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EATING POETRY



Ink runs from the corners of my mouth.
There is no happiness like mine.
I have been eating poetry.

The librarian does not believe what she sees.
Her eyes are sad
and she walks with her hands in her dress.

The poems are gone.
The light is dim.
The dogs are on the basement stairs and coming up.

Their eyeballs roll,
their blond legs burn like brush.
The poor librarian begins to stamp her feet and weep.

She does not understand.
When I get on my knees and lick her hand,
she screams.

I am a new man.
I snarl at her and bark.
I romp with joy in the bookish dark.



Mark Strand
I love being a writer.
What I can't stand
is the paperwork.
~ Peter De Vries
The Silence/Warning
Permanently
Occasional Alternative
Your Poem, Man...
How to Be a Poet
Oatmeal
Dear Reader
Kidnap Poem
Ars Poetica
Several Things
The Poet
Word
Poet's Corner
How to Eat a Poem
Why I am a Poet
The New Poetry Handbook
A Loaf of Poetry
For Poets
Poet, Trying to Surprise God
Why I am Not a Painter
Apple that Astonished
Eating Poetry
A New Poet
How Can You Become Poet
Selecting a Reader
The Joy of Writing
Notes on the Art of Poetry
Why do Poets Write?
Glass
I Stop Writing the Poem
An Obsessive Combination
Poet's Corner
LAUNDRY DAY
LINKS
SHOE BOX
SITE MAP
SCRAPBOOK
POETRY
WELCOME!
VIEWS
DIURNAL
QUOTES
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Tasks
Teaching the Ape to Write
People Like Us
Man Writes Poem
poetry readings
The Silence
You Go to School to Learn
Dear Editor
Writing
The Trouble with Poetry
I Ask You
Excerpt
Rereading Frost
Home Fire
Want Ads
The Trouble with Poetry - 2
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Sonnet
Poetics
Thesaurus
The Secret
Of Modern Poetry
live, on stage!
A Considerable Speck
The Best Cigarette
Digging