As we looked each other over,
Looking for poems in the eyes,
Poems moving in the eyes,
Intellectuality the worst disguise,
Or, what is hidden, what all seek—
The feeling we get when the answer is near—
I cannot tell you why I love you, never could—
A pictured memory with several voices,
Described as if science and beauty were one,
But that’s not it, either—
Demonstrative love, something out of the movies,
Or, in this case, at the movies—do you remember?
You getting up suddenly to leave?
Life is a falling?  There’s nothing in it we can stop?
And what am I doing but pondering the plural movies in that idiomatic phrase,
“Something out of the movies,”
Instead of leaving to find you,
Getting you, telling you about what I was trying to say
In the whole poem.



  1. October 3, 2012 at 8:34 pm

    Done Too Soon

    Jesus Christ, Fanny Brice
    Wolfie Mozart and Humphrey Bogart
    And Genghis Khan
    And on to H. G. Wells

    Ho Chi Minh, Gunga Din
    Henry Luce and John Wilkes Booth
    And Alexanders King and Graham Bell

    Ramar Krishna, Mama Whistler
    Patrice Lumumba and Russ Colombo
    Karl and Chico Marx
    Albert Camus,

    E. A. Poe, Henri Rousseau
    Sholom Aleichem and Caryl Chessman
    Alan Freed and Buster Keaton too

    And each one there
    Has one thing shared
    They have sweated beneath the same sun
    Looked up in wonder at the same moon
    And wept when it was all done
    For bein’ done too soon
    For bein’ done too soon
    For bein’ done

    Neil Leslie Diamond

  2. Fred support said,

    October 7, 2012 at 3:24 pm

    Fred gets it wrong

    by Robert Conquest

    Oh no, we never mention her.
    —Because her name might make
    Such hellish images recur
    As even Fred can’t take?

    For once your guess would turn out wrong:
    This time the problem is
    Not letting Fred go on too long
    With happy memories.

    She was his secretary, and more;
    And so they went away
    To take off March and April for
    A working holiday.

    A peasant hut, fixed by a friend:
    From nine Fred would dictate
    While she took shorthand and got tanned.
    (As Fred’s now keen to state,

    Such work together may enrich
    Vacant vacation days
    To a good intimacy which
    You miss if you just laze.)

    Then, sour wine and canned corned beef
    And next, an icy swim
    From the sea-urchin-studded reef:
    It all seemed fine to him.

    A stroll down to the little port,
    A trudge the two miles back
    Heavy with provender they’d bought
    Between them in a sack.

    At dusk she’d do the typing up
    While Fred set to and strove
    To stew the stuff on which they’d sup
    Upon the butane stove.

    And so to bed. It seemed to him
    The soft play of desire
    Sank through a salt-aired sleep to brim
    Contentment each day higher.

    Then home. The recent victim of
    A marital affray,
    So still too numb to mention love,
    Fred let her get away.

    Was she a rose without a thorn?
    Fred asks as one of those
    Who’s more than once been scratched and torn
    By thorns without a rose.

    And if they’d wed? Though Fred will say
    Well, thorns are bound to sprout,
    And petals fade and fall away,
    One sees he’s still in doubt.

  3. marcusbales said,

    October 8, 2012 at 3:45 am


    He fingered through his sunlit mane;
    His flickering sunspot guile
    Blistered with betraying pain
    And burned her simple smile.

    He seemed, to her, to make her soul
    As sunlight makes the day;
    She had no chance to see him whole,
    And couldn’t look away.

    But what was there at which she caught
    In his hard, hazel stare –
    Love? Or something else she thought
    She saw that wasn’t there?

    With brightened eyes she watched him eat,
    Endured his lunge and pause
    In screaming hush while something beat
    And bled between his claws.

    After lunch she tried to believe
    She’d come to love again;
    The truth oozed from the hole in her sleeve
    Where what she’d worn had been.

  4. thomasbrady said,

    October 8, 2012 at 10:29 pm

    You had trouble in the dark,
    You heard your beating heart
    Booming in your ears;
    You lived secretly for twelve years;
    You lived with love underground
    As right above, people milled around.

    Is it possible, in love, to be sated?
    She was in love with me, of course she waited,
    We fell in love, yes of course we dated
    Even though we were married to others.
    Of course it makes sense, like having sisters and brothers.
    You are lonely even with everybody here.
    We make a last stop in the vast atmosphere.
    You contemplated death with her, death, profound.
    Every time she called you, or came around
    Life offered you a look, or a far away sound.
    My arm around her in bed, my hand went numb
    As I thought wistfully of Elysium.

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