Comment on Self-Portrait 1969 and see more Frank Bidart poems below.
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He's still young--; thirty, but looks younger--
or does he?.
In the eyes and cheeks, tonight,
turning in the mirror, he saw his mother,--
puffy; angry; bewildered.
now, when he stares there, he gets angry:--
something unfulfilled there, something dead
to what he once thought he surely could be--
Now, just the glamour of habits.
he thought insight would remake him, he'd reach
--what? The thrill, the exhilaration
unravelling disaster, that seemed to teach
became just jargon.
Sick of being decent, he craves another
What reaches him except disaster?
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