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Best Famous Frank Bidart Poems

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

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by Frank Bidart | |

Adolescence

 In love they wore themselves in a green embrace.
A silken rain fell through the spring upon them.
In the park she fed the swans and he whittled nervously with his strange hands.
And white was mixed with all their colours as if they drew it from the flowering trees.
At night his two finger whistle brought her down the waterfall stairs to his shy smile which like an eddy, turned her round and round lazily and slowly so her will was nowhere—as in dreams things are and aren't.
Walking along avenues in the dark street lamps sang like sopranos in their heads with a voilence they never understood and all their movements when they were together had no conclusion.
Only leaning into the question had they motion; after they parted were savage and swift as gulls.
asking and asking the hostile emptiness they were as sharp as partly sculptured stone and all who watched, forgetting, were amazed to see them form and fade before their eyes.


by Frank Bidart | |

Self-Portrait 1969

 He's still young--; thirty, but looks younger--
or does he?.
.
.
In the eyes and cheeks, tonight, turning in the mirror, he saw his mother,-- puffy; angry; bewildered.
.
.
Many nights, now, when he stares there, he gets angry:-- something unfulfilled there, something dead to what he once thought he surely could be-- Now, just the glamour of habits.
.
.
Once, instead, he thought insight would remake him, he'd reach --what? The thrill, the exhilaration unravelling disaster, that seemed to teach necessary knowledge.
.
.
became just jargon.
Sick of being decent, he craves another crash.
What reaches him except disaster?


by Frank Bidart | |

Adolescence

 He stared up into my eyes with a look
I can almost see now.
He had that look in his eyes that bore right into mine.
I could sense that he knew I was envious of what he was doing—; and knew that I'd always wish I had known at the time what he was doing was something I'd always crave in later life, just as he did.
He was enjoying what he was doing.
The look was one of pure rapture.
He was gloating.
He knew.
I still remember his look.


by Frank Bidart | |

Love Incarnate

 (Dante, Vita Nuova)


To all those driven berserk or humanized by love
this is offered, for I need help 
deciphering my dream.
When we love our lord is LOVE.
When I recall that at the fourth hour of the night, watched by shining stars, LOVE at last became incarnate, the memory is horror.
In his hands smiling LOVE held my burning heart, and in his arms, the body whose greeting pierces my soul, now wrapped in bloodred, sleeping.
He made him wake.
He ordered him to eat my heart.
He ate my burning heart.
He ate it submissively, as if afraid as LOVE wept.


by Frank Bidart | |

Overheard Through The Walls Of The Invisible City

 .
.
.
telling those who swarm around him his desire is that an appendage from each of them fill, invade each of his orifices,— repeating, chanting, Oh yeah Oh yeah Oh yeah Oh yeah Oh yeah until, as if in darkness he craved the sun, at last he reached consummation.
—Until telling those who swarm around him begins again (we are the wheel to which we are bound).


by Frank Bidart | |

For The Twentieth Century

 Bound, hungry to pluck again from the thousand
technologies of ecstasy

boundlessness, the world that at a drop of water
rises without boundaries,

I push the PLAY button:—

.
.
.
Callas, Laurel & Hardy, Szigeti you are alive again,— the slow movement of K.
218 once again no longer bland, merely pretty, nearly banal, as it is in all but Szigeti's hands * Therefore you and I and Mozart must thank the Twentieth Century, for it made you pattern, form whose infinite repeatability within matter defies matter— Malibran.
Henry Irving.
The young Joachim.
They are lost, a mountain of newspaper clippings, become words not their own words.
The art of the performer.


by Frank Bidart | |

Guilty Of Dust

 up or down from the infinite C E N T E R
B R I M M I N G at the winking rim of time

the voice in my head said

LOVE IS THE DISTANCE
BETWEEN YOU AND WHAT YOU LOVE

WHAT YOU LOVE IS YOUR FATE

 *

then I saw the parade of my loves

those PERFORMERS comics actors singers

forgetful of my very self so often I
desired to die to myself to live in them

then my PARENTS my FRIENDS the drained
SPECTRES once filled with my baffled infatuations

love and guilt and fury and
sweetness for whom

nail spirit yearning to the earth

 *

then the voice in my head said

WHETHER YOU LOVE WHAT YOU LOVE

OR LIVE IN DIVIDED CEASELESS
REVOLT AGAINST IT

WHAT YOU LOVE IS YOUR FATE

 1984


by Frank Bidart | |

Homo Faber

 Whatever lies still uncarried from the abyss within
me as I die dies with me.


by Frank Bidart | |

If I Could Mourn Like A Mourning Dove

 It is what recurs that we believe,
your face not at one moment looking
sideways up at me anguished or

elate, but the old words welling up by
gravity rearranged:
two weeks before you died in

pain worn out, after my usual casual sign-off
with All my love, your simple
solemn My love to you, Frank.