Poetry by Steve Lambert

Steve Lambert was born in Louisiana and grew up in Florida. His writing has appeared in Saw Palm, Tampa Review, Missouri Review, Louisiana Literature, New World Writing, The Pinch, Porchlight: A Journal of Southern Literature, Broad River Review, Cortland Review, and many other places. In 2018, he won Emrys Journal’s Nancy Dew Taylor Poetry Prize for the poem, “Serenade for Larkin.” Interviews with Lambert have appeared in print, on podcasts and radio. He was the editor-in-chief of Southernmost Books (2021–2025). He is the author of three other poetry collections and the book-length poem, Dutch Ears (2025); the fiction collections, The Patron Saint of Birds (2020) and Village Life and Other Stories (2026); the novel, Philisteens (2021); and the collaborative fiction text, Mortality Birds, written with Timothy Dodd (2022). He lives in Florida and teaches creative writing at a school of the arts (where he is also the school librarian) and teaches part-time at the University of North Florida.

The Luxurious Dead

Nothing is expected of the dead except
Silence and stillness. And decay, which
Is easy, and not unlovely. One could luxuriate
In that. The presence of absence and the
Absence of responsibility. If we could seek
Each other out, I’d find you. And we’d find
Something to pass the long eternities, a task,
Some deathly hobby. There’s romance in that.
I’d listen for the sound of distant trains for you,
Or with you, if you like, or we could simply walk
Through the misty graveyard death, two bored
Ghosts haunting the other dead, busy keeping
Busy in their austere and luxurious forevers.

Smells and Pain and Death

“The English take literature seriously as an autonomous field of endeavor, whereas we increasingly regard it as politics by other means.”
—Jonathan Clarke, “Larkin in America”
“A poet should be judged by what he does with his subjects not by what his subjects are.”
—Philip Larkin, Paris Review interview

One thing travelling has taught me
Is that all great cities smell like piss.
Smells and pain and death:
My great poetical subjects.
It’s become impossible
For me to ignore
The Christmas tree of pain
Across my back
And one can’t take ibuprofen
Every four hours
For the rest of one’s life.
Which pain is your favorite season?
For most of us
Learning means learning
What might happen
To us and imagining
It and then being surprised
When it does not happen.
It’s fine to forget everything,
Finally, even the names
Of people and places.
This is maybe why so many
Do almost nothing.
Going places is a waste, but
What isn’t a waste
Weighed against
The perfect economy
Of death?

Wrong answer.

Better Angels

I didn’t start taking myself seriously as a poet until the white began to appear in my cheek.
—Gerald Stern

They’re always beautiful,
Even the fallen ones. Especially
The fallen ones. But maybe
We can only be one thing
At a time. There’s always
Contrary force, errant children.
A person could never beat
The devil at darts, for instance.
Every throw’s a bullseye.
Playing poorly would be
A choice. Why do so many
Poets dislike Rilke? He’s a
Dick here and there he’s a
Prig, whatever that is. Jealousy,
Maybe. No one had better intel
About angels than Rilke, not
Even Swedenborg. (You find
Yourself not really caring
What Swedenborg did or
Did not know about angels,
Or anything else. Or Milton,
Who knew his shit, but is
Bound up in the angelic.)
The Greeks had it right,
With their strong female
Gods and strong female
Demons. Mythos without
Angels? Give me Rilke,
Any day, and his terrible
Angels. Maybe with some
Of these guys, they’re not
The best. They’re just better.

The Past is Sad

The past is sad
Because it exists
Only in residue.
I’ve had an ocean
In my eye since
I was a child
And my head
Is strangely
Filled with birds—I
Don’t know why—
Bet they seem
Somehow sufficient.

I’ve been married
And zero for
Far too long.
It doesn’t add
Up to love
As it should.

It’s always about
To storm in
My paradise. Things
Often slam into
The Moon but
No trees ever fall
In its neck
Of the woods.
I don’t know
Why everything is
Like this but
It’s the way
Life must be
To be this life, I suppose.
Everything must
Be something
Or something else.

The Young Men in The Café

Are loud and eat, like most,
But their eating is a wild
Taking. You’re more into
Watching now, you sicko.
You should do it, too, the
Way we do, their manner
Says to you. But you don’t.
Can’t. It’s like being ugly
And trying to be handsome.
Plus there’s the bloating.
There’s only so much
Sucking-it-in you can do.
Besides, you have stepped over,
In middle age, into nourish
And away from consume.
You are a regal old bastard.
Why they are driven to devour,
You can’t recall. Selective
Dementia, perhaps. Shrug.
Shame. Shrug. Impotence.
Shrug. Indolence. Shrug.
But you remember doing it,
Ravenous and starved somehow,
Always wanting more, never
Sated. Until you stopped.
Not sated. Just finished.
You remember that feeling,
Yes, but do not crave it. Nor
Do you begrudge them their
Intense hunger. They’re young
Men, after all, let them eat.