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Best Famous Carolyn Forche Poems

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

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by Carolyn Forche | |

The Visitor

 In Spanish he whispers there is no time left.
It is the sound of scythes arcing in wheat, the ache of some field song in Salvador.
The wind along the prison, cautious as Francisco's hands on the inside, touching the walls as he walks, it is his wife's breath slipping into his cell each night while he imagines his hand to be hers.
It is a small country.
There is nothing one man will not do to another.


by Carolyn Forche | |

The Morning Baking

 Grandma, come back, I forgot
How much lard for these rolls 

Think you can put yourself in the ground
Like plain potatoes and grow in Ohio?
I am damn sick of getting fat like you 

Think you can lie through your Slovak?
Tell filthy stories about the blood sausage?
Pish-pish nights at the virgin in Detroit? 

I blame your raising me up for my Slav tongue
You beat me up out back, taught me to dance 

I'll tell you I don't remember any kind of bread
Your wavy loaves of flesh
Stink through my sleep
The stars on your silk robes 

But I'm glad I'll look when I'm old
Like a gypsy dusha hauling milk


by Carolyn Forche | |

Poem For Maya

 Dipping our bread in oil tins
we talked of morning peeling
open our rooms to a moment
of almonds, olives and wind
when we did not yet know what we were.
The days in Mallorca were alike: footprints down goat-paths from the beds we had left, at night the stars locked to darkness.
At that time we were learning to dance, take our clothes in our fingers and open ourselves to their hands.
The veranera was with us.
For a month the almond trees bloomed, their droppings the delicate silks we removed when each time a touch took us closer to the window where we whispered yes, there on the intricate balconies of breath, overlooking the rest of our lives.