a poem by tom beckett

 

this is the kind of poetry that i am talking about.  handwritten, DIY, sent thru the mail.  this poem surprised me & delighted the hell out of me when it arrived in my mailbox last saturday.  tom beckett is a long time friend, & dare i say it, master poet whose work has made this old dude supremely happy since i first read it in an anthology of l=a=n=g poets when i was an undergraduate ignoring my studies & making real, lasting discoveries in the stacks of my alma mater's library.  but then the reader might ask, what does this poem mean?  on the surface this a poem about the strangeness of place & personal identity.  tom is always a poet of philosophical queries & corporeal questionings.  but even then, such a summation is pat & gives short shrift to the mysteries of poetry.  that even the seemingly simplest of writings are vastly complex & subject to fine nuances.  but even more so, if i might be so bold, is that tom beckett thought enough of this old poet to send me that most intimate, sensual, & erotic of pieces, a handwritten poem.  it rarely gets better than this.  a poet who gives us a poem detailing his life in poetry.  in his own hand.  the body of poetry writ in ink on paper like the body of a human being in all its sensuality.  

thank you tom b.!