To see the announcement for my poetry book, Sparrow, selected by poet Dorianne Laux for the Kenneth and Geraldine Gell Poetry Prize at Writers & Books, go to

You can find a review by Kathleen Kirk at EIL:

Saturday, July 31, 2010


I have been cleaning my home office ("handle everything once") and came across a bundle of abandoned poems from some years ago. Here's one --


Mornings I woke early,
put on coffee, brushed
my teeth, then sat
down, my hands on the keyboard.
The computer was crammed
behind the living room couch.
If I was lucky, the words
fluttered and sang.
If the words did not come
I worked on an odd paragraph,
hammering it against the rock
of its own meaning until
it burst and released a morsel
of truth. The openings
of chapters became very fine,
then overwrought. The sun rose
and the household (husband
and daughters) slowly awoke.
Now when I look back
over those pages and pages
I finally know that what I was doing
wasn't writing, not
in any mere sense of writing.
I was struggling with the word.
And I still struggle to know it,
the word that was in the beginning,
in the world's morning,
and was good.

Wednesday, July 28, 2010

"The universe is made of stories, not of atoms." --Muriel Rukeyser

Thursday, July 22, 2010


I sit in my car in late afternoon watching sunlight slant
through maple leaves and, stirred by a breeze,
observe how the light dapples
the seat beside me and the dashboard and my own arm.
I would love to be so easily moved as these leaves are moved,
to change and change back again
with so little thought. And having thought that,
I remember how soon the leaves will change utterly,
turning orange and yellow and red and then falling.
I don’t think I want that much change.
One car passes on the main road
and then another. I don’t look up and so they sound
like the same car passing or maybe the same string
of cars, over and over, like carousel horses
going around and around. The last time
I rode a carousel, it made me feel as giddy
as a child, as though I had spun backward in time.
Maybe the tree feels the same way each spring,
not thinking, “new leaves,” but, “Oh, here they are again,”
the five fingered maple leaves climbing back
to their old positions. If there’s a God
she must see us at least somewhat like that,
each generation springing up so unsurprisingly,
so exactly like the last. Not that we don’t go unrejoiced
or our love unrequited. But any fool can see
this tree I’ve parked my car beneath
loves being clothed. She quakes in the breeze,
ecstatic as any angel, that full of joy.

Monday, July 19, 2010


"A word is a bud attempting to become a twig. How can one not dream while writing? It is the pen which dreams. The blank page gives the right to dream." --Gaston Bachelard

Tuesday, July 6, 2010

This may be a better link to my poem, "The Conservation of Memory," on the Blackbird site. Cool image from their opening page, too.

Thursday, July 1, 2010


"Each friend represents a world in us, a world possibly not born until they arrive, and it is only by this meeting that a new world is born."

- Anaïs Nin, from a diary entry in The Diary of Anaïs Nin