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