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Best Famous Carolyn Kizer Poems

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

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Written by Carolyn Kizer |

The Intruder

 My mother-- preferring the strange to the tame:
Dove-note, bone marrow, deer dung,
Frog's belly distended with finny young,
Leaf-mould wilderness, hare-bell, toadstool,
Odd, small snakes loving through the leaves,
Metallic beetles rambling over stones: all
Wild and natural -flashed out her instinctive love,
and quick, she
Picked up the fluttering.
bleeding bat the cat laid at her feet, And held the little horror to the mirror, where He gazed on himself and shrieked like an old screen door far off.
Depended from her pinched thumb, each wing Came clattering down like a small black shutter.
Still tranquil, she began, "It's rather sweet.
" The soft mouse body, the hard feral glint In the caught eyes.
Then we saw And recoiled: lice, pallid, yellow, Nested within the wing-pits, cozily sucked and snoozed, The thing dropped from her hands, and with its thud, Swiftly, the cat with a clean careful mouth Closed on the soiled webs, growling, took them out to the back stoop.
But still, dark blood, a sticky puddle on the floor Remained, of all my my mother's tender, wounding passion For a whole wild, lost, betrayed and secret life Among its dens and burrows, its clean stones, Whose denizens can turn upon the world With spitting tongue, an odor, talon, claw To sting or soil benevolence, alien As our clumsy traps, our random scatter of shot, She swept to the kitchen.
Turning on the tap, She washed and washed the pity from her hands.

Written by Carolyn Kizer |

Fearful Women

 Arms and the girl I sing - O rare
arms that are braceleted and white and bare

arms that were lovely Helen's, in whose name
Greek slaughtered Trojan.
Helen was to blame.
Scape-nanny call her; wars for turf and profit don't sound glamorous enough.
Mythologize your women! None escape.
Europe was named from an act of bestial rape: Eponymous girl on bull-back, he intent on scattering sperm across a continent.
Old Zeus refused to take the rap.
It's not his name in big print on the map.
But let's go back to the beginning when sinners didn't know that they were sinning.
He, one rib short: she lived to rue it when Adam said to God, "She made me do it.
" Eve learned that learning was a dangerous thing for her: no end of trouble would it bring.
An educated woman is a danger.
Lock up your mate! Keep a submissive stranger like Darby's Joan, content with church and Kinder, not like that sainted Joan, burnt to a cinder.
Whether we wield a scepter or a mop It's clear you fear that we may get on top.
And if we do -I say it without animus- It's not from you we learned to be magnaminous.

Written by Carolyn Kizer |

Parents Pantoum

 for Maxine Kumin

Where did these enormous children come from,
More ladylike than we have ever been?
Some of ours look older than we feel.
How did they appear in their long dresses More ladylike than we have ever been? But they moan about their aging more than we do, In their fragile heels and long black dresses.
They say they admire our youthful spontaneity.
They moan about their aging more than we do, A somber group--why don't they brighten up? Though they say they admire our youthful spontaneity The beg us to be dignified like them As they ignore our pleas to brighten up.
Someday perhaps we'll capture their attention Then we won't try to be dignified like them Nor they to be so gently patronizing.
Someday perhaps we'll capture their attention.
Don't they know that we're supposed to be the stars? Instead they are so gently patronizing.
It makes us feel like children--second-childish? Perhaps we're too accustomed to be stars.
The famous flowers glowing in the garden, So now we pout like children.
Second-childish? Quaint fragments of forgotten history? Our daughters stroll together in the garden, Chatting of news we've chosen to ignore, Pausing to toss us morsels of their history, Not questions to which only we know answers.
Eyes closed to news we've chosen to ignore, We'd rather excavate old memories, Disdaining age, ignoring pain, avoiding mirrors.
Why do they never listen to our stories? Because they hate to excavate old memories They don't believe our stories have an end.
They don't ask questions because they dread the answers.
They don't see that we've become their mirrors, We offspring of our enormous children.

More great poems below...

Written by Carolyn Kizer |

American Beauty

 For Ann London 

As you described your mastectomy in calm detail
and bared your chest so I might see
the puckered scar,
"They took a hatchet to your breast!" I said.
"What an Amazon you are.
" When we were girls we climbed Mt.
Tamalpais chewing bay leaves we had plucked along the way; we got high all right, from animal pleasure in each other, shouting to the sky.
On your houseboat we tried to ignore the impossible guy you had married to enrage your family, a typical ploy.
We were great fools let loose in the No Name bar on Sausalito's bay.
In San Francisco we'd perch on a waterfront pier chewing sourdough and cheese, swilling champagne, kicking our heels; crooning lewd songs, hooting like seagulls, we bayed with the seals.
Then you married someone in Mexico, broke up in two weeks, didn't bother to divorce, claimed it didn't count.
You dumped number three, fled to Albany to become a pedant.
Averse to domesticity, you read for your Ph.
Your four-year-old looked like a miniature John Lennon.
You fed him peanut butter from your jar and raised him on Beowulf and Grendal.
Much later in New York we reunited; in an elevator at Sak's a woman asked for your autograph.
You glowed like a star, like Anouk Aimee at forty, close enough.
Your pedantry found its place in the Women's Movement.
You rose fast, seen suddenly as the morning star; wrote the ERA found the right man at last, a sensitive artist; flying too high not to crash.
When the cancer caught you you went on talk shows to say you had no fear or faith.
In Baltimore we joked on your bed as you turned into a witty wraith.
When you died I cleaned out your bureau drawers: your usual disorder; an assortment of gorgeous wigs and prosthetic breasts tossed in garbage bags, to spare your gentle spouse.
Then the bequests you had made to every friend you had! For each of us a necklace or a ring.
A snapshot for me: We two, barefoot in chiffon, laughing amid blossoms your last wedding day.

Written by Carolyn Kizer |

Mud Soup

Had the ham bone, had the lentils, Got to meat store for the salt pork, Got to grocery for the celery.
Had the onions, had the garlic, Borrowed carrots from the neighbor.
Had the spices, had the parsley.
One big kettle I had not got; Borrowed pot and lid from landlord.
Dice the pork and chop the celery, Chop the onions, chop the carrots, Chop the tender index finger.
Put the kettle on the burner, Drop the lentils into kettle: Two quarts water, two cups lentils.
Afternoon is wearing on.
Sauté pork and add the veggies, Add the garlic, cook ten minutes, Add to lentils, add to ham bone; Add the bayleaf, cloves in cheesecloth, Add the cayenne! Got no cayenne! Got paprika, salt and pepper.
Bring to boil, reduce heat, simmer.
Did I say that this is summer? Simmer, summer, summer, simmer.
Mop the floor and suck the finger.
Mop the brow with old potholder.
Time is up! Discard the cheesecloth.
Force the mixture thru the foodmill (having first discarded ham bone).
Add the lean meat from the ham bone; Reheat soup and chop the parsley.
Now that sweating night has fallen, Try at last the finished product: 5.
Tastes like mud, the finished product.
Looks like mud, the finished product.
Consistency of mud the dinner.
(Was it lentils, Claiborne, me?) Flush the dinner down disposall, Say to hell with ham bone, lentils, New York Times's recipe.
Purchase Campbell's.
Just add water.
Concentrate on poetry: By the shores of Gitche Gumee You can bet the banks were muddy, Not like Isle of Innisfree.

Written by Carolyn Kizer |

On a Line from Valéry (The Gulf War)

 The whole green sky is dying.
The last tree flares With a great burst of supernatural rose Under a canopy of poisonous airs.
Could we imagine our return to prayers To end in time before time's final throes, The green sky dying as the last tree flares? But we were young in judgement, old in years Who could make peace; but it was war we chose, To spread its canopy of poisoning airs.
Not all our children's pleas and women's fears Could steer us from this hell.
And now God knows His whole green sky is dying as it flares.
Our crops of wheat have turned to fields of tares.
This dreadful century staggers to its close And the sky dies for us, its poisoned heirs.
All rain was dust.
Its granules were our tears.
Throats burst as universal winter rose To kill the whole green sky, the last tree bare Beneath its canopy of poisoned air.

Written by Carolyn Kizer |

Days of 1986

 He was believed by his peers to be an important poet,
But his erotic obsession, condemned and strictly forbidden,
Compromised his standing, and led to his ruin.
Over sixty, and a father many times over, The objects of his attention grew younger and younger: He tried to corrupt the sons of his dearest friends; He pressed on them drinks and drugs, And of course he was caught and publicly shamed.
Was his death a suicide? No one is sure.
But that’s not the whole story; it’s too sordid to tell.
Besides, the memory of his poems deserves better.
Though we were unable to look at them for a time His poems survive his death.
There he appears as his finest self: Attractive, scholarly, dedicated to love.
At last we can read him again, putting aside The brute facts of his outer life, And rejoice at the inner voice, so lofty and pure.

Written by Carolyn Kizer |

On a Line From Valery (Gulf War)

 Tout le ciel vert se meurt
Le dernier arbre brûle.
The whole green sky is dying.
The last tree flares With a great burst of supernatural rose Under a canopy of poisonous airs.
Could we imagine our return to prayers To end in time before time's final throes, The green sky dying as the last tree flares? But we were young in judgment, gray in hairs Who could make peace; but it was war we chose, To spread its canopy of poisoning airs.
Not all our children's pleas and women's stares Could steer us from this Hell.
And now God knows His whole green sky is dying as it flares.
Our crops of wheat have turned to fields of tares.
This dreadful century staggers to its close And the sky dies for us, its poisoned heirs.
All rain was dust.
Its granules were our cares.
Throats burst as everywhere winter arose To dye the dead sky green.
The last tree bears Within its canopy ripe poisoned pears.

Written by Carolyn Kizer |

A Song for Muriel

 No-one explains me because
There is nothing to explain.
It's all right here Very clear.
O for my reputations sake To be difficult and opaque! No-one explains me because Though myopic, I see plain.
I just put it down With a leer and a frown.
Why does it make you sweat? Is this the thanks I get? No-one explains me because There are tears in my bawdy song.
Once I am dead Something will be said.
How nice I won't be here To see how they get it wrong.

Written by Carolyn Kizer |


 For more than thirty years we hadn't met.
I remembered the bright query of your face, That single-minded look,intense and stern, Yet most important -how could I forget?- Was what your taught me inadvertantly (tutored by books and parents, even more By my own awe at what was yet to learn): The finest intellect can be a bore.
At this, perhaps our final interview, Still luminous with your passion to instruct, You speak to that recalcitrant pupil who Inhaled the chalk-dust of your rhetoric.
I nod, I sip my wine, I praise your view, Grateful, my dear, that I escaped from you.

Written by Carolyn Kizer |

Cultural Evolution

 When from his cave, young Mao in his youthful mind
A work to renew old China first designed,
Then he alone interpreted the law,
and from tradtional fountains scorned to draw:
But when to examine every part he came,
Marx and Confucius turned out much the same.

Written by Carolyn Kizer |

Poets Household


The stout poet tiptoes
On the lawn.
Surprisingly limber In his thick sweater Like a middle-age burglar.
Is the young robin injured? 2 She bends to feed the geese Revealing the neck’s white curve Below her curled hair.
Her husband seems not to watch, But she shimmers in his poem.
3 A hush is on the house, The only noise, a fern, Rustling in a vase.
On the porch, the fierce poet Is chanting words to himself.

Written by Carolyn Kizer |

The Ungrateful Garden

 Midas watched the golden crust
That formed over his steaming sores,
Hugged his agues, loved his lust,
But damned to hell the out-of-doors

Where blazing motes of sun impaled
The serrid roses, metal-bright.
"Those famous flowers," Midas wailed, "Have scorched my retina with light.
" This gift, he'd thought, would gild his joys, Silt up the waters of his grief; His lawns a wilderness of noise, The heavy clang of leaf on leaf.
Within, the golden cup is good To lift, to sip the yellow mead.
Outside, in summer's rage, the rude Gold thorn has made his fingers bleed.
"I strolled my halls in golden shift, As ruddy as a lion s meat.
Then I rushed out to share my gift, And golden stubble cut my feet.
" Dazzled with wounds, he limped away To climb into his golden bed, Roses, roses can betray.
"Nature is evil," Midas said