Sunday

    we sleep right together
    listen to leaves. He
    says his fingers
    get cold from
    playing, slips
    them in my hair

    listening in the
    sheets to my
    woman is water


    do all men who
    play guitar

    get such
    beauty from wood

    I wonder slipping
    my hand into where
    he never wears underpants,

    wanting to be
    that warm


    Burning Poems

    The small ones
    go up easy, dry
    and light, full
    of spaces

    take at least
    6 if you want
    to catch your wood

    sit back in the
    chair, drink the
    scotch, turn out
    the light and
    read my

    but I know you
    can’t wait to
    get to you

    Well the ones
    that you’re in
    are big, they
    flare up like
    lemon trees in
    California, a

    whole orchard
    burning all night
    and into summer


    After the Reading the Color is Blue

    paler than bruise blue,
    more a no valentine on
    Valentine’s Day
    bluesy teal. Color of
    strung sapphire beads
    or the lightest
    shadow of veins,
    a blue Thursday and
    Friday no longer waiting
    for any phone. Blue at
    4:45. February. Ice
    moves east but leaves
    the lint of opals. Blue
    without faces. Blue in
    the icy sheets in the
    flannel that only my’
    own arms wrapped around
    me warms. I wanted a
    jade tongue. But
    it’s blue afterward,
    a blue paint no flesh or
    guava covers. Blue as
    Drano or herons or
    Ophelia’s last
    underwater bubbling
    through blue lips,
    her fingers
    already blue


    Moving by Touch

    that afternoon an
    unreal amber
    light 4 o’clock the
    quietness of
    oil February blue
    bowls full of
    oranges we were
    spreading honey, butter
    on new bread our
    skin nearly
    touching
    Even the dark wood glowed


    Snake Dance

    I rub one bullet
    I’ve ever held against

    my lips, put on his
    old Confederate jacket

    We eat hardtack covered
    with gold vermillion

    high on an Iroquois
    spell we make each

    other tremble (I could
    be doing that snake

    dance knowing about
    things that bite and

    what happens later, still
    taking them into my mouth)


    from my new book:
      beforeitslight.jpg - 6040 Bytes
    Before It's Light - Lyn Lifshin
    $16.00 (1-57423-114-6/paper)
    $27.50 (1-57423-115-4/cloth trade)
    $35.00 (1-57423-116-2/signed cloth)
    Bird.gif - 156 BytesBlack Sparrow Press


Lyn Lifshin

     Lyn Lifshin has written more than 100 books and edited 4 anthologies of women writers. Her poems have appeared in most poetry and literary magazines in the U.S.A., and her work has been included in virtually every major anthology of recent writing by women. She has given more than 700 readings across the U.S.A. and has appeared at Dartmouth and Skidmore colleges, Cornell University, the Shakespeare Library, Whitney Museum, and Huntington Library. Lyn Lifshin has also taught poetry and prose writing for many years at universities, colleges and high schools, and has been Poet in Residence at the University of Rochester, Antioch, and Colorado Mountain College. Winner of numerous awards including the Jack Kerouac Award for her book Kiss The Skin Off, Lyn is the subject of the documentary film Lyn Lifshin: Not Made of Glass. For her absolute dedication to the small presses which first published her, and for managing to survive on her own apart from any major publishing house or academic institution, Lifshin has earned the distinction "Queen of the Small Presses." She has been praised by Robert Frost, Ken Kesey and Richard Eberhart, and Ed Sanders has seen her as " a modern Emily Dickinson."
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