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Best Famous David St John Poems

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

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by David St John |

Stone Shadows

 For an entire year she dressed in all the shades
Of ash — the gray of old paper; the deeper,
Almost auburn ash of pencil boxes; the dark, nearly

Black marl of oak beds pulled from burning houses.
That year, even her hair itself was woven With an ashen white, just single threads here & there.
Yet the effect at last was of a woman Constructed entirely of evening shadows .
.
.
walking Toward you out of an antique ink-&-pearl snapshot.
Still, it was exactly the kind of sadness I could understand, & even love; & so, I spent hours Walking the back streets of Trastevere looking in the most Forbidding & derelict shops for some element of ash She’d never seen before.
It may seem odd to you, now, But this was the single ambition of my life.
Finally.
I had to give it up; I'd failed.
She knew them all.
So, To celebrate our few months together, I gave her Before we parted one night a necklace with a huge fake Ruby.
She slipped it immediately over her head, & its knuckle Of red glass caught the light reflecting off the thin candles Rising by the bed.
On her naked breasts it looked exactly Like an unworldly, burgundy coal.


by David St John |

Los Angeles 1954

 It was in the old days,
When she used to hang out at a place
Called Club Zombie,
A black cabaret that the police liked
To raid now and then.
As she Stepped through the door, the light Would hit her platinum hair, And believe me, heads would turn.
Maestro Loved it; he'd have her by The arm as he led us through the packed crowd To a private corner Where her secluded oak table always waited.
She'd say, Jordan.
.
.
And I'd order her usual, A champagne cocktail with a tall shot of bourbon On the side.
She'd let her eyes Trail the length of the sleek neck Of the old stand-up bass, as The bass player knocked out the bottom line, His forehead glowing, glossy With sweat in the blue lights; Her own face, smooth and shining, as The liquor slowly blanketed the pills She'd slipped beneath her tongue.
Maestro'd kick the shit out of anybody Who tried to sneak up for an autograph; He'd say, Jordan, just let me know if Somebody gets too close.
.
.
.
Then he'd turn to her and whisper, Here's Where you get to be Miss Nobody.
.
.
And she'd smile as she let him Kiss her hand.
For a while, there was a singer At the club, a guy named Louis-- But Maestro'd change his name to "Michael Champion"; Well, when this guy leaned forward, Cradling the microphone in his huge hands, All the legs went weak Underneath the ladies.
He'd look over at her, letting his eyelids Droop real low, singing, Oh Baby I.
.
.
Oh Baby I Love.
.
.
I Love You.
.
.
And she'd be gone, those little mermaid tears Running down her cheeks.
Maestro Was always cool.
He'd let them use his room upstairs, Sometimes, because they couldn't go out-- Black and white couldn't mix like that then.
I mean, think about it-- This kid star and a cool beauty who made King Cole Sound raw? No, they had to keep it To the club; though sometimes, Near the end, he'd come out to her place At the beach, always taking the iced whisky I brought to him with a sly, sweet smile.
Once, sweeping his arm out in a slow Half-circle, the way at the club he'd Show the audience how far his endless love Had grown, he marked The circumference of the glare whitening the patio Where her friends all sat, sunglasses Masking their eyes.
.
.
And he said to me, Jordan, why do White people love the sun so?-- God's spotlight, my man? Leaning back, he looked over to where she Stood at one end of the patio, watching The breakers flatten along the beach below, Her body reflected and mirrored Perfectly in the bedroom's sliding black glass Door.
He stared at her Reflection for a while, then looked up at me And said, Jordan, I think that I must be Like a pool of water in a cave that sometimes She steps into.
.
.
Later, as I drove him back into the city, He hummed a Bessie Smith tune he'd sing For her, but he didn't say a word until We stopped at last back at the club.
He stepped slowly out of the back Of the Cadillac, and reaching to shake my hand Through the open driver's window, said, My man, Jordan.
.
.
Goodbye.