Hunger by John Wieners

I like to type up or hand write or both poems sometimes to really get to know them.


I keep waiting for him all my life
as an impossible dream I know now with age
shall be delivered; don't all the signs say so,
the rumors prove it. Tomorrow I shall see him,

the real one, and it shall be disappointing. Actual life
shall stand in our way. It's all right for a little while
to torment one, but all your life, to hold me

in a slavery of frustration; it's like some horrible nightmare.
Not war, and its holocaust, for love is the privilege of luxury,
but a terrible yearning as of sexual appetite without nourishment.

Poets should know these things; they're the basic condition of men,
what drives them on, to unhappy homes, constant avertisiing,
the simple love between two friends of like profession.
Oh, God, deliver him to my thrusting arms, they bend and break
_ _ _ from single greed and selfishness.