One day, Professor Donald E. Morse gave me an article on Bidart from The Times Literary Supplement. He said that I might be interested. You never really are. Sometimes you feel that the world would be a better place if there was a finite amount of poets. And a finite amount of poems that you can actually read. And then you read the article, and you think it’s OK, but you are not that impressed. Yeah, that line there and that another line were good, but you google him just in case. And then you read some more and you frown some more. And then you read some more for some reason and you find yourself interested. And then you read some more. And then.

SONG
You know that it is there, lair
where the bear ceases
for a time even to exist.
Crawl in. You have at last killed
enough and eaten enough to be fat
enough to cease for a time to exist.
Crawl in. It takes talent to live at night, and scorning
others you had that talent, but now you sniff
the season when you must cease to exist.
Crawl in. Whatever for good or ill
grows within you needs
you for a time to cease to exist.
It is not raining inside
tonight. You know that it is there. Crawl in.
RIO
I am here to fix the door.
Use has almost destroyed it. Disuse
would have had the same effect.
No, you’re not confused, you didn’t
call. If you call you still have hope.
Now you think you have
lived past the necessity for doors.
Carmen Miranda
is on the TV, inviting you to Rio.
Go to sleep while I fix the door.
AS YOU CRAVE SOUL
but find flesh
till flesh
almost seems sufficient
when the as-yet-unwritten
poem within you
demands existence
all you can offer it are words. Words
are flesh. Words
are flesh
craving to become idea, idea
dreaming it has found, this time, a body
obdurate as stone.
To carve the body of the world
and out of flesh make flesh
obdurate as stone.
Looking down into the casket-crib
of your love, embittered by
soul you crave to become stone.
You mourn not
what is not, but what never could have been.
What could not ever find a body
because what you wanted, he
wanted but did not want.
Ordinary divided unsimple heart.
What you dream is that, by eating
the flesh of words, what you make
makes mind and body
one. When, after a reading, you are asked
to describe your aesthetics,
you reply, An aesthetics of embodiment.
TO THE REPUBLIC
I dreamt I saw the caravan of the dead
start out again from Gettysburg.
Close-packed upright in rows on railcar flat-
beds in the sun, they soon will stink.
Victor and vanquished shoved together, dirt
had bleached the blue and gray one color.
Risen again from Gettysburg, as if
the state were shelter crawled to through
blood, risen disconsolate that we
now ruin the great work of time,
they roll in outrage across America
You betray us is blazoned across each chest.
To each eye as they pass: You betray us.
Assaulted by the impotent dead, I say it’s
their misfortune and none of my own.
I dreamt I saw the caravan of the dead
move on wheels touching rails without sound.
To each eye as they pass: You betray us.






(Source: digg.com)
(Source: nytimes.com)
(Source: digitalspy.com)
(Source: roundhouseradio.com)
(Source: variety.com)
(Source: timegoesby.blog.hu)