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Lamont Palmer

40 şiir · Maryland

0 Altın Yaprak

Lamont Palmer was born and raised in Maryland, where he still resides. He wrote poetry in his teens, but left it as an adult, and did not write anymore poetry for 20 years. In his late 30's, feeling the artistic urges moving him, he returned to poetry, again, as a way to vent his feelings. However this time he began to see his writing as actual art, a craft, something to be taken seriously, a more than simply unloading his feelings bluntly onto the page. He cites as his poetic influences the work of the English masters, Wordsworth and Keats, the French Symbolist Stephane Mallarme, and 20th century lyricists such as Wallace Stevens, T.S. Eliot, James Merrill, W.H. Auden, and John Ashbery. Twice nominated for the Push Cart Prize in 2011, Palmer has published poetry in online magazines including, Some Words, Ariga, Red River Review, and Strange Roads. In addition to poetry, he also writes fiction and has completed one novel which he is in the process of trying to get published. He is fond of describing himself as a 'nonsmoker, nondrinker, nondruguser who's bright, witty, loves his parents, never been to jail, can't swim, is nervous of air travel, dislikes movies with too many car crashes, is musically eclectic, and would die without Cable TV.' In his spare time enjoys reading, playing Scrabble, following politics, and sometimes just staring into space in deep thought. Though Lamont would love to win a National Book Award for his work someday, he still primarily writes poetry for the release and the creation of a legacy, of sort. He writes, 'I don't have kids so I see my poems as my offsprings; perhaps even better reflections of myself than a child would be. I hope people will know my poems and enjoy them, now, and long after I have said goodbye to the world.' Lamont Palmer can be contacted through Poem Hunter, or [email protected] which is his personal email address.)

Lamont Palmer şiirleri

Arama yardımı
İngilizce

Where is the religious eye? Morning is dark. In Pennsylvania, a tear has left youngish ducts, and blood has replaced it.…

1. Muted color translates into quiet sound, or the roundness of planets and moons that dwell here, around us, in obvious places.…

Lilies opened into the outer room. They almost overshadowed the entire place. It was there in bright recesses the talk Began, the colors, the aromas filling what…

Snow claims walkways: restless crystals, like they are at its mercy, but who really is, which is the test of wind, or the speed of air. Intimately involved, shovel and man? Most…

All lengthening dies; so goes hair and hipster styles, In what may be the last gray strand touched On sideburns edged toward thoughts of perfection. As he sat, motion displaced in…

İngilizce

You have no right to be here, You loud enemies borne of all That we fear, strident offsprings Of Emmett Till,…

İngilizce

There were guitar licks in the whitest cotton. That's where the Delta became a womb, a fertile mud, Holding onto hot nightclubs, and charred impulses.…

Out there in the dire hinterlands, a vastness ebvelopes tropes of yesterday, that will never be held again.…

Plots come and go, like wild seas stripped of pride. In the heart of melodrama, life thrives in various eateries and board rooms and in beach homes; scrubbed entities harboring tho…

İngilizce

At the florist, a lady smelled heavenly; I grew nearly intoxicated; swooning…

Shrunken face: brown, refined and small. Who reduced you to this diminutive size? When did you become fragility's core? You scare me. My days tremble like a cold leaf.…

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