POETRY
Three Poems on Dante
© 2021 - All rights reserved

As part of my 100 Days of Dante reading from 2021-2022, I am entering a small poetry contest of works inspired by the Divine Comedy. These are the current drafts and will undergo some revision and selection in the coming weeks.
Donte in Detroit
I have seen him on every street corner
Stiffened Carhartt somehow crooked on his hollow frame
Ungloved hand wipes back his hair as if
in vanity
Each spire of breath desiccates–
Pushes away hands which offer coins or bills
It is eyes
Eyes he wants
Today he is on Division
Next week, Gratiot Avenue
The crisis of his plea no less shrill
Words deafened on headphones
Ears
Ears he needs
At dusk he hangs his head
Chastised by no one; waves his arm
A woman in Burberry crosses the street
. . . .
The next icy morning finds him on Russell
Turns away bagels
Bitter the taste of another’s bread
Hawks verse like prophecy
Daunte in Detroit
I see him on each street corner
Stiffened Carhartt somehow crooked on his hollow frame
Ungloved hand wipes his hair as if
in vanity
Every spire of breath desiccates–
Pushes away hands which offer coins or bills
It is eyes
he wants
Today on Division
Next week, Gratiot Avenue
The crisis of his plea no less shrill
Words impaled on passing headphones
Ears
he needs
At dusk he hangs his head
Chastised by no one; waves his arm–
A woman in skittish Burberry crosses the street
. . . .
Icy mornings find him on Russell
Turns away bagels
Bitter the taste of another’s bread
Hawks verse like prophecy
Addendum: Canto 26
Here’s my statement on Martin Shkreli: I
would (still) rather eat my own organs. So
much as you touch me, and I’ll gladly chop off one
of yours.
–@LaurenDuca
Martin Shkreli, surely that is not your flame
I see emerging from the ditch of souls
America’s man who most to blame
Must now walk on vermilion coals.
If it ‘twere you, I would partake
With blade from tip unto arse hole:
Your pockets drained, my passion slaked.
‘For I’d suffer a touch of yours
My liver’d serve me well as cake.
Addendum: Canto 26
Here’s my statement on Martin Shkreli: I
would (still) rather eat my own organs. So
much as you touch me, and I’ll gladly chop off one
of yours.
–@LaurenDuca
And I to him:
‘Martin Shkreli, surely that is not your flame
Which ascends from this ditch of souls:
America’s man who most to blame
Must now walk on vermilion coals.
If it ‘twere you, I would partake
With blade from tip unto arse hole.
Your pockets drained, my passion slaked.
‘Fore I’d suffer a touch of yours
My liver’d serve me well as cake.’
Three I’s in Search of an Author
Are these my words, Francesca,
Which so tumult the flesh
That we suffer ever in verse?
I look to you, sorella,
A thirst for Lethe only
Expunge who I’ve become
I am yours, divine Muse,
In not thirst but fire
May the ink be erased
And I
Three I’s in Search of an Author
Are these my words, Francesca,
Which so tumult the flesh
That we suffer ever in verse?
I look to you, sorella,
A love for Lethe only
Expunge who I’ve become
I am yours, divine Muse,
In not thirst but flame
May this ink be purged
And I
Recent Comments