Best Famous Robert Creeley Poems

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

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Written by Charles Bukowski | Create an image from this poem

O We Are The Outcasts

 ah, christ, what a CREW:
more
poetry, always more
P O E T R Y .
if it doesn't come, coax it out with a laxative.
get your name in LIGHTS, get it up there in 8 1/2 x 11 mimeo.
keep it coming like a miracle.
ah christ, writers are the most sickening of all the louts! yellow-toothed, slump-shouldered, gutless, flea-bitten and obvious .
.
.
in tinker-toy rooms with their flabby hearts they tell us what's wrong with the world- as if we didn't know that a cop's club can crack the head and that war is a dirtier game than marriage .
.
.
or down in a basement bar hiding from a wife who doesn't appreciate him and children he doesn't want he tells us that his heart is drowning in vomit.
hell, all our hearts are drowning in vomit, in pork salt, in bad verse, in soggy love.
but he thinks he's alone and he thinks he's special and he thinks he's Rimbaud and he thinks he's Pound.
and death! how about death? did you know that we all have to die? even Keats died, even Milton! and D.
Thomas-THEY KILLED HIM, of course.
Thomas didn't want all those free drinks all that free pussy- they .
.
.
FORCED IT ON HIM when they should have left him alone so he could write write WRITE! poets.
and there's another type.
I've met them at their country places (don't ask me what I was doing there because I don't know).
they were born with money and they don't have to dirty their hands in slaughterhouses or washing dishes in grease joints or driving cabs or pimping or selling pot.
this gives them time to understand Life.
they walk in with their cocktail glass held about heart high and when they drink they just sip.
you are drinking green beer which you brought with you because you have found out through the years that rich bastards are tight- they use 5 cent stamps instead of airmail they promise to have all sorts of goodies ready upon your arrival from gallons of whisky to 50 cent cigars.
but it's never there.
and they HIDE their women from you- their wives, x-wives, daughters, maids, so forth, because they've read your poems and figure all you want to do is fuck everybody and everything.
which once might have been true but is no longer quite true.
and- he WRITES TOO.
POETRY, of course.
everybody writes poetry.
he has plenty of time and a postoffice box in town and he drives there 3 or 4 times a day looking and hoping for accepted poems.
he thinks that poverty is a weakness of the soul.
he thinks your mind is ill because you are drunk all the time and have to work in a factory 10 or 12 hours a night.
he brings his wife in, a beauty, stolen from a poorer rich man.
he lets you gaze for 30 seconds then hustles her out.
she has been crying for some reason.
you've got 3 or 4 days to linger in the guesthouse he says, "come on over to dinner sometime.
" but he doesn't say when or where.
and then you find out that you are not even IN HIS HOUSE.
you are in ONE of his houses but his house is somewhere else- you don't know where.
he even has x-wives in some of his houses.
his main concern is to keep his x-wives away from you.
he doesn't want to give up a damn thing.
and you can't blame him: his x-wives are all young, stolen, kept, talented, well-dressed, schooled, with varying French-German accents.
and!: they WRITE POETRY TOO.
or PAINT.
or fuck.
but his big problem is to get down to that mail box in town to get back his rejected poems and to keep his eye on all the other mail boxes in all his other houses.
meanwhile, the starving Indians sell beads and baskets in the streets of the small desert town.
the Indians are not allowed in his houses not so much because they are a fuck-threat but because they are dirty and ignorant.
dirty? I look down at my shirt with the beerstain on the front.
ignorant? I light a 6 cent cigar and forget about it.
he or they or somebody was supposed to meet me at the train station.
of course, they weren't there.
"We'll be there to meet the great Poet!" well, I looked around and didn't see any great poet.
besides it was 7 a.
m.
and 40 degrees.
those things happen.
the trouble was there were no bars open.
nothing open.
not even a jail.
he's a poet.
he's also a doctor, a head-shrinker.
no blood involved that way.
he won't tell me whether I am crazy or not-I don't have the money.
he walks out with his cocktail glass disappears for 2 hours, 3 hours, then suddenly comes walking back in unannounced with the same cocktail glass to make sure I haven't gotten hold of something more precious than Life itself.
my cheap green beer is killing me.
he shows heart (hurrah) and gives me a little pill that stops my gagging.
but nothing decent to drink.
he'd bought a small 6 pack for my arrival but that was gone in an hour and 15 minutes.
"I'll buy you barrels of beer," he had said.
I used his phone (one of his phones) to get deliveries of beer and cheap whisky.
the town was ten miles away, downhill.
I peeled my poor dollars from my poor roll.
and the boy needed a tip, of course.
the way it was shaping up I could see that I was hardly Dylan Thomas yet, not even Robert Creeley.
certainly Creeley wouldn't have had beerstains on his shirt.
anyhow, when I finally got hold of one of his x-wives I was too drunk to make it.
scared too.
sure, I imagined him peering through the window- he didn't want to give up a damn thing- and leveling the luger while I was working while "The March to the Gallows" was playing over the Muzak and shooting me in the ass first and my poor brain later.
"an intruder," I could hear him telling them, "ravishing one of my helpless x-wives.
" I see him published in some of the magazines now.
not very good stuff.
a poem about me too: the Polack.
the Polack whines too much.
the Polack whines about his country, other countries, all countries, the Polack works overtime in a factory like a fool, among other fools with "pre-drained spirits.
" the Polack drinks seas of green beer full of acid.
the Polack has an ulcerated hemorrhoid.
the Polack picks on fags "fragile fags.
" the Polack hates his wife, hates his daughter.
his daughter will become an alcoholic, a prostitute.
the Polack has an "obese burned out wife.
" the Polack has a spastic gut.
the Polack has a "rectal brain.
" thank you, Doctor (and poet).
any charge for this? I know I still owe you for the pill.
Your poem is not too good but at least I got your starch up.
most of your stuff is about as lively as a wet and deflated beachball.
but it is your round, you've won a round.
going to invite me out this Summer? I might scrape up trainfare.
got an Indian friend who'd like to meet you and yours.
he swears he's got the biggest pecker in the state of California.
and guess what? he writes POETRY too!
Written by Robert Creeley | Create an image from this poem

Ballad Of The Despairing Husband

 My wife and I lived all alone,
contention was our only bone.
I fought with her, she fought with me, and things went on right merrily.
But now I live here by myself with hardly a damn thing on the shelf, and pass my days with little cheer since I have parted from my dear.
Oh come home soon, I write to her.
Go fuck yourself, is her answer.
Now what is that, for Christian word? I hope she feeds on dried goose turd.
But still I love her, yes I do.
I love her and the children too.
I only think it fit that she should quickly come right back to me.
Ah no, she says, and she is tough, and smacks me down with her rebuff.
Ah no, she says, I will not come after the bloody things you've done.
Oh wife, oh wife -- I tell you true, I never loved no one but you.
I never will, it cannot be another woman is for me.
That may be right, she will say then, but as for me, there's other men.
And I will tell you I propose to catch them firmly by the nose.
And I will wear what dresses I choose! And I will dance, and what's to lose! I'm free of you, you little prick, and I'm the one to make it stick.
Was this the darling I did love? Was this that mercy from above did open violets in the spring -- and made my own worn self to sing? She was.
I know.
And she is still, and if I love her? then so I will.
And I will tell her, and tell her right .
.
.
Oh lovely lady, morning or evening or afternoon.
Oh lovely lady, eating with or without a spoon.
Oh most lovely lady, whether dressed or undressed or partly.
Oh most lovely lady, getting up or going to bed or sitting only.
Oh loveliest of ladies, than whom none is more fair, more gracious, more beautiful.
Oh loveliest of ladies, whether you are just or unjust, merciful, indifferent, or cruel.
Oh most loveliest of ladies, doing whatever, seeing whatever, being whatever.
Oh most loveliest of ladies, in rain, in shine, in any weather.
Oh lady, grant me time, please, to finish my rhyme.
Written by Robert Creeley | Create an image from this poem

Goodbye

 She stood at the window.
There was a sound, a light.
She stood at the window.
A face.
Was it that she was looking for, he thought.
Was it that she was looking for.
He said, turn from it, turn from it.
The pain is not unpainful.
Turn from it.
The act of her anger, of the anger she felt then, not turning to him.
Written by Robert Creeley | Create an image from this poem

Age

 Most explicit--
the sense of trap

as a narrowing
cone one's got

stuck into and
any movement

forward simply
wedges once more--

but where
or quite when,

even with whom,
since now there is no one

quite with you--Quite? Quiet?
English expression: Quait?

Language of singular
impedance? A dance? An

involuntary gesture to
others not there? What's

wrong here? How
reach out to the

other side all
others live on as

now you see the
two doctors, behind

you, in mind's eye,
probe into your anus,

or ass, or bottom,
behind you, the roto-

rooter-like device
sees all up, concludes

"like a worn-out inner tube,"
"old," prose prolapsed, person's

problems won't do, must
cut into, cut out .
.
.
The world is a round but diminishing ball, a spherical ice cube, a dusty joke, a fading, faint echo of its former self but remembers, sometimes, its past, sees friends, places, reflections, talks to itself in a fond, judgemental murmur, alone at last.
I stood so close to you I could have reached out and touched you just as you turned over and began to snore not unattractively, no, never less than attractively, my love, my love--but in this curiously glowing dark, this finite emptiness, you, you, you are crucial, hear the whimpering back of the talk, the approaching fears when I may cease to be me, all lost or rather lumped here in a retrograded, dislocating, imploding self, a uselessness talks, even if finally to no one, talks and talks.
Written by Robert Creeley | Create an image from this poem

The Conspiracy

 You send me your poems,
I'll send you mine.
Things tend to awaken even through random communication Let us suddenly proclaim spring.
And jeer at the others, all the others.
I will send a picture too if you will send me one of you.
Written by Robert Creeley | Create an image from this poem

Four Days In Vermont

 Window's tree trunk's predominant face
a single eye-leveled hole where limb's torn off
another larger contorts to swell growing in around
imploding wound beside a clutch of thin twigs
hold to one two three four five six dry twisted
yellowish brown leaves flat against the other
gray trees in back stick upright then the glimpse
of lighter still grayish sky behind the close
welted solid large trunk with clumps of gray-green
lichen seen in boxed glass squared window back
of two shaded lamps on brown chiffonier between
two beds echo in mirror on far wall of small room.
Written by Robert Creeley | Create an image from this poem

Water Music

 The words are a beautiful music.
The words bounce like in water.
Water music, loud in the clearing off the boats, birds, leaves.
They look for a place to sit and eat-- no meaning, no point.
Written by Robert Creeley | Create an image from this poem

A Token

 My lady
fair with
soft
arms, what

can I say to
you-words, words
as if all
worlds were there.
Written by Robert Creeley | Create an image from this poem

The Rain

 All night the sound had
come back again,
and again falls
this quite, persistent rain.
What am I to myself that must be remembered, insisted upon so often? Is it that never the ease, even the hardness, of rain falling will have for me something other than this, something not so insistent-- am I to be locked in this final uneasiness.
Love, if you love me, lie next to me.
Be for me, like rain, the getting out of the tiredness, the fatuousness, the semi- lust of intentional indifference.
Be wet with a decent happiness.
Written by Robert Creeley | Create an image from this poem

The Carnival

 Whereas the man who hits
the gong dis-
proves it, in all its
simplicity --

Even so the attempt
makes for triumph, in
another man.
Likewise in love I am not foolish or in- competent.
My method is not a tenderness, but hope defined.
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