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Best Famous Alan Dugan Poems

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

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by Alan Dugan | |

Drunken Memories Of Anne Sexton

 The first and last time I met
my ex-lover Anne Sexton was at
a protest poetry reading against
some anti-constitutional war in Asia
when some academic son of a bitch,
to test her reputation as a drunk,
gave her a beer glass full of wine
after our reading.
She drank it all down while staring me full in the face and then said "I don't care what you think, you know," as if I was her ex-what, husband, lover, what? And just as I was just about to say I loved her, I was, what, was, interrupted by my beautiful enemy Galway Kinnell, who said to her "Just as I was told, your eyes, you have one blue, one green" and there they were, the two beautiful poets, staring at each others' beautiful eyes as I drank the lees of her wine.


by Alan Dugan | |

Elegy

 I know but will not tell
you, Aunt Irene, why there
are soap suds in the whiskey:
Uncle Robert had to have
A drink while shaving.


by Alan Dugan | |

How We Heard the Name

 The river brought down
dead horses, dead men
and military debris,
indicative of war
or official acts upstream,
but it went by, it all
goes by, that is the thing
about the river.
Then a soldier on a log went by.
He seemed drunk and we asked him Why had he and this junk come down to us so from the past upstream.
''Friends,'' he said, ''the great Battle of Granicus has just been won by all of the Greeks except the Lacedaemonians and myself: this is a joke between me and a man named Alexander, whom all of you ba-bas will hear of as a god.
''


More great poems below...

by Alan Dugan | |

On Looking for Models

 The trees in time
have something else to do
besides their treeing.
What is it.
I'm a starving to death man myself, and thirsty, thirsty by their fountains but I cannot drink their mud and sunlight to be whole.
I do not understand these presences that drink for months in the dirt, eat light, and then fast dry in the cold.
They stand it out somehow, and how, the Botanists will tell me.
It is the "something else" that bothers me, so I often go back to the forests.


by Alan Dugan | |

Nomenclature

 My mother never heard of Freud
and she decided as a little girl
that she would call her husband Dick
no matter what his first name was
and did.
He called her Ditty.
They called me Bud, and our generic names amused my analyst.
That must, she said, explain the crazy times I had in bed and quoted Freud: "Life is pain.
" "What do women want?" and "My prosthesis does not speak French.
"


by Alan Dugan | |

Swing Shift Blues

 What is better than leaving a bar
in the middle of the afternoon
besides staying in it or not
having gone into it in the first place
because you had a decent woman to be with?
The air smells particularly fresh
after the stale beer and piss smells.
You can stare up at the whole sky: it's blue and white and does not stare back at you like the bar mirror, and there's Whats-'is-name coming out right behind you saying, "I don't believe it, I don't believe it: there he is, staring up at the fucking sky with his mouth open.
Don't you realize, you stupid son of a bitch, that it is a quarter to four and we have to clock in in fifteen minutes to go to work?" So we go to work and do no work and can even breathe in the Bull's face because he's been into the other bar that we don't go to when he's there.


by Nick Flynn | |

Alan Dugan Telling Me I Have A Problem With Time

 He reads my latest attempt at a poem
and is silent for a long time, until it feels
like that night we waited for Apollo,
my mother wandering in and out of her bedroom, asking,
Haven't they landed yet? At last
Dugan throws it on the table and says,
This reads like a cheap detective novel
and I've got nothing to say about it.
It sits, naked and white, with everyone's eyes running over it.
The week before he'd said I had a problem with time, that in my poems everything kept happening at once.
In 1969, the voice of Mission Control told a man named Buzz that there was a bunch of guys turning blue down here on Earth, and now I can understand it was with anticipation, not sickness.
Next, Dugan says, Let's move on.
The attempted poem was about butterflies and my recurring desire to return to a place I've never been.
It was inspired by reading this in a National Geographic: monarchs stream northward from winter roosts in Mexico, laying their eggs atop milkweed to foster new generations along the way.
With the old monarchs gone (I took this line as the title) and all ties to the past ostensibly cut the unimaginable happens--butterflies that have never been to that plateau in Mexico roost there the next winter.
.
.
.
I saw this as a metaphor for a childhood I never had, until Dugan pointed out that metaphor has been dead for a hundred years.
A woman, new to the workshop, leans behind his back and whispers, I like it, but the silence is seamless, as deep as outer space.
That night in 1969 I could turn my head from the television and see the moon filling the one pane over the bed completely as we waited for Neil Armstrong to leave his footprints all over it.