad.
El nuestro era un país de hoyos.
Le rompimos el corazón a nuestra madre y nos convertimos en quienes somos.
Dios no nos abandona nunca / Somos lo único que conoce.
¿Me conocen? ¿Saben que estoy aquí escribiendo mientras se descomponen?
Qué ligero parece el corazón y a la vez que cosa tan pesada.
La argolla que nos rodea el cuello / pesa, vaya si pesa.
Ella lo rodeó / y él perdió la cabeza.
Porque tu hermoso dolor brotó como una rama, / floreció en caligrafía [¿acaso mejor definición de literatura?]
Un corazón estéril es un corazón que no elige.
Ser para sentir.
Siempre habrá romances.
¿Cómo pude pensar algo tan violento?
Y el corazón es libre / no sigue los planes de dios.
¿Qué es el corazón sino un puñado de agonías?
¿Acaso lloran los animales como humanos?
Has venido / la puerta está abierta / no me hallarás a mí / hallarás mi amor.
Llorar la muerte de las estrellas.
Ansío ver, oír lo que voy a crear.
Conozco tu soledad / que deseaba llenar con la mía propia.
Estoy aquí con un propósito / el propósito varía.
Escribí un poema leyéndola. Le robé una fórmula para otro poema. Al final, escribí en los márgenes: la poesía es una canción silenciosa. Gracias a Random que me regaló el libro.
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July 8, 2021i’m not sure what to rate this because some of the poems i absolutely adored and some i just stared at. i liked it though
July 13, 2025
Je finis ce recueil et je peux le dire j’ai vécu une expérience mystique. Je n’ai pas compris tout ce que j’ai lu mais ça m’a transpercée et j’ai du lâcher prise pour que le texte me porte de bout en bout. L’édition bilingue est un plus et permet d’aller de la traduction au texte original pour s’imprégner des rythmiques de la langue anglaise dans le texte.
Étant une adepte de sa musique, me voilà maintenant une adepte de sa poésie, et de sa prose incessamment sous peu puisque je suis très tentée de m’offrir Just Kids prochainement…
“Souci
Il avait un visage du temps passé
Intense, étrange, aux yeux pleins de tristesse
Et un sourire à ressusciter le paradis
Elle gardait son troupeau sur une colline
L'observait d'une hauteur
Obscurcie par la lumière, joues en feu
Il suivait la trajectoire des astres et du soleil
Nature contrariée au fil de la prudence
Croisa le regard de l'ensorcelée
Par monts et par vaux elle fila vite
Découvrant l'air, sa coiffe glissa
Tomba dans un creux en quête de Bien
Telle une fleur gage de foi à ses pieds
La Providence ne l'entend pas ainsi
Il suivit la voie des astres et du soleil
Il caressa la coiffe de sa main salvatrice
Puis s'en fut dans le vent glacial
Hélas le coeur a ses propres desseins
Que contrarient les plans divins
Et plus jamais elle ne pourra connaître
Un tel homme”
Étant une adepte de sa musique, me voilà maintenant une adepte de sa poésie, et de sa prose incessamment sous peu puisque je suis très tentée de m’offrir Just Kids prochainement…
“Souci
Il avait un visage du temps passé
Intense, étrange, aux yeux pleins de tristesse
Et un sourire à ressusciter le paradis
Elle gardait son troupeau sur une colline
L'observait d'une hauteur
Obscurcie par la lumière, joues en feu
Il suivait la trajectoire des astres et du soleil
Nature contrariée au fil de la prudence
Croisa le regard de l'ensorcelée
Par monts et par vaux elle fila vite
Découvrant l'air, sa coiffe glissa
Tomba dans un creux en quête de Bien
Telle une fleur gage de foi à ses pieds
La Providence ne l'entend pas ainsi
Il suivit la voie des astres et du soleil
Il caressa la coiffe de sa main salvatrice
Puis s'en fut dans le vent glacial
Hélas le coeur a ses propres desseins
Que contrarient les plans divins
Et plus jamais elle ne pourra connaître
Un tel homme”
January 9, 2015
I don't usually write reviews of poetry because it is so subjective. Either you like it or you don't. But I mean c'mon it's Patti Smith. I have always considered Patti more of an artist and a poet than a great singer.She is a great performer but in that venue can be hard to take at times, but she is a brilliant writer, and poet and this small book of poetry is no exception. Beautiful poems and meditations worth reading but from Patti I'd expect no less. 5 biased Patti Smith loving stars.
April 23, 2020
Like all of Smith’s books, it’s an invitation to her universe of timelessness, poetry, art as religion, and an ongoing dialogue with past poets, writers, and artists.
But this time there’s also our world, which peeks in this books through the poems about Benghazi and Baghdad, racism and the kids as soldiers or kids as victims.
I liked a lot the experimental poem at the end of the book, a stream of consciousness of several pages without a dot, and the personal letter of Smith to her beloved Rimbaud; which is another chapter in her never-ending romance with this poet.
I’ve read it in the days of the COVID 19, and I thank her for this short but profound trip that reminded me where true art beats its heart.
But this time there’s also our world, which peeks in this books through the poems about Benghazi and Baghdad, racism and the kids as soldiers or kids as victims.
I liked a lot the experimental poem at the end of the book, a stream of consciousness of several pages without a dot, and the personal letter of Smith to her beloved Rimbaud; which is another chapter in her never-ending romance with this poet.
I’ve read it in the days of the COVID 19, and I thank her for this short but profound trip that reminded me where true art beats its heart.
November 1, 2024
Lire Patti Smith pour moi c'est un peu comme de l'anemoia, la nostalgie d'une époque que je n'ai pas connu. J'ai trouvé ce recueil beaucoup moins accessible que d'autres dans la bibliographie de l'autrice. C'est un univers pour lequel il faut avoir quelques clés. Certains poèmes bien trop ancrés dans le réel sur la guerre et les enfants soldats résonnent particulièrement.
November 2, 2023
it is better to write,
then die
then die
December 22, 2025
Aclaro, para mí, es algo muy personal y llenador leer o escuchar a Patti Smith. Lo había hecho con sus trabajos más conocidos, y no había coincidido en su poesía.
No me gustaron tanto como para las cuatro estrellas jajajaja Se sienten hechos densos a propósito, y con dos tres versos que dices "ok...". Muchas veces me sentía como el audio de Adele donde dice "I don't know what you mean there babes", porque suelta imágenes tras otras que se sienten interesantes pero raras(?
Tipo, no le entiendes porque "está hablando en un lenguaje poético", y no me siento cómodo con esa explicación, más que admitir que su delivery es meh.
Aún así, le doy 3.5 estrellas por este verso:
God does not abandon us
we are all he knows.
We must not abandon him;
he is ourselves
the ether of our deeds.
No me gustaron tanto como para las cuatro estrellas jajajaja Se sienten hechos densos a propósito, y con dos tres versos que dices "ok...". Muchas veces me sentía como el audio de Adele donde dice "I don't know what you mean there babes", porque suelta imágenes tras otras que se sienten interesantes pero raras(?
Tipo, no le entiendes porque "está hablando en un lenguaje poético", y no me siento cómodo con esa explicación, más que admitir que su delivery es meh.
Aún así, le doy 3.5 estrellas por este verso:
God does not abandon us
we are all he knows.
We must not abandon him;
he is ourselves
the ether of our deeds.
April 27, 2020
i had to stop reading auguries of innocence by patti smith because it was making me too crazy. she would just be like
what is the heart but a small hand of agonies?
and
the music of the spheres knew not of what it sang
and
you have come / the door is open / you will not find me / you will find my love
and i was like *WEEPS INCESSANTLY INTO MY PALMS*!
what is the heart but a small hand of agonies?
and
the music of the spheres knew not of what it sang
and
you have come / the door is open / you will not find me / you will find my love
and i was like *WEEPS INCESSANTLY INTO MY PALMS*!
December 17, 2015
My first time to have read something from Patti Smith (ooh the shock, horror. I know!).
While I do not specifically sought out poetry to read, I was however interested in this, as it was short (tbh). However, as I continued to read on, I was entranced by the writing's fluidity, the calmness yet realistic portrayal of life.
While I do not specifically sought out poetry to read, I was however interested in this, as it was short (tbh). However, as I continued to read on, I was entranced by the writing's fluidity, the calmness yet realistic portrayal of life.
October 28, 2022
I love Patti Smith for who she is, and her story, and what she espouses. I love her prose and her music. But I didn’t really get on with this book of poetry. Too hard to fathom, just disconnected ideas represented by disconnected words. I did like Birds of Iraq from this collection though. A sudden moment of authenticity and clarity.
October 20, 2019
Yo no sé por qué me gusta tanto cómo escribe Patti, pero es maravilloso.
April 28, 2022
Didn't rhyme
November 4, 2020
Un libro lindo, me recordó mucho a la poesía de los malditos (Rimbaud y Baudelaire) , por momentos es demasiado hermético, pero el libro solo lo vale por el poema final. Es tan hermoso y tan profundo, que te quita el aliento después de concluirlo.
September 9, 2024
Mucho ya conozco de Patti Smith: su música, su vida, su Just Kids, pero jamás había leído su poesía, una parte tan crucial de la persona que es.
Esta colección muestra a una Patti Smith maestra del ritmo y la sensibilidad. Es un libro de imágenes maravillosas, no exento de un fuerte sentido político que se siente deliciosamente crudo. Me gustó mucho cómo maneja el ritmo como instrumento de significación: el pulso del tambor, la palabra rápida, la fragmentación, casi como personajes de lo que se está expresando. Excelente.
Algunos de mis favoritos: Three Windows, Mummer Love, Birds of Iraq, Tara, Sleep of the Dodo.
Esta colección muestra a una Patti Smith maestra del ritmo y la sensibilidad. Es un libro de imágenes maravillosas, no exento de un fuerte sentido político que se siente deliciosamente crudo. Me gustó mucho cómo maneja el ritmo como instrumento de significación: el pulso del tambor, la palabra rápida, la fragmentación, casi como personajes de lo que se está expresando. Excelente.
Algunos de mis favoritos: Three Windows, Mummer Love, Birds of Iraq, Tara, Sleep of the Dodo.
April 26, 2025
te vi a ti que eras yo
July 4, 2023
Hubiero poemas que me fascinaron con locura y otros con los que paso todo lo contrario.
May 17, 2024
Me ha sorprendido gratamente. Tiene que leerlo. 🫰❤️🩹
February 12, 2019
Rounding up from 3.5 stars.
I'm on a Patti kick after reading/listening to Just Kids, so I read this alongside her collection of early works. It's vastly different, and I enjoyed this one much more, at least in terms of content. I'm not going to attempt to write some critical analysis because I don't really know why this is or isn't a good book of poetry, but I enjoyed it, so that's enough for me.
I'm on a Patti kick after reading/listening to Just Kids, so I read this alongside her collection of early works. It's vastly different, and I enjoyed this one much more, at least in terms of content. I'm not going to attempt to write some critical analysis because I don't really know why this is or isn't a good book of poetry, but I enjoyed it, so that's enough for me.
Read
January 24, 2025"Tels les mots que j'ai écrits au bord d'un lac.
Passe-les toi autour du poignet. Pas besoin d'empoigner une épée ni de brandir rien qui puisse se brandir, car la sagesse est un oiseau mourant, gravé sur une paume. Trois fois rien. Ces mots furent écrits au bord d'un lac avant que l'être comme être en vînt à être traité par l'écrit. Un paquet de vies, chacune ayant visage vainqueur, chacune avec ce commandement ému :
Pique. Au moment où ta main est libre."
Passe-les toi autour du poignet. Pas besoin d'empoigner une épée ni de brandir rien qui puisse se brandir, car la sagesse est un oiseau mourant, gravé sur une paume. Trois fois rien. Ces mots furent écrits au bord d'un lac avant que l'être comme être en vînt à être traité par l'écrit. Un paquet de vies, chacune ayant visage vainqueur, chacune avec ce commandement ému :
Pique. Au moment où ta main est libre."
June 26, 2020
Siempre Ídola Patti, nunca inídola ♥️
Qué linda edición bilingüe de Lumen.
Qué linda edición bilingüe de Lumen.
March 25, 2023
thank you patti for transporting me into your world while my body remains seated at my work desk
January 27, 2025
Pas une lecture des plus accessibles, mais une très jolie plume que j’ai beaucoup apprécié.
March 5, 2019
For good and bad, definitely recognizable as latter-day Patti Smith; the passion is still undiminished, but the writing has become far more cerebral, less free-jazz starshooting. Which isn't necessarily a bad thing, and the best things here ("Our Jargon Muffles The Drum", "Birds of Iraq", "The Blue Doll") are among the best... anything she's written, at least on paper. Others feel a bit flat. I'm sure I'd change my mind about that if I heard her read them.
January 13, 2024
4/5 ⭐️
I really enjoyed Smith’s memoir Just Kids and I figured I should check out some of her poetry since it was discussed frequently in the novel, and I must say it did not disappoint. This collection was short but poignant and I found myself connecting the poems to the larger picture I learned in her narrative.
“This morning, pulling into your town, I walked the streets that you despised, the streets I love for your having despised them.”
I really enjoyed Smith’s memoir Just Kids and I figured I should check out some of her poetry since it was discussed frequently in the novel, and I must say it did not disappoint. This collection was short but poignant and I found myself connecting the poems to the larger picture I learned in her narrative.
“This morning, pulling into your town, I walked the streets that you despised, the streets I love for your having despised them.”
Read
May 4, 2021My problem with poetry is that it's either too simple and straightforward, or overly poetic and metaphorical. Auguries of Innocence definitely felt like the later for me. Poetry is such a personal thing and this collection was simply not for me
January 17, 2024
La poesía de Patti Smith nos recuerda que siempre hemos estado en tiempos turbulentos. Que siempre hemos vivido en constante tensión y la guerra siempre ha destruido a los inocentes.
Es fuerte, afilada, dura.
Espero que se den un momento para leerla.
"¿En qué siglo estamos?
En el último sin duda"
Es fuerte, afilada, dura.
Espero que se den un momento para leerla.
"¿En qué siglo estamos?
En el último sin duda"
Displaying 1 - 30 of 182 reviews