Prudent Advice

Life Lessons for My Daughter

Category Archives: Poetry

Now That I am In Madrid I Can Think

I think of you 
and the continents brilliant and arid 
and the slender heart you are sharing my share of with the American air 
as the lungs I have felt sonorously subside slowly greet each morning 
and your brown lashes flutter revealing two perfect dawns colored by New York 



see a vast bridge stretching to the humbled outskirts with only you 
Standing on the edge of the purple like an only tree 
and in Toledo the olive groves’ soft blue look at the hills with silver 
like glasses like and old ladies hair 
It’s well known that God and I don’t get along together 
It’s just a view of the brass works for me, I don’t care about the Moors 
seen through you the great works of death, you are greater 



you are smiling, you are emptying the world so we can be alone. 


Frank O’Hara

In Paris With You

Don’t talk to me of love. I’ve had an earful
And I get tearful when I’ve downed a drink or two.
I’m one of your talking wounded.
I’m a hostage. I’m maroonded.
But I’m in Paris with you.

Yes I’m angry at the way I’ve been bamboozled
And resentful at the mess I’ve been through.
I admit I’m on the rebound
And I don’t care where are we bound.
I’m in Paris with you.

Do you mind if we do not go to the Louvre
If we say sod off to sodding Notre Dame,
If we skip the Champs Elysées
And remain here in this sleazy

Old hotel room
Doing this and that
To what and whom
Learning who you are,
Learning what I am.

Don’t talk to me of love. Let’s talk of Paris,
The little bit of Paris in our view.
There’s that crack across the ceiling
And the hotel walls are peeling
And I’m in Paris with you.

Don’t talk to me of love. Let’s talk of Paris.
I’m in Paris with the slightest thing you do.
I’m in Paris with your eyes, your mouth,
I’m in Paris with… all points south.
Am I embarrassing you?
I’m in Paris with you.

James Fenton

The Act
There were the roses, in the rain.

Don’t cut them, I pleaded.

They won’t last, she said.

But they’re so beautiful

where they are.

Agh, we were all beautiful once, she said,

and cut them and gave them to me

in my hand.
William Carlos Williams