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Best Poems Written by Hans Devos

Below are the all-time best Hans Devos poems as chosen by PoetrySoup members

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One More November

november’s storms keep my travels safe indoors 
the wind and snow prosper 
the tumult is a sad caricature of change
gusts play tag with ill-prepared complaining cars
pedestrians believe that even three legs aren’t enough
birds clench the branches patient and unblinking
ruffled only in the feather of their migrating dreams
the whole world slides
the palette of my summer colours bleach to white
and the knife cold whispers down my spine
windows only offer partial refuge 
from the nameless anger blasting past

edmund fitzgerald felt november’s curse
when the beasts of weather ploughed 
into the lake and the best that we could do
was left broken and betrayed
we wallow in slow motion sliding
to the gaping mouth of next month’s frigid grip
november stings all splotched with snow
november is the fanged and howling hunter
scouting for the wolf-pack winter lurking near
november is not quite the corpse
but the dying patient much confused
with the stealth of marching winds

we are swept by short dismantled days
and longer nights    where did all
the winged distractions of our summer go
now only all the evergreens are clothed in grace
november is the bleeding wound
a cracked conceit of angry words and whorls
with shivs of icicles and sinking breath
the cold is needle-like - injected anaethestic
numbing all the toes and fingertips
with illusions of sterility while the
teasing shrinking sun with troubled light
rolls toward december’s promised tipping point

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I Am the Sentence Lost Poet

I am the sentence lost poet who has forgotten names
hollow versions of imposter me with little left to crawl
inside the words. My life is shaped by subtle arts stripped
from the mirror of reflected lives – tribes of non-poets
nonetheless so sensitive and fevered with promises
endless beginnings – seeds and eggs - the future of
great intentions – all the while roughing it in urban
virtual realities  shaping what is left - this ghost of poetry…

I am a tongue-tied sycophant who reads in awe the riddles
and flights of Charles Wright the forests of Atwood the 
ligaments of Don Domanski and daily morsels everywhere
I am the diarist biographer of lesser fates  my multiple lives
adding to one   and yet   and yet
this place is rife with roots and webs   connections and
comparisons that pull understanding far beyond all sight
I live a moment high in flight while darkness dies 

tonight the poet’s moon is a silent solitaire while we children
of the gods bleed within nightmares and plagued famines
the ying and yang – brief lives balanced by eternities of death 
it is the puzzle of the ages with belief to break the cycles down
life is indeed too short to fight when wealth is all around
we are impaired by peers and popularity
we need the stars to burn inside ourselves 
we need the stars to make our aim more true
we need the stars to shine   I need to shine

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I Took My Wife To Breakfast

I took my wife to breakfast   nearby two lovers
                      briefly nibbled on each others ears   we ate 

                      our pancakes and our sausages were sweet
                      as candy-apple lips and forgotten flowers

                      from the mornings of our youth
                      their ankles and their knees

                      caressed beneath the table-top
                      while the sugar in our coffee soon dissolved

                      I ate my food and made small talk
                      but wistfully my hearing strayed

                      the restaurant was good
                      where four lovers might have been

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Coronal Ruminations

Coronal Ruminations
		
Here is a war let loose -
a plague upon the frailties
of our unresisting unsuspecting flesh

another plague invisible
inspired in the very air 
invading passages where 
life would breathe

does our world seem broken now
viral failures magnified
rhythms torn to dissonance
aging pains hobbled by a grieving
stillness found among the dead

leaders ape the emperor without
his clothes and shakespeare in
his mouldered grave still clutches
all the winters of our discontent

this unholy virus is a mirror of
ancient death turned black and also 
of a flu that was an exclamation
to the first and worst of world war

all the bright spilled heavens know
that the treasured numbers
of our dead cannot outstrip the stars
and we must march a little closer
to our ancestors and a little further
from the follies in our lives

and the dead keep falling down
in numbers none can grasp

we are torn apart
and we keep apart
and the dead keep falling down
who will act the priest
spreading benefactions
on the tides of tears and
who will be the scientist
who burns this crown of thorns

and we are torn apart
and we keep apart
and the dead keep falling down

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Untitled

today is not a day for rumination
     cows are ruminants
contemplating the subtleties of grass
nor is it a diary where Whitmanesque
observations are woven into truth

this is just an exercise of thought
as the bright sun fades to rain
feeding the all the stubborn
imperfections of suburban lawns
while, when I am green,
I am moved toward some
semi-sanitary pit to lose it all

and wet and clammy, mewling
	start again

today is just a day for ruination
squarely in the camp of nihilists
my life a metaphor for all the
other systems woven round
	the earth
a toilet bowl of tempests & chaos

     how short sighted are all 
the porcelain views
the personal is never universal
     nor 'uni' anything

variety is woven through the strands
of everything from DNA to history

why is there only male and female
when no two snowflakes are alike

the rainbow has more colours
than the eye can see
and all of them are beautiful
and everyone has room
within the spectrum
of a fecund life - my life your life
	our lives

Details | Hans Devos Poem

The Curious Dream

the curious dream

toward darkness when the sun
	breaks down
do I dream of civility and rules
or does my brain    reorganize
the life fantastic validations of
	chaos theory
and twisted monsters   giving
	life
to that which never was alive

and I wake up     one more day 
restrained           and trained in 
connections      and composure
	until
I break down    one last time
one more victim of universal
entropy         a piece of dust
           that dies
with the cindered cooling stars
         but far before their time

    and far before my time
I am still light years away
	from understanding