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Best Famous Brooks Haxton Poems

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

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by Brooks Haxton | |

Monster Minded

 The wine of astonishment
is house wine at my house.
The whiskey of it is a sauce we savor.
The cocaine of thy judgment also is rock crystal, blow to blow the mitral valve.
Truly is the heroin of thine excellency said to be deep brown, shit pure enough to stop the heart.


by Brooks Haxton | |

Thy Name

 My God, my God, why hast thou forsaken me? 
 I will declare thy name unto my brethren.
… Psalm 102 OK.
Let’s not call what ditched us God: ghu, the root in Sanskrit, means not God, but only the calling thereupon.
Let’s call God Fun.
In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was Fun.
Fun created man in his own image.
The fool hath said in his heart, There is no Fun.
Let’s call the House of God the Funhouse.
Fun derives, according to Dr.
Onions (may he with his Johnson rest in peace), from fond, or foolish.
God, in this prime sense, is fond of us, and we, if all goes well, of him.
Let’s call God luck.
There is no luck in scripture.
Chance gets mentioned several times, my favorite being, Time and chance happeneth to them all; but luck is the unspoken name.
King David to the harp and sackbut sings, in paraphrase, My luck? Gimme a fucking break! With my luck, how do I know?


by Brooks Haxton | |

1985

 The righteous shall rejoice when he seeth 
 the vengeance; he shall wash his feet in 
 the blood of the wicked.
Psalm 58 It was the fortieth year since Buchenwald: two thousand Jewish refugees in Sudan starved while Reagan visited the graves of Nazis.
CBS paid off Westmoreland for their rude disclosure of his lies and crimes: he had killed thirty of the enemy, let’s not forget, for every one lost us: he was owed something.
That year, though, no terrorist could touch God’s work in Mexico and north of Bogota: an earthquake here, volcano there, and numbers do not signify the dead, each corpse incomprehensible as to the widow Klinghoffer her Leon, shot, dumped overboard as if to make a point.
Westmoreland said, the Viet Cong could be indentified from the attacking aircraft as all personnel in uniform below.
Their uniform, he told us, was the native dress.


by Brooks Haxton | |

I Want to Pray

 In the hidden part thou shalt make me to know
 wisdom.
Psalm 51 That young man firing his Kalashnikov into the playground has been made to know the hidden part.
Me, I want to pray.
I’m on my knees.
But all I am is screaming I don’t know what for.
Maybe the best God can do is pay no mind.


by Brooks Haxton | |

Every Death Is Magic from the Enemy to Be Avenged

 My God, my God, why hast thou forsaken me?
 Psalm 22

When fever burned the last light out of my daughter’s eyes,
I swore to find and kill the ones to blame.
Men must mount the long boat in the dark with spears.
At dawn, where the flowering spicebush hid my scent, I crouched.
A young wife, newborn slung across her chest, came first for springwater.
She stooped.
My god, for vengeance, spoke her secret name inside my ear.
Her god stepped back with no scream, his right hand at his mouth, the knuckles clenched between the pointed teeth.


by Brooks Haxton | |

Salesmanship With Half A Dram Of Tears

 Gripping the lectern, rocking it, searching
the faces for the souls, for signs of heartfelt
mindfulness at work, I thought, as I recited
words I wrote in tears: instead of tears,
if I had understood my father's business,
I could be selling men's clothes.
I could be kneeling, complimenting someone at the bay of mirrors, mumblingly, with pinpoints pressed between my lips.
That was the life I held in scorn while young, because I thought to live without distraction, using words.
Yet, looking now into the room of strangers' eyes, I wanted them to feel what I said touch, as palpably as when a men in double worsted felt the cuff drop to his wrist.
There was a rush in the applause of gratitude and mercy: they could go.
A teenager, embarrassed for himself and me, lefthandedly squeezed my fingers, and said thanks.


by Brooks Haxton | |

Rotgut

 The sun shall not smite thee by day, nor 
 the moon by night.
Psalm 121 On a hillside scattered with temples broken under the dogday sun, my friend and I drank local wine at nightfall and ate grapeleaves in goat-yogurt glaze.
The living grape vines bore fruit overhead.
Beyond our balcony, beyond the Turkish rooftops, an old moon touched Venus at one tip.
This vintage, he said, would melt pig iron.
But I wondered, were we drunk enough, and he said no.
I took him, staggering and laughing, in my arms, and soon, with snow at nightfall easing off, another old moon slid into the hill behind my dead friend’s house.
He loved that smear of light cast back on it from earth.