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Best Famous Lew Welch Poems

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

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Written by Lew Welch |

Taxi Suite (excerpt: 1. After Anacreon)

 When I drive cab
I am moved by strange whistles and wear a hat

When I drive cab
I am the hunter.
My prey leaps out from where it hid, beguiling me with gestures When I drive cab all may command me, yet I am in command of all who do When I drive cab I am guided by voices descending from the naked air When I drive cab A revelation of movement comes to me.
They wake now.
Now they want to work or look around.
Now they want drunkenness and heavy food.
Now they contrive to love.
When I drive cab I bring the sailor home from the sea.
In the back of my car he fingers the pelt of his maiden When I drive cab I watch for stragglers in the urban order of things.
When I drive cab I end the only lit and waitful things in miles of darkened houses

Written by Lew Welch |

I Saw Myself

 I saw myself
a ring of bone
in the clear stream
of all of it

and vowed
always to be open to it
that all of it
might flow through

and then heard
"ring of bone" where
ring is what a

bell does

Written by Lew Welch |

Dear Joanne

 Dear Joanne,

Last night Magda dreamed that she,
you, Jack, and I were driving around
We parked in Florence and left our dog to guard the car.
She was worried because he doesn't understand Italian.

Written by Lew Welch |

The image as in a Hexagram:

 The image, as in a Hexagram:

The hermit locks his door against the blizzard.
He keeps the cabin warm.
All winter long he sorts out all he has.
What was well started shall be finished.
What was not, should be thrown away.
In spring he emerges with one garment and a single book.
The cabin is very clean.
Except for that, you'd never guess anyone lived there.

Written by Lew Welch |

Not yet 40 my beard is already white

 Not yet 40, my beard is already white.
Not yet awake, my eyes are puffy and red, like a child who has cried too much.
What is more disagreeable than last night's wine? I'll shave.
I'll stick my head in the cold spring and look around at the pebbles.
Maybe I can eat a can of peaches.
Then I can finish the rest of the wine, write poems 'til I'm drunk again, and when the afternoon breeze comes up I'll sleep until I see the moon and the dark trees and the nibbling deer and hear the quarreling coons