Poems by Maxwell Bodenheim

Poems by Maxwell Bodenheim

Mark of Your Voice, by Maxwell Bodenheim

Mark of your voice, a dawn
Dropping little gestures upon my forehead,
While slumber-edged tho...

Meditations in a Cemetery, by Maxwell Bodenheim

Grandiosely hackneyed subject,
I live in a house one hundred years old
Placed in the ...

Meeting, by Maxwell Bodenheim

A mood whose heart was a flagon of ashes,
Met another mood whose lips were stained
With the od...

The Mellow Anger of His Hair, by Maxwell Bodenheim

The mellow anger of his hair
Disputes his sleepy girl's face.
His robe glows like a painted wou...

Moonlight Bends Over the Black Silence, by Maxwell Bodenheim

Moonlight bends over the black silence,
Making it bloom to wild-flowers of sound
That only gre...

The Mountebank Criticizes, by Maxwell Bodenheim

I lose all sense of profiles,
Strolling through your greys and blacks and browns!
No man besto...

My Heart is a Slovenly Russet Peasant-Girl, by Maxwell Bodenheim

My heart is a slovenly russet peasant-girl
Flirting with staidly immaculate swains. &nbs...

Negroes, by Maxwell Bodenheim

The loose eyes of an old man
Shone aloof upon his boyish face;
And a sluggish innocence

Novel Conversation, by Maxwell Bodenheim

Certain favorite words of men have gathered in a vale made of sound-waves. These words, far remo...

Old Age, by Maxwell Bodenheim

In me is a little painted square
Bordered by old shops, with gaudy awnings.
And before the sho...

Pain Is a Country Cousin of Yours, by Maxwell Bodenheim

Pain is a country cousin of yours.
He flings buds of awakening desires
Upon the stately wedding...

Pierrot Objects, by Maxwell Bodenheim

They have made me an airy apology
for the crude insistence of their flesh!
They have made me tw...

Poet To His Love, by Maxwell Bodenheim

An old silver church in a forest
Is my love for you
The trees around it
Are words that I have ...

Poet-Vagabond Grown Old, by Maxwell Bodenheim

The dust of many roads has been my grey wine.
Surprised beech-trees have bowed
With me, to the...

Portraits, by Maxwell Bodenheim

I You were in the room, yet your body
Was stone cut in drooping lines
And hued with decorous ...