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The New Yorker Poetry: Bob Dylan

The New Yorker has published a pair of Bob Dylan poems in the September 22nd issue. The poems, titled #17 and #21, are both from the book Hollywood Foto-Rhetoric: The Lost Manuscript, a collection of 23 Bob Dylan poems and Barry Feinstein’s photography to accompany them.

Both of these poems are pretty dark stuff.  And with the recent suicide of David Foster Wallace- I’m not feeling too cheery these days.  Check them out for yourself here:


by Bob Dylan

 after crashin the sportscar
into the chandelier
i ran out t the phone booth
made a call t my wife. she wasnt home.
i panicked. i called up my best friend
but the line was busy
then i went t a party but couldnt find a chair
somebody wiped their feet on me
so i decided t leave
i felt awful. my mouth was puckered.
arms were stickin thru my neck
my stomach was stuffed an bloated
dogs licked my face
people stared at me an said
“what’s wrong with you?”
passin two successful friends of mine
i stopped t talk.
they knew i was feelin bad
an gave me some pills
i went home an began writin
a suicide note
it was then that i saw
that crowd comin down
the street
i really have nothing
marlon brando

[ The New Yorker – Bob Dylan, "17” ]



by Bob Dylan

 death silenced her pool
the day she died
hovered over
her little toy dogs
but left no trace
of itself
at her

[ The New Yorker – Bob Dylan, “21” ]


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Bob Dylan

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