Who is Jack Spicer

Jack SpicerBornJanuary 30, 1925 
Los Angeles 
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Jack Spicer Poems

  • A Diamond
    <i>A Translation for Robert Jones</i>

    A diamond
    Is there ...
  • -any Fool Can Get Into An Ocean . . .â?
    Any fool can get into an ocean
    But it takes a Goddess
    To get out of one.
    Whatâ??s true of oceans is true, of course, ...
  • A Poem Without A Single Bird In It
    What can I say to you, darling,
    When you ask me for help?
    I do not even know the future
    Or even what poetry ...
  • Sporting Life
    The trouble with comparing a poet with a radio is that radios donâ??t develop scar-tissue. The tubes burn out, or with a transistor, which most souls are, the battery or diagram burns out replaceable or not replaceable, but not like that punchdrunk fighter in the bar. The poet
    Takes too many messages. The right to the ear that floored him in New Jersey. The right to say that he stood six rounds with a champion.
    Then they sell beer or go on sporting commissions, or, if the scar tissue is too heavy, demonstrate in a bar where the invisible champions might not have hit him. Too many of them.
    The poet is a radio. The poet is a liar. The poet is a counterpunching radio. ...
  • A Poem For Dada Day At The Place April 1, 1958
    I
    The bartender
    Has eyes the color of ripe apricots
    Easy to please as a cash register he ...
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Top 10 most used topics by Jack Spicer

Love 8 I Love You 8 Water 7 Night 5 Poetry 5 Ocean 5 People 4 Blue 4 Good 4 Heart 4


Jack Spicer Quotes

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Comments about Jack Spicer

  • Sime0nstylites: i am writing - highly recommend jack spicer btw
  • Marioshi64: mf jack spicer!
  • L0bbytho: please my jack spicer would go inasne
  • Smallpresstraff: nyrb blurbed our latest traffic report!
  • Lilyparmar11: 'i yell "shit" down a cliff at the ocean. even in my lifetime the immediacy of that word will fade.' jack spicer, whose poetry i resent... but obviously also love
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Poem of the day

Andrew Lang Poem
Melville And Coghill - The Place Of The Little Hand
 by Andrew Lang

DEAD, with their eyes to the foe,
Dead, with the foe at their feet;
Under the sky laid low
Truly their slumber is sweet,
Though the wind from the Camp of the
Slain Men blow,
And the rain on the wilderness beat.

...

Read complete poem

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