Anselm Berrigan and Stacy Szymaszek Poems




Have a Good One by Anselm Berrigan


                                 Birdy shoots out from treetop



                            swallow pen



                                   laid down



                           leave them bugs alone boy




                sleep – dream back to



                     yourself – the you you



                       remember yourself to be



                 when I sleep                it takes



                             less from me than



                  I need it to



                                      I belong anywhere



                          want to belong to



                          no particular place



                                          but there’s              a city of



             strangers for me despite



                            my predilections



       mind invents or retrieves faces



                                                when I shut my eyes



                              my chest has been



                                  weakened by my own hand



                          am on a farm



                             writing             eyes closed



                                            back to grass



                          I don’t aim to kill anything



                                 but I will take responsibility



                                                  for thousands upon



                                        billions of deaths if



                                                         these bugs stop



                                                                crawling on me.






Have a Good One translated into a poem by Stacy Szymaszek


arcane bird slings

forth from branches

try to write with a neck

bone and swallow pen

swatch would be writ

skyline but for this


congress of bugs beneath

feathery arms a dream

bellows me back

to boy self slings


from a crack in voice

into oversleep

where I am more

alive in villa than

this time-shared

aggregate if


no one is in

the bramble I may

sit if no one is in

I am inclined

a city of unfamiliars


fine feathered?

to challenge me

an injured retina

to retrieve spectrum

of faces I invent

cast arm bashes


them into my chest

misjudged acceleration

flawed technique for 

panorama color mix

my farm toppled

fence back to burnt

grass never my aim


for my grasp to kill

but I will testify

against myself

if these bugs

leave my wings!


slung out into realms

of public catastrophe

in need of a public service

and then I may

speak pliable inclined

toward what I think

is your face




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