Rick Lupert

Poetry • Spoken Word • Jewish

Photo by Alexis Rhone Fancher

Stolen Mummies

Paperback $10.00

Poems written in London
Ain’t Got No Press / May 2003 / Paperback / 64 Pages

Humorous travel poems written through the author’s unique filter.

From the introduction by Brendan Constantine:

“Rick Lupert is an honest poet. He has an honest face. His mouth is honest. His words are honest. The sentences he makes with those words are honest. Even the complete fabrications that emerge from the pages of his latest book positively sizzle with integrity. When, for instance, he describes his recent trip to England and the fascinating encounters he has with the people of that proud country, you can almost believe that he went there. My Irish mother used to say (the others hardly spoke to me unless I pretended to be my sister) ‘There is nothing crazy about thinking there are Englishmen hiding behind the sofa. The craziness is in looking for them’. Well folks, so keen are the subtleties of Mr. Lupert’s poetry, the reader may wonder if closing the cover of this slender book is enough to keep the British Commonwealth described therein from running amuck in your home.”

Poetry from Stolen Mummies

Let’s Go London


Airplane wings
look like diving boards
except instead of swimming pools
you plummet to your death


On the way to London
I read through the dictionary
I should be fluent by the time we land


My Mother’s Last Words of Advice:

Don’t fuck Big Ben.

Covent Garden August

The women of London
all in summer dresses
spaghetti strap strings
every one of them

It is amazing
it is wonderful
it is stupendous
It is orchards of still life

under cloud-free sky
It is hourglass curves
accentuated with
new millennia fashion

It is standing outside
The Covent Garden Tube Station
Giving Athena the forty P. she needs
for the ride home

Letter From Stonehenge

Dear Reader
I write to you from Stonehenge
Salisbury Plane
Where five thousand years ago
pre-historics moved stones
heavier than a lions ego
to this circle to tell the months
or chart the universe
or slaughter the living
never dreaming of
or even England

They don’t let you touch the stones any more
modern humans chipping off souvenirs
like it’s the Berlin Wall.

I have the Berlin Wall
re-assembled in horseshoe circle
in my back yard
put together from bits
I’ve chiseled off of historic sites
around the world

Every night I dress in secret clothes
and run from one side to the other
I’m free
I’m free
I’m five thousand years old
I’m English field full of oblivious sheep
I’m driving the A303 to London
I’m a spinach pie
I’m layers of clothing
I’m black woman with yellow jacket
I’m heavy rock
lying down
on holiday
married to history
I’m free
Twenty minutes to the next bus
Swords in the forest
Umbrella larger than life
Second floor transportation
I am Ringo
I am Charles
I am writing you from Stonehenge
Kiss all the babies
write back
see you soon

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