Dugan Poems Five

I’ve decided that I need to finish reading Dugan’s Poems 7 or I’ll put it down and forget it about without ever finishing the book. Truthfully, though, some of the poems are beginning to wear on me, or at least irritate me.

While it may have been a secret in some distant past that men are often horny and dream of making love to a woman, it’s pretty old news now, so it’s rather hard to get excited by poems like this:


I’m jealous of your life. What
are you doing out there. You’re
probably having a drink at that
bar and trying to get into you-
know-whose panties and joking with
those friends of yours I don’t
even know while I am sitting here
all alone in the snow having no
fun. Man, man to man, I hardly know
you so why are you doing this to me.

Perhaps I’ve just read too many Beat poets, but there doesn’t seem to be much that’s going be learned from a poem like this. Hell, it’s probably best left as an email sent to a close friend, or, even better, just kept to yourself.

It might be worth blogging or writing a poem if you DON’T feel horny anymore. Oh yeah, I think I did blog on that when I was taking some medicine before my prostate surgery. Now, that was an UNUSUAL feeling well worth writing about.

Luckily, there are enough poems like this one that do appeal to me to keep me reading until I can finish the book. (And the rain outside helps a little, too.)


I’m so unaware of what
is going on around me that
I like to watch the brief lives
of the birds: they look around
before they take a seed because
they’re always there at present,
self-accounted for in their fears,
hungers and the necessaries
of their rites, whereas I
do not see approaching cars
forget dinner and my address
and realize your beauty
only after you have made a pass
and gone away, saying, “Oh well.”

As I visit other blogger sites that I link to, I often discover just how unaware I am of the world around me. Birds, though, birds I know.

Just this morning walking in the mist I heard the cry of the Pileated Woodpecker, the thump, thump, as he dug deep into the tree rot, and finally located him across the street high in the top branches of a dying tree. Squawking blue jays announced our arrival. While Black-Capped Chickadees flitted back and forth chirping chick a dee dee dee.

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