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for Jackson Allen My friend wears my scarf at his waist I give him moonstones He gives me shell & seaweeds…
Diane di Prima (born August 6, 1934) is an American poet and artist. Di Prima was born in Brooklyn, New York in 1934. She attended Hunter College High School and Swarthmore College before dropping out to be a poet in Manhattan. Her official online biography notes that she is "a second generation American of Italian descent" and that "Her maternal grandfather, Domenico Mallozzi, was an active anarchist, and associate of Carlo Tresca and Emma Goldman." Di Prima began writing as a child and by the age of 19 was corresponding with Ezra Pound and Kenneth Patchen. Her first book of poetry, This Kind of Bird Flies Backward, was published in 1958 by Hettie and LeRoi Jones' Totem Press.)
Diane di Prima şiirleri
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I saw you in green velvet, wide full sleeves seated in front of a fireplace, our house made somehow more gracious, and you said "There are stars in your hair"— it was truth I…
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Going there for the first time it was so much smaller then that crowded downstairs full of poetry racks of tattered little mags against the wall…
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for Alan This, then, is the gift the world has given me (you have given me) softly the snow…
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I am a shadow crossing ice I am rusting knife in the water I am pear tree bitten by frost I uphold the mountain with my hand…
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for there is another Lilith, not made for earth of whom it is said / that when she is seen by men it is as vapour / a plague / a cacophony of unique bells / straining & stranger, t…
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Extract the juice which is itself a Light. Pulp, manna, gentle Theriasin, ergot…
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she is the wind you never leave behind black cat you killed in empty lot, she is smell of the summer weeds, the one who lurks in open childhood closets, she coughs…
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that she is eternal, that she sings that she is star-born, that she gathers crystal that she can be confused with Isis that she is the goal…
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Sweetheart when you break thru you'll find a poet here…
Shall we say that the streets were littered w/ half-eaten food dry leaves, debris of plastic & paper…
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you are my bread and the hairline noise of my bones…