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Even if the mountain I climbed Proved to be merely a duncecap It was only on gaining its peak That that knowledge reached me.…
Bill Knott, originally known as Saint Giraud, was born in Carson City, Michigan. He is an associate professor at Emerson College in Boston. He first received recognition with The Naomi Poems published in 1968. He published this work under the pseudonym Saint Geraud (a figure who, it was claimed, lived from 1940 to 1966). Poet Thomas Lux wrote of the collection: “The best poems in this first collection … confront the reader with their directness and imagination …. They’re poems of anguish and frustration because the poet takes responsibility.” Knott’s poems are sometimes surreal, with startling juxtaposed images. Critic Meghan O’Rourke noted the variety of forms in Knott’s poetry, identifying the simple style of some poems and the “highly-torqued syntactic compression” of others. In The Unsubscriber, she found “the mode alternately heroic and vernacular, the subjects ranging from ecocide to the degradations of age to meditations on the sword of Damocles and Rilke’s archaic torso.” Knott, who was an orphan, spent a year in an institution for the mentally ill in Elgin, Illinois, when he was 15; he worked with his uncle at a farm in Michigan, spent two years in the army, and wrote his first book while working as a hospital orderly. He taught for many years at Emerson College in Boston. Bill Knott died on 12 March 2014 at age 74.)
Bill Knott şiirleri
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I lay down in the empty street and parked My feet against the gutter's curb while from The building above a bunch of gawkers perched Along its ledges urged me don't, don't jump.
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As much as someone could plow in one day They called an acre; As much as a person could die in one instant A lifetime--
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Many decades after graduation the students sneak back onto the school-grounds at night and within the pane-lit windows…
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Speak like a singularity, a lack residing deep inside every lock, just past the point keys can jab: against all thrust make safe-ensure your door's core is held back,…
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Tying the pimp in dreams to a lamppost His tuxedo wet with wheedled kisses, can I wake up sucking the footprints of toilets In jails that glitter like crash-dived marquees.…
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Who whispers here is forgotten. Saliva's emptiest fruit adorns the stones,…
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But if they'd give us toys and twice the stuff most parents splurge on the average kid, orphans, I submit, need more than enough; in fact, stacks wrapped with our names nearly hid…
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Here at the height of the day night change The color of the sky is uncertain, The sky depending in which direction One's eye strains, each of its swatches a strange…
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Satiety help me I have inhabit of this world. Extant upon its designs to be more aimlessly fluttering at the window, to shadow all the patterns…
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Going to sleep, I cross my hands on my chest. They will place my hands like this. It will look as though I am flying into myself.
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-to S. The light lay in shreds across the bed, only your waking could make it whole;…
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I'm tired of murdering children. Once, long ago today, they wanted to live; now I feel Vietnam the place where rigor mortis is beginning to set-in upon me.…
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I examine my skin searching for…
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I don't dare speak too loudly, some timbres could be fatal-- that string is not too strong…
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