Well the leaves have gone away And the cold is here to stay And the wind picks up and calls my name And the gulls they cough and die And the buses drive
I want a voice I want a deep, resonant, effortless voice A big voice - bigger than me I want to speak and hear the floorboards take it up so that people
The trouble with poets is they talk to much. They tell us how it hurts them, and it hurts them just a little more. We can not tell; maybe they make that
Light A Fireburn Up All You Know you've Had so Much Time Just To let Things Go now You're burning Letters Out in The Snow in Your Backyard years Go Rolling
Inside the tunnels, the stone tunnels, are the trains And inside the trains, the steel trains, are the bags of skin And inside the thin skin are the blood
Close my door Close my eyes Press my fingers to the glass Why does November drag its heels when October never seems to last? The television tells us
Translation: Peter Mulvey. Birgit.
Translation: Peter Mulvey. The Trouble With Poets.
Translation: Peter Mulvey. Ithica.
Translation: Peter Mulvey. Tender Blindspot.
Translation: Peter Mulvey. A Better Way To Go.
Translation: Peter Mulvey. Wings Of The Ragman.
Translation: Peter Mulvey. Smoke.
Translation: Peter Mulvey. Every Mother's Son.
Translation: Peter Mulvey. The Voice.
Translation: Peter Mulvey. Smell The Future.
Translation: Peter Mulvey. Rapture.
Translation: Peter Mulvey. Question Mark.