Daddy, You Bastard, I’m Through– April is National Poetry Month!

Posted By: Coco Buchanan
And in honor of that, I’ve decided to semi-plagiarize The Masked Drinker.  Here is a random list of some poetry verses I enjoy a great deal.  You don’t have to be as “crazy” as ‘ol Emily Dickinson to be crazy about these!


1.  This is the one I stole from The Masked Drinker.  But I fucking love TS Eliot, so whatever.  This one comes from The Wasteland:

She turns and looks a moment in the glass,
Hardly aware of her departed lover;
Her brain allows one half-formed thought to pass:
‘Well now that’s done: and I’m glad it’s over.’
When lovely woman stoops to folly and
Paces about her room again, alone,
She smoothes her hair with automatic hand,
And puts a record on the gramophone.

This music crept by me upon the waters’
And along the Strand, up Queen Victoria Street.
O City city, I can sometimes hear
Beside a public bar in Lower Thames Street,
The pleasant whining of a mandoline
And a clatter and a chatter from within
Where fishmen lounge at noon: where the walls
Of Magnus Martyr hold
Inexplicable splendour of Ionian white and gold.

2.  This second one, also from TS Eliot, has been pretty beaten to death in pop culture– from Gavin Rossdale to Donnie Darko.  I still like it though, and have since 10th grade.

We are the hollow men
We are the stuffed men
Leaning together
Headpiece filled with straw. Alas!
Our dried voices, when
We whisper together
Are quiet and meaningless
As wind in dry grass
Or rats’ feet over broken glass
In our dry cellar

Shape without form, shade without colour,
Paralysed force, gesture without motion;


This is the way the world ends
This is the way the world ends
This is the way the world ends
Not with a bang but a whimper.

3. This is a favorite from college (obviously called “Daddy”), when I became totally obsessed with Sylvia Plath.  All of my Women’s Lit courses were amazing, but I remember this class where we deconstructed this poem being particularly amazing.  My favorite line is definitely the very last one.

You do not do, you do not do
Any more, black shoe
In which I have lived like a foot
For thirty years, poor and white,
Barely daring to breathe or Achoo.
Says there are a dozen or two.
So I never could tell where you
Put your foot, your root,
I never could talk to you.
The tongue stuck in my jaw.
But they pulled me out of the sack,
And they stuck me together with glue.
And then I knew what to do.
I made a model of you,
A man in black with a Meinkampf look
If I’ve killed one man, I’ve killed two–
The vampire who said he was you
And drank my blood for a year,
Seven years, if you want to know.
Daddy, you can lie back now.

There’s a stake in your fat black heart
And the villagers never liked you.
They are dancing and stamping on you.
They always knew it was you.
Daddy, daddy, you bastard, I’m through.

4.  This last one is from Audre Lorde’s “Making Love to Concrete”:

To make love to concrete
you need an indelible feather
white dresses before you are ten
a confirmation lace veil milk-large bones
and air raid drills in your nightmares
no stars till you go to the country
and one summer when you are twelve
Con Edison pulls the plug
on the street-corner moons Walpurgisnacht
and there are sudden new lights in the sky
stone chips that forget you need
to become a light rope a hammer
a repeatable bridge
garden-fresh broccoli two dozen dropped eggs
and a hint of you
caught up between my fingers
the lesson of a wooden beam
propped up on barrels
across a mined terrain

between forgiving too easily
and never giving at all.



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4 responses to “Daddy, You Bastard, I’m Through– April is National Poetry Month!

  1. I Feel Horrible. She Doesn’t

    I feel horrible. She doesn’t
    love me and I wander around
    like a sewing machine
    that’s just finished sewing
    a turd to a garbage can lid.

    Richard Brautigan

  2. I Live In The Twentieth Century

    I live in the Twentieth Century
    and you lie here beside me. You
    were unhappy when you fell asleep.
    There was nothing I could do about
    it. I felt hopeless. Your face
    is so beautiful that I cannot stop
    to describe it, and there’s nothing
    I can do to make you happy while
    you sleep.

    Richard Brautigan

  3. <>

    Gee, You’re So Beautiful That It’s Starting To Rain

    Oh, Marcia,
    I want your long blonde beauty
    to be taught in high school,
    so kids will learn that God
    lives like music in the skin
    and sounds like a sunshine harpsicord.
    I want high school report cards
    to look like this:

    Playing with Gentle Glass Things

    Computer Magic

    Writing Letters to Those You Love

    Finding out about Fish

    Marcia’s Long Blonde Beauty

    Richard Brautigan

  4. OK I’ll stop. I really like Brautigan.

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