Archive for the Lyn Lifshin Category


Posted in Lyn Lifshin with tags on August 26, 2012 by Scot

I am pleased my new book KNIFE EDGE & ABSINTHE- THE TANGO POEMS is out and getting strong reviews: ” Jazz. sweet. slink. They wrap their legs around you and then leap out”…”passion and juice, cold and hot, smooth and spicy…”
— Lyn Lifshin

Knife Edge & Absinthe
The Tango Poems
by Lyn Lifshin

Price: $10.00
Paperback: 60 pages
Language: English
ISBN-10: 0985671513
ISBN-13: 978-0985671518

NightBallet Press

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Knife Edge & Absinthe- The Tango Poems is a handsome 60-page collection of never-before-seen “tango poetry” by the legendary Lyn Lifshin. It contains a series of poems that explores the erotic knife-edge of freedom and loss of self in the absinthe of dancing the tango. For a single copy, only $10 plus $2 shipping! This fantastic book is available now!
Reviews of Knife Edge; The Tango Poems

These tango poems are jazz, sweet, slinky.They wrap their legs around you and then leap out, leaving your heart beating. They pull you in as only tango does, all passion and juice, cold and hot, smooth and spicy…your head left slightly off-center, off the main beat, not knowing whether to breathe or not. Lifshin is dancer and poet and if anyone could embrace tango in words, it is she. Any poem quoted from this book will make you stand up, quiver slightly and be ready to fall off into the ecstatic abyss of eroticism.
“Tango Before the Light Goes Blood/streaks tourmaline sky./put on your ruby skirt,/transparent as rose gauze/fishnet scissors under./When stars glaze the/tango floor…..”

This little book will leave a tart, sweet/sour taste and you will crave more and more.

—Alice Pero

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Two Poems by Lyn Lifshin

Posted in Lyn Lifshin with tags on August 4, 2012 by Scot


would curl as
close, closer than
the cat, afternoons
the wild plum
starts opening,
her shape, still a
part of me. It
seems she would
fit into the
hollows of my
body as she
once did. March
birds thru the
shutters, mint tea
in a glass near
the bed, pealed
oranges, a freeze
frame where nothing
moves. Fragrant
skin, maple buds
opening. Still-
ness, her warm
blonde hair,
sun sweet, all
I’d need if
I had her

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Posted in Lyn Lifshin with tags on May 11, 2011 by Scot

to touch the water
one man says is
like being friendly
with the enemy.
A woman can’t go
near the sea, says
the wave was as tall
as a house. First
she thought she lost
her 7 year old son
then she found him,
hanging in the trees.
Before they lived
in palm shacks but
not even the timber
of the huts remains,
it was used to burn

Three Poems by Lyn Lifshin

Posted in Lyn Lifshin with tags on March 30, 2011 by Scot


summer van ride up
through Canada, soak up
the cool green and then
I got to go, keep
on. I can’t just stay
in this room here. I’ll
never work for any
body. After Nam
I tried the dream,
the white picket
handcuffs, married
her out of pity,
ass-kissed the
school. No more –you
think I’ve been offensive? You
ain’t seen – watch out for my dog,
he’s mean and it’s not show.
I want to get them
for what they
turned me into. I got Librium,
vodka, a machete in the
top drawer. Machine gun
I polish, check each
night. Got medals in
a velvet zip bag
thrown into the corner.
In the photographs
near the mattress on
the floor, I’m 22,
trim, got a Vietnamese
girl with long hair
dripping spread eagle
on each knee. And these
were the dogs. They
couldn’t remove
the shrapnel, too close
to the spine. You see the
way my body’s shaking?
I’ll take some books
on Nam, on the Holocaust.
Yeah, get me a van, pack up
my mean old dog and
slide down the west
coast. Gotta figure
how to get guns over the border. Did
you know I spoke Spanish
my first 4 years? Gonna
get me to El Salvador.
You know whose
side I’ll be on

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Posted in Lyn Lifshin with tags on November 6, 2009 by Scot

than Christmas with
a half naked girl with
tongue down his
throat while the
record stuck on
Elvis’ Blue Christmas.
When he forgot the
language he couldn’t
remember how it
seemed, only how her
leg caught his lips
on the stained sofa
you could smell
ancient sex smells rise
from like fish egg
smell over Orleans
where the sea’s blue
in the mirror was
less blue than her veins