Verbatim found poetry is an intriguing collection of found poems. Poems found in ordinary, and not so ordinary places. Submit yours.
The bodies in the container
partially thawed, moved,
and then froze again
— stuck to the capsule
like a child’s tongue
to a cold lamp post.
Eventually the bodies
had to be thawed to unstick,
re-frozen and put back in.
Cracks appeared,
cutting through the skin
and subcutaneous fat,
all the way down
to the body wall or
muscle surface beneath.
The organs were cracked.
The spinal cord was snapped
and the heart — was fractured.
(From Horror Stories of Cryonics)
Looking back,
Nella Last
I think the regret about the fruit salad
was stronger than fear of all being over.
All the day, the tinkle of glass
being swept up and dumped in ash-bins
like wind-bells in a temple,
together with the knock-knock
as anything handy was tacked
in place over gaping windows.
I look at a tin of fruit longingly,
now that fruit is so scarce.
Little sparrows had died as they crouched.
It looked as if they had bent
their little heads in prayer.
Not one falleth that He does not see.
Poles, Czechs, Greeks, all sparrows.
I’ve opened the tin of fruit salad,
and put my best embroidered cloth on,
and made an egg-whip instead of cream.
I’ll not take my clothes off tonight.
I’ll give the animals an aspirin.
(from Nella Last’s World War II diary, 1941)
Heavy, tormented waves,
tossing in the rising tide
and smashing on the beach in white surf
and masses of phosphorous.
The twilight of a dark night at sea.
Vivid jags of lightening
showing us to each other.
Out until up to our shoulders,
the waves dashed over our heads.
Swimming, swimming out to infinity—
racing in under the pulsing water
to the solitary light on shore.
Swimming far out we slipped off
our bathing suits and let
the water caress our naked forms.
But the heavy waves swept us in.
(Alice Dunbar-Nelson’s diary, 1929)
I never said a proper goodbye
to the city where I grew up.
On the second day
I phoned my cousins.
We spoke about cancelled exams
and pilgrims stuck in Mecca.
By day four
my cousin could barely speak;
the family were all on the ground floor,
she was too afraid to shower.
A trousseau for a bride,
red slippery glittery tobes,
perfumes, dainty sandals.
Kilos of pistachios,
bags of sugared almonds,
boxes of Turkish delight –
all this would be looted.
The sky over Khartoum
was lit with savage fire,
smoke billowing at dawn.
On Eid day
I dragged myself to the mosque.
I hugged other women and cried.
Eid mubarak.
This time, they didn’t pick up.
(From 5 Sudanese writers on the country’s nightmare conflict)
What I will bring to that altar
is this nauseating sack of guts—
selfish, small, lecherous,
a mind like a whorehouse,
a tongue like a longshoreman’s,
a soft mousy body that seeks
always its own comforts,
a will deluded by hyperactive desires.
Poor wreck that I am.
Can I give over to God’s service
only so little,
and that so badly damaged,
so in and out
of sin and desire?
(John L’Heureux’s diary, April 1966)
Betelgeuse
is out of juice
and needs to find an outlet.
(From kottke.org)
It travelled slowly,
a lovely orangey-white orb,
hanging there in the sallow evening air
as necks were craned, with time to relish
the moment of stillness
before the ball rustled the netting
and the stands erupted, lost in their own noise
for perhaps the only time all afternoon.
We must be at the helm
at least once a day;
we must feel the tiller-rope
in our hands, and know
that if we sail, we steer.
(From Henry David Thoreau’s journal, 1841)
While I was preparing
for my Science Fair project,
busily freezing turtles,
insects, and plants,
you were busy dying.
Mr. Vest and your physician began CPR,
packed you in ice on the hospital bed.
It is something of an understatement
to describe Nelson as a pathological liar
and an outright fraud. You would
certainly have perished at Chatsworth
with the nine patients whom Nelson
allowed to thaw out and decompose.
You, of course, do not know me at all.
Sometime in the June of 1973
I walked into the cavernous
industrial bay of Galiso, Inc.
The unit containing you sat out
on the shop floor amid the clutter
of uncompleted dewars and test equipment,
covered with a heavy layer
of ubiquitous Southern California dust.
This was our first meeting.
So much happened between 1982 and now.
On the other side of the flimsy “wood” paneled wall
(there were open studs on the side where you rested),
we were washing out the blood of dogs
and cooling them down to a few degrees.
I cannot describe the feeling of elation
when I peeled back the sleeping bag and saw
that you appeared intact and well cared for.
Ruby was cremated a few days after
her death. It appears that where immediate
family is concerned, you will be making
the journey into tomorrow alone.
Dr. Bedford, I hope we really meet someday.
I am not sure we will have much in common,
But we will have the joy, the sheer,
unbounded joy of being alive in a universe
where we can move freely, unchained
from the bonds of gravity, earth, and time.
(From Dear Dr. Bedford, July 1991)
We’re looking for some help for Hunter.
Are you a night owl? Would you be interested?
It took me only a moment to answer
yes to everything.
Nothing that Hunter did could bother me.
The only thing that got to me
was the cigarette smoke.
There was so much of it.
Louder, louder,
slower, slower.
You could trek and ski by day
and do shitloads of coke at night.
There were dealers and busts –
and mountains’ worth of cocaine
flown in on Cessnas.
You’d suddenly see
famous people everywhere.
I decided early on never to get wasted.
I’d seen the scorn he reserved for those
who turned up to pay homage to him,
got completely stoned and started acting
stupid. They were never welcomed back.
It never occurred to me
it would happen on my watch.
My legs buckled and I fell to my knees.
It’s not that I didn’t see it coming,
because he spoke about it a lot.
He was not having fun.
He had this Hemingway crush.
Let’s just dust off
those old negatives from Aspen.
Louder, louder,
slower, slower.
(From He was a handful)
Verbatim Poetry 
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