A poem by Weldon Kees


The porchlight coming on again,
Early November, the dead leaves
Raked in piles, the wicker swing
Creaking. Across the lots
A phonograph is playing Ja-Da.

An orange moon. I see the lives
Of neighbors, mapped and marred
Like all the wars ahead, and R.
Insane, B. with his throat cut,
Fifteen years from now, in Omaha.

I did not know them then.
My airedale scratches at the door.
And I am back from seeing Milton Sills
And Doris Kenyon. Twelve years old.
The porchlight coming on again.

- Weldon Kees


  1. Gloomy! I can see why this fellow did the leap from the Golden Gate!

    My comment on "The Bell"
    I love the concept...that all the good times and bad which go with midnight are Pavolvian remembered by the big midnight bell of the tenth street church. Overlaid by the knowledge that the bell, like the writer is a refugee from a war torn Europe. Love it. This poem could only have been written after midnight, in a cheap hotel, with a half finished bottle on the desk, and only two cigarettes left in the pack.


Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

Christmas Books

Sacred Duty