Alexander Jorgensen
Alexander Jorgensen was born and raised along the foothills of Western Massachusetts. An incessant traveler, he has lived and worked in such disparate places as the Czech Republic, the Galapagos Archipelago, China, and Kazakhstan. His visual poetry and writings appear in such publications as Van Gogh's Ear, Noon: Journal of the Short Poem, Moria, Drunken Boat, The Return of Kral Majales: Prague's International Literary Renaissance 1990-2010, The Last Vispo Anthology, and Kabita Pakshik (translations into Bengali by poet and translator Subhashis Gangopadhyay). "Letters to a Younger Poet," correspondences with the late Robert Creeley, appears in Jacket #31. He was nominated for the Pushcart Prize in 2008.
previous page contents next page
Poem for Discharming
A variation on Robert Browning
Alexander Jorgensen was born and raised along the foothills of Western Massachusetts. An incessant traveler, he has lived and worked in such disparate places as the Czech Republic, the Galapagos Archipelago, China, and Kazakhstan. His visual poetry and writings appear in such publications as Van Gogh's Ear, Noon: Journal of the Short Poem, Moria, Drunken Boat, The Return of Kral Majales: Prague's International Literary Renaissance 1990-2010, The Last Vispo Anthology, and Kabita Pakshik (translations into Bengali by poet and translator Subhashis Gangopadhyay). "Letters to a Younger Poet," correspondences with the late Robert Creeley, appears in Jacket #31. He was nominated for the Pushcart Prize in 2008.
posted by mark young at 11:49 AM
1 Comments:
All too often I have
crashed
with longing -
into men that creep
Stiff and cold;
A coat of hoar frost
to their bones.
And what of this longing
my curse
that seeks to defrost.
While they eyeing me
with contempt
seek to obliterate.
Let us get to the heart
of this matter
for they travel
in packs
Stifled howl
a slow grey desire
for bony pubescent
girls.
As they wield power
a keeper of their ego’s
examined
In the gravity that falls
alongside me.
It is their stench
a soulless dance
wrapped around
my first grey hair
My transition
even the spirit of me.
Their words a trail
of poisonous bread crumbs
all visual
they invite themselves
to my table
to eat on my raw
nerve
served with their monster
heart.
Post a Comment
<< Home