1. Home
  2. Poetry Magazine
  3. Poems
  4. from One Hundred Quatrains by Patrizia Valduga
from One Hundred Quatrains

Related Poem Content Details

8

By now you know: I need the words.
You'll learn to give me what I seek.
It's my sick mind, it feeds on words.
I'm begging you, for God's sake: speak!

17

Hurry, pin my wrists in place,
nail me to your bed like Christ . . .
comfort me, caress my face . . .
fuck me when I expect it least.

45

From nerves veins valves ventricles
from tendons cartilage nerves ducts
from follicles nerves ribs clavicles . . .
from every pore my soul erupts.

47

You liked that? you actually came?
but how? Explain to me. But why?
If you got off on that, you're doomed.
A charge I can't and don't deny.

71

Why is even pleasure a kind of chore?
Why is what sense I have left leaving me?
Come on, explain. Who do you take me for,
your personal doctor of philosophy?

Source: Poetry (December 2007)

More from this issue

This poem originally appeared in the December 2007 issue of Poetry magazine

  • Search every issue of Poetry

Your results will be limited to content that appeared in Poetry magazine. Search the whole site

from One Hundred Quatrains

Related Poem Content Details

  • Search every issue of Poetry

Your results will be limited to content that appeared in Poetry magazine. Search the whole site

Other Information