Jim Bohen - Poet
Lyrics, humor, rants, laments, sermons, more
This is where you expect to find glowing and/or strange
testimonials by the “author of this (and that).” If I could get
a blurb by a really well-known poet, I would. Since I can't, I'm
sparing you some ludicrous hyperbole, things like "aching this,"
and "enlightened that." There’s also no “interplay,” no “finds
the core,” no “synthesizes numerous poetic streams while
skillfully exploring the human condition” -- you know, absurd
b. s. like that.
I ask, instead, that you read a poem below. If you don't like
it, you're obviously moving on. But if you do like it, consider
reading another. If you like that one, consider actually buying
the book from any of the links in the top row below (click on
"books," then "poetry" for the unsolicited press link). The
book has one advantage over many other collections: since it
has a lot of poems, there’s a fairly good chance you’ll find some
you like. Obviously, I hope you do. Happy reading.
-- Jim Bohen, author of I travel in rusting burned-out sedans
Poets on Sex Brilliant coupling metaphors. Towering similes. Penetrating rhythms. Erotic words hammered home. Fingers caressing bodies to bliss. And every climax coming hard before the passionate symphony ends on a very spiritual point. But it does make you wonder. Do the poets who write like this do so from great experience? Or is it just that they want us to think that they do? Northern Heat Hot up here always comes with a stucco of sweat that wants to pant but doesn't know how. Prairies sulk. The moon would rear and wander off. Can't. Salt-drained bones. The curve of the wind duning the night. Chalky sheets cannot hold -- not even a pose -- and cannot learn to tame desires. Even when flames that refuse to be washed no longer snap and roll. © James E. Bohen |
I travel in rusting burned-out sedans I travel in rusting burned-out sedans with suicide doors, dirty cams. I always seem to bring too much of the wrong along. I catch things that I cannot name, should not try to hunt or seek. I eat wishes, which is why I'm always hungry. I rest on downed trees, sit backed up to bark that scratches at complacency. I sleep on easy if I find it, hard if I don't. I'm troubled that my choices aren't really mine to make. I am haunted by water, flowing or frozen. I hope what's in dreams isn't there in awake. I wake to a hope I forget what I dream. I want to learn if hope is real. If I cut my arms to hide things there, I want them to clot, scab, heal; I want them to peel, bleed . . . care. I hack at tendrils grabbing at eyes, my eyes. I limp from torches. Cut by claws -- frantic, terrored -- I'm breathing hard. I travel in rusting burned-out sedans. I am haunted by water, patient . . . waiting. © James E. Bohen |