.......... "The poems moved with air, were never done. They morphed and melted..."
.............The Poetry Of
.......... Karen Corcoran Dabkowski
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Pretty Harbinger
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Big old crow
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waddles
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like a fat man
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strolling
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on the grass, his head turns
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this way,
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that-
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spit shined feathers
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winking in the
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startling
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sun and
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every one
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says
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look at me, I am the
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daylight
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death
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just passed
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you by-
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I take
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my time.
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Smoke Inscribed
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Two packs a day,
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twenty five years-
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lungs like
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poison
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puffer fish,
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each poem
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a cloud of death,
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sucking images
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through tar.
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Take this here
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black-eyed
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susan
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baking on the windowsill-
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she'll find a way in.
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Or this one walking here:
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young man carries
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his own head
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under his arm-
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another
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loved-kicked heart
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and me, to spin it out with smoke
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and puffs of night
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mare, every pang
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of how the tales come to my porch-
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the beauty
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and the pity
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duke it out.
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Getting Dickey
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Last night James Dickey visited me,
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mad dogs at his side; his trousers tented
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with the force of
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thrusting
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through the words.
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His southern
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voice was at my nape. My hair stood
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up in worship- I was falling from the sky
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as in my womb his pounding,
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penile-headed poems poured
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remorselessly.
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They preached and rocked,
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they gripped, let go
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and preached and laughed and rocked
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till I had
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fallen.
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