Thursday, September 11, 2003


Pieces of the past arise out of the
rubble.  Which evokes Eliot and
then evokes Suspicion.  Ghosts
all of them.  Doers of no good.

The past around us is deeper than.

Present events defy us, the past

Has no such scruples.  No funeral
processions for him.  He died
in agony.   The cock under the thumb.

Rest us as corpses

We poets

Vain words.

For a funeral (as I live and breathe
and speak)

Of good

And impossible






Jack Spicer

First poem for The Nation,

Second poem for Poetry Chicago

Book of Magazine Verse


© 1966 by Robin Blaser