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Best Famous Russell Edson Poems

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

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Written by Russell Edson | Create an image from this poem


 Out of nothing there comes a time called childhood, which 
is simply a path leading through an archway called 
A small town there, past the arch called youth.
Soon, down the road, where one almost misses the life lived beyond the flower, is a small shack labeled, you.
And it is here the future lives in the several postures of arm on windowsill, cheek on this; elbows on knees, face in the hands; sometimes the head thrown back, eyes staring into the ceiling .
This into nothing down the long day's arc .

Written by Russell Edson | Create an image from this poem

The Changeling

 A man had a son who was an anvil.
And then sometimes he was an automobile tire.
I do wish you would sit still, said the father.
Sometimes his son was a rock.
I realize that you have quite lost boundary, where no excess seems excessive, nor to where poverty roots hunger to need.
But should you allow time to embrace you to its bosom of dust, that velvet sleep, then were you served even beyond your need; and desire in sate was properly spilling from its borders, said the father.
Then his son became the corner of a room.
Don't don't, cried the father.
And then his son became a floorboard.
Don't don't, the moon falls there and curdles your wits into the grain of the wood, cried the father.
What shall I do? screamed his son.
Sit until time embraces you into the bosom of its velvet quiet, cried the father.
Like this? Cried his son as his son became dust.
Ah, that is more pleasant, and speaks well of him, who having required much in his neglect of proper choice, turns now, on good advice, to a more advantageous social stance, said the father.
But then his son became his father.
Behold, the son is become as one of us, said the father.
His son said, behold, the son is become as one of us.
Will you stop repeating me, screamed the father.
Will you stop repeating me, screamed his son.
Oh well, I suppose imitation is the sincerest form of flattery, sighed the father.
Oh well, I suppose imitation is the sincerest form of flattery, sighed his son.
Written by Russell Edson | Create an image from this poem

One Lonely Afternoon

 Since the fern can't go to the sink for a drink of
water, I graciously submit myself to the task, bringing two
glasses from the sink.
And so we sit, the fern and I, sipping water together.
Of course I'm more complex than a fern, full of deep thoughts as I am.
But I lay this aside for the easy company of an afternoon friendship.
I don't mind sipping water with a fern, even though, had I my druthers, I'd be speeding through the sky for Stockholm, sipping a bloody mary with a wedge of lime.
And so we sit one lonely afternoon sipping water together.
The fern looking out of its fronds, and I, looking out of mine .
Written by Russell Edson | Create an image from this poem


 You haven't finished your ape, said mother to father, 
who had monkey hair and blood on his whiskers.
I've had enough monkey, cried father.
You didn't eat the hands, and I went to all the trouble to make onion rings for its fingers, said mother.
I'll just nibble on its forehead, and then I've had enough, said father.
I stuffed its nose with garlic, just like you like it, said mother.
Why don't you have the butcher cut these apes up? You lay the whole thing on the table every night; the same fractured skull, the same singed fur; like someone who died horribly.
These aren't dinners, these are post-mortem dissections.
Try a piece of its gum, I've stuffed its mouth with bread, said mother.
Ugh, it looks like a mouth full of vomit.
How can I bite into its cheek with bread spilling out of its mouth? cried father.
Break one of the ears off, they're so crispy, said mother.
I wish to hell you'd put underpants on these apes; even a jockstrap, screamed father.
Father, how dare you insinuate that I see the ape as anything more thn simple meat, screamed mother.
Well what's with this ribbon tied in a bow on its privates? screamed father.
Are you saying that I am in love with this vicious creature? That I would submit my female opening to this brute? That after we had love on the kitchen floor I would put him in the oven, after breaking his head with a frying pan; and then serve him to my husband, that my husband might eat the evidence of my infidelity .
? I'm just saying that I'm damn sick of ape every night, cried father.
Written by Russell Edson | Create an image from this poem

The Family Monkey

 We bought an electric monkey, experimenting rather 
recklessly with funds carefully gathered since 
grandfather's time for the purchase of a steam monkey.
We had either, by this time, the choice of an electric or gas monkey.
The steam monkey is no longer being made, said the monkey merchant.
But the family always planned on a steam monkey.
Well, said the monkey merchant, just as the wind-up monkey gave way to the steam monkey, the steam monkey has given way to the gas and electric monkeys.
Is that like the grandfather clock being replaced by the grandchild clock? Sort of, said the monkey merchant.
So we bought the electric monkey, and plugged its umbilical cord into the wall.
The smoke coming out of its fur told us something was wrong.
We had electrocuted the family monkey.

Written by Russell Edson | Create an image from this poem

The Theory

 The big one went to sleep as to die and dreamed he
became a tiny one.
So tiny as to have lost all substance.
To have become as theoretical as a point.
Then someone said, get up, big one, you're not doing yourself any good.
You puddle and stagnate in your weight.
Best to be up and toward.
It irrigates you.
What, said the big one, have I not disappeared? Have you not mistaken a cloud for me? Perhaps some local hill fulfills your expectation? No, it's no mistake, it's you; those interconnecting puddles of flesh pulling at your bones, attempting that world-weary fall toward the great waters of the world.
How you manage against gravity is one of the greater triumphs of nature.
Do you think, said the big one, there's a woman who would like to marry me? Yes, had such a woman done everything in the world except marry you, she might think it worthy before dying to complete her catalogue.
Or having done everything, go meekly without decision or care to such a consummation.
Then you really feel, said the big one, that this woman could come to care very deeply for me? All is theoretical.
Who knows enough to say the outcome of any event, save that it was past us, and we saw the back of it moving slowly into the Universe, seeking other settings to repeat the fall of fate.
That sounds wonderful, that a woman like that could be in love with me, said the big one.
But in a few moments the big one was back asleep, dreaming that he had come to such enlargement that he constituted all the matter in the Universe, which must include the earth and the woman he would have loved.
Written by Russell Edson | Create an image from this poem

A Performance At Hog Theater

 There was once a hog theater where hogs performed 
as men, had men been hogs.
One hog said, I will be a hog in a field which has found a mouse which is being eaten by the same hog which is in the field and which has found the mouse, which I am performing as my contribution to the performer's art.
Oh let's just be hogs, cried an old hog.
And so the hogs streamed out of the theater crying, only hogs, only hogs .
Written by Russell Edson | Create an image from this poem

The Floor

 The floor is something we must fight against.
Whilst seemingly mere platform for the human stance, it is that place that men fall to.
I am not dizzy.
I stand as a tower, a lighthouse; the pale ray of my sentiency flowing from my face.
But should I go dizzy I crash down into the floor; my face into the floor, my attention bleeding into the cracks of the floor.
Dear horizontal place, I do not wish to be a rug.
Do not pull at the difficult head, this teetering bulb of dread and dream .
Written by Russell Edson | Create an image from this poem

A Historical Breakfast

 A man is bringing a cup of coffee to his face, 
tilting it to his mouth.
It's historical, he thinks.
He scratches his head: another historical event.
He really ought to rest, he's making an awful lot of history this morning.
Oh my, now he's buttering toast, another piece of history is being made.
He wonders why it should have fallen on him to be so historical.
Others probably just don't have it, he thinks, it is, after all, a talent.
He thinks one of his shoelaces needs tying.
Oh well, another important historical event is about to take place.
He just can't help it.
Perhaps he's taking up too large an area of history? But he has to live, hasn't he? Toast needs buttering and he can't go around with one of his shoelaces needing to be tied, can he? Certainly it's true, when the 20th century gets written in full it will be mainly about him.
That's the way the cookie crumbles--ah, there's a phrase that'll be quoted for centuries to come.
Self-conscious? A little; how can one help it with all those yet-to-be-born eyes of the future watching him? Uh oh, he feels another historical event coming .
Ah, there it is, a cup of coffee approaching his face at the end of his arm.
If only they could catch it on film, how much it would mean to the future.
Oops, spilled it all over his lap.
One of those historical accidents that will influence the next thousand years; unpredictable, and really rather uncomfortable .
But history is never easy, he thinks .
Written by Russell Edson | Create an image from this poem

The Melting

 An old woman likes to melt her husband.
She puts him in a melting device, and he pours out the other end in a hot bloody syrup, which she catches in a series of little husband molds.
What splatters on the floor the dog licks up.
When they have set she has seventeen little husbands.
One she throws to the dog because the genitals didn't set right; too much like a vulva because of an air bubble.
Then there are sixteen naked little husbands standing in a row across the kitchen table.
She diddles them and they produce sixteen little erections.
She thinks she might melt her husband again.
She likes melting him.
She might pour him into an even smaller series of husband molds .