Search Results

Advanced Search

1 to 15 of 114 results

Sort by:

Filter by:


Article Types



August 1995

August Kleinzahler, 20 June 1996

... Under the floorboards Shadow and Smoke bark through these windy summer nights, always at queer intervals. Something’s got up their noses or call and response with a distant yard. All summer long awakened from dreams by barks, remembering each of them through, shabby kinescopes. The guys upstairs come fetch them in the morning and disappear till night, always leaving the light on in the storeroom, to make it more cheerful, I suppose ...

September, with Travellers

August Kleinzahler, 26 November 1998

... Coolness at evening, a delicate astringent It seems only last week those sunsets, like gardens of sky in all their extravagance, kept on without end, the lightest of breezes, trembling sage. Now, the curtains drawn earlier each evening, the dinner wine left half-finished. One guest after another passing through. A few quiet hours here, a long, difficult journey from town, before heading on ...

52 Pick-Up

August Kleinzahler, 16 October 1997

... Luminoso e dolce Suzerainty Impetigo Colourless green ideas sleep furiously Titrate Spinners&darners Farallons Dag Frottage Slow loris Gating A bit of the other Cuisse-de-nymphe Chamfer Amber, civet and musk cods Wahoo McDaniel Chlamydia Mortised-and-tenoned Huitzilopochtli A bit of rough Chalumeaux Dingleberry Esculent Wing-nut Sforzato Ten dwarve ...

Two Poems

August Kleinzahler, 17 March 2005

... Goddess Well now, it really is you, and after how many months? I had ceased keeping track. No, not given up, never that. I should die if that were true. But still – was it some affront? You’ve never been this cruel. Distracted? To be sure; even you can’t begrudge me this: a father, friend, another friend. Death’s visits threatened never to end ...

How Many Times

August Kleinzahler, 11 June 2009

... Master claps of thunder, Wrath of God thunder – Sitting on the porch at night and waiting For the rain to fall in Texas; Or at the Cantina Grill Express In Denver airport, between flights, Watching as you dab at some hot sauce On your chin: How many times, how many places, Have I said ‘I love you’? How many _____ does it take To change a light bulb? Watching smoke from the sugar beet plant Drift east to Minnesota From the hotel window in Fargo – How many times ‘you are beautiful’? The swami, After an extended meditation In his hut, in the pine forest, Many kilometres distant From the nearest village And at an altitude From which one can see Not only that village, but the next And the next, Takes out a cigarette, Lights it, And inhales deeply ...

Sports Wrap

August Kleinzahler, 30 June 2011

... Who would have credited their late August collapse? They flourish like jumpweed over these punishing summers, or did do, adversaries going faint here alongside the river. Eighteen-wheelers bust across the interstates, devouring horizon, tuned to the one same station, signal fluttering as this distressing tale unfolds, inning by inning, game by game ...

Tanka-Toys: A Memoir

August Kleinzahler, 28 November 1996

... The planet may have tilted, if only a hint when the shelf of cloud burnt angrily before dusk           jack-o’-lantern stuff her hair the colour of her coat, fallwear       ******* The wet stain her bathing-suit left on the bench           the shape of Bolivia, drying, drying into atolls Ursa Minor, a thumbprint      ...

September: Lake Wannsee, Berlin

August Kleinzahler, 19 October 2000

... I would rather have been Dufy with these sails and darkening clouds – well, not Dufy, and this is not Le Sud: better, say, Cranach, had he been given to painting sails against the day’s last light. Perhaps there is a kind of sail in Mary’s eyes, poor thing. The Baltic night is moving in, dragging its sombre quilt behind like a filthy bridal train ...

The Bus Barn at Night

August Kleinzahler, 7 August 2003

... Motion is not a condition but a desire to be outside of one’s self and all desire must be swept away so saith fatso Gautama bus-like under the shade of some shrub in the Deer Park in some grove some municipal greensward chewing a leaf that has left him stoned as a stone stone-like mouthing this sententious drivel some errand-boy some rich man’s son dutifully sets down on a dusty tablet ignoring the insects and snakes After midnight under the arc-lights like a giant sound stage the abandoned set of an action spectacular Mrs Kiniski’s team goes bus to bus hoovering candy-wrappers crumbs and then with their scrapers attending to the grease and impacted filth and gum as Rudolfo sluices away in the south-east corner and the boss, with a sigh comes to the end of Hermann Hesse’s Siddartha Phalanx upon phalanx of impassive Buddha-wagons silver hulls and red trim Fleet of the Three Jewels the Attainment & Perfection City Transit Corp ...

Uttar Pradesh

August Kleinzahler, 9 March 1995

... You were dozing over Uttar Pradesh well after the shadows of Annapurna swept across the big plane’s starboard wing, dreaming a peevish little dream of Stinky Phil, your playground tormentor from fifty years before, his red earmuffs and curious cigar voice vivid as the tapioca you used to gag on at the end of Thursday lunch, when the captain’s serene, patriarchal voice suggested you buckle up, moments before the plane jumped then yawed in an air-pocket and dropped five hundred feet ...
... The soppressata fée outside of Califano’s with the swept back ’do and blood on her smock grabs a quick smoke on the sidewalk, tosses it in the gutter then sucks back her lips till they smack, getting her lipstick right.                            Fierce little thing ... My freight elevator makes a distant whump then squeals to a stop on one of the floors back there behind my left ventricle ...

Snow in North Jersey

August Kleinzahler, 22 February 1996

... Snow is falling along the Boulevard and its little cemeteries hugged by transmission shops and on the stone bear in the park and the WWI monument, making a crust on the soldier with his chinstrap and bayonet It’s blowing in from the west over the low hills and meadowlands swirling past the giant cracking stills that flare all night along the Turn ...

Late Autumn Afternoons

August Kleinzahler, 17 July 1997

... Red pear leaves take the light at four, and a patch of brick on the south, rear wall stripped of wisteria: the two reds embering a little while then dying back into the shadows. A corner of the afternoon is all, maybe half an hour, not much more – October, November ... the beech tree bare now. Sunday’s blow would have done it. And always the Interstate out there, like surf, running up to Boston or south to New York ...
... I Rain streams from the stucco parapets of the Boomerang Academy well after midnight, early autumn, along this deserted stretch of Broadway between the railyard and boarded-up emporium where Aunt Peg got her trousseau, Dolores too, in the year-aught-something at the bottom-of-the-world. And it roars in the canopy of leaves high above the sedate brick offices of the law and publishing firms nearby, pouring from roof gutters down on the walkways and out to the street, empty of cars but for one ...

Read anywhere with the London Review of Books app, available now from the App Store for Apple devices, Google Play for Android devices and Amazon for your Kindle Fire.

Sign up to our newsletter

For highlights from the latest issue, our archive and the blog, as well as news, events and exclusive promotions.

Newsletter Preferences