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Best Famous James A Emanuel Poems

Here is a collection of the all-time best famous James A Emanuel poems. This is a select list of the best famous James A Emanuel poetry. Reading, writing, and enjoying famous James A Emanuel poetry (as well as classical and contemporary poems) is a great past time. These top poems are the best examples of James A Emanuel poems.

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Written by James A Emanuel |

Four-Letter Word

 Four-letter word JAZZ:
naughty, sexy, cerebral,
but solarplexy.

Written by James A Emanuel |

Poet As Fisherman

 I fish for words
to say what I fish for,
half-catch sometimes.
I have caught little pan fish flashing sunlight (yellow perch, crappies, blue-gills), lighthearted reeled them in, filed them on stringers on the shore.
A nice mess, we called them, and ate with our fingers, laughing.
Once, dreaming of fish in far-off waters, I hooked a two-foot carp in Michigan, on nylon line so fine a fellow-fisher shook his head: "He'll break it, sure; he'll roll on it and get away.
" A quarter-hour it took to bring him in; back-and-forth toward my net, syllable by syllable I let him have his way till he lay flopping on the grass— beside no other, himself enough in size: he fed the three of us (each differently) new strategies of hook, leader, line, and rod.
Working well, I am a deep-water man, a "Daredevil" silver wobbler my lure for lake trout in midsummer.
Oh, I have tried the moon, thermometers— the bait and time and place all by the rule— fishing for the masterpiece, the imperial muskellunge in Minnesota, the peerless pike in Canada.
I have propped a well-thumbed book against the butt of my favorite rod and fished from my heart.
Yet, for my labors, all I have to show are tactics, lore— so little I know of that pea-sized brain I am casting for, to think it could swim with the phantom-words that lure me to this shore.

Written by James A Emanuel |

For A Depressed Woman

My friends do not know.
But what could my friends not know? About what? What friends? II She sleeps late each day, stifling each reason to rise, choked into the quilt.
III "I'll never find work.
" She swallows this thought with pills, finds tears in the glass.

More great poems below...

Written by James A Emanuel |


 When three, he fished these lakes,
Curled sleeping on a lip of rock,
Crib blankets tucked from ants and fishbone flies,
Twitching as the strike of bass and snarling reel
Uncoiled my shouts not quit
Till he jerked blinking up on all-fours,
Swaying with the winking leaves.
Strong awake, he shook his cane pole like a spoon And dipped among the wagging perch Till, tired, he drew his silver rubber blade And poked the winding fins that tugged our string, Or sprayed the dimpling minnows with his plastic gun, Or, rainstruck, squirmed to my armpit in the poncho.
Then years uncurled him, thinned him hard.
Now, far he cast his line into the wrinkled blue And easy toes a rock, reel on his thigh Till bone and crank cry out the strike He takes with manchild chuckles, cunning In his play of zigzag line and plunging silver.
Now fishing far from me, he strides through rain, shoulders A spiny ridge of pines, and disappears Near lakes that cannot be, while I must choose To go or stay: bring blanket, blade, and gun, Or stand a fisherman.

Written by James A Emanuel |

Françoise And The Fruit Farmer

 In town to sell his fruit, he saw her—
Françoise in her summer slacks—
turning to him, coming back
to feel the swelling plums,
one held in each soft hand, breast-high,
above them her eyes enclosing him
in quietness brushed up to colors,
urgings green, thrustings yellow.
A vine-like touch, her promise seemed all profit, surplus to lay aside and store, quick harvest if he collapsed his stand, pulled down his crates, rolled away his canvas: full bounty if he washed his hands and followed, trailing her fragrances of melons in their prime, of berries bursting.
She turned to go, her scent adrift as if from glistenings in soil turned off a spade.
His yearning had no time to plant and cultivate and wait for rain, yet he was quick to catch a peach about to fall— that brightness of his wrist costing the moment that concealed her in the crowd; and yet a perfect peach lay in his hand, his only means to feel the way good seasons end.
A lucky day, he thought, begins with plums.

Written by James A Emanuel |

Im A Jazz Singer She Replied

 He dug what she said:
bright jellies, smooth marmalade
spread on warm brown bread.
"Jazz" from drowsy lips orchids lift to honeybees floating on long sips.
"Jazz": quick fingerpops pancake on a griddle-top of memories.
"Jazz": mysterious as nutmeg, missing fingers, gold, Less serious.
"Jazz": cool bannister.
Don't need no stair.
Ways to climb when the sax is there.

Written by James A Emanuel |

Emmett Till *

 I hear a whistling
Through the water.
Little Emmett Won't be still.
He keeps floating Round the darkness, Edging through The silent chill.
Tell me, please, That bedtime story Of the fairy River Boy Who swims forever, Deep in treasures, Necklaced in A coral toy.
* In 1955, Till, a fourteen-year-old from Chicago, for allegedly whistling at a white woman in Mississippi, was murdered by white men who tied a gin mill fan around his neck and threw his body into the Tallahatchie River.

Written by James A Emanuel |


 Lid's on, steam's risin':
collard greens, Lord, bubblin' JAZZ!
That's appetizin'.

Written by James A Emanuel |

Bojangles And Jo

 Stairstep music: ups,
downs, Bill Robinson smiling,
jazzdancing the rounds.
She raised champagne lips, danced inside banana hips.
All Paris wooed Jo.
Banana panties, perfumed belt, Jazz tatooing lush ecstasies felt.
Josephine, royal, jewelling her dance, flushing the bosom of France.

Written by James A Emanuel |

Michael Jackson

 There ain't NO-BO-DY
can dance like THAT, 'cept them twins
Jazzlene and Jazzphat.

Written by James A Emanuel |


 EVERYTHING is jazz:
snails, jails, rails, tails, males, females,
snow-white cotton bales.
Knee-bone, thigh, hip-bone.
Jazz slips you percussion bone classified "unknown.
" Slick lizard rhythms, cigar-smoke tunes, straight-gin sky laced with double moons.
Second-chance rhythms, don't-give-up riffs: jazz gets HIGH off can'ts, buts, and ifs.

Written by James A Emanuel |

The Treehouse

 To every man
His treehouse,
A green splice in the humping years,
Spartan with narrow cot
And prickly door.
To every man His twilight flash Of luminous recall of tiptoe years in leaf-stung flight; of days of squirm and bite that waved antennas through the grass; of nights when every moving thing was girlshaped, expectantly turning.
To every man His house below And his house above— With perilous stairs Between.

Written by James A Emanuel |

A Fool For Evergreen

 A little bit of fool in me
Hides behind my inmost tree
And pops into the narrow path
I walk blindfolded by my wrath
Or shrunken by some twist of pain,
Some hope that will not wind again.
He ogles with his antic eyes and somersaults a you're-not-wise Until the patches in his pants Go colorwheeling through my glance So fast that I cannot recall That I was mad or sad at all.
A little bit of fool in me Keeps evergreen my inmost tree.

Written by James A Emanuel |

Charlie Bird Parker

 Once Ugly Duckling,
rich plumage grew.
Poised, Bird flew.
Flocks followed.
Me too.

Written by James A Emanuel |

False Notions Fears And Other Things Of Wood

 Repeatedly, that sturdy stump in me
bears up like stone,
beneath some ritual I see:
the blinding axe
swings up, holds,
that moment of its weightlessness
till I confirm the arm is mine;
I will it, grip,
feel moist the swelling handle,
the shudder rude,
the difference fallen.
Toward that chopping block I carry in me woodthings— infectious undergrowth pretending upwards through each stem and branch of me— all so certain of themselves they practice, like pains, the craft of being.
They try to wrench away before we reach that stump, my woodthings and I, they weakening in its brightness, in my luminous saying "I must go, must go to the chopping block.
" They know the brutal business of my thinking; I know they have no charity nor memory to return the way they came— came not from wilderness, nor forest, nor living trees.
Their craft and strength I test— and mine— at the chopping block.