Poet Series

Mudfish Individual Poet Series

Dementia Pugilistica
David Lawrence
Black Diaries
Jill Hoffman
Too Too Flesh
Doug Dorph
Skunk Cabbage
Harry Waitzman
Husk
Terry Phelan
Marbles
Mary du Passage
Fires in Sonoma
Terry Phelan

Robert Grant Silverware (after Donald Hall) Doing the dishes after she died, he was struck by the weight of the butter knives. Their cold handles pressed into his palm as he lifted them from the drying rack and carried them to the silverware drawer, where he placed them in their narrow bed. But it was the spoons. It was the spoons that made him weep.

Jane Kenyon, photo by Donald Hall

Richard J. Fein To a Woman Remembered I will die, just as you will–you and I unknown to ourselves and to each other, when ears can’t hear or tongue make sounds. Even a young poet who longs to lay a girl as I did you will in time lack everything. All shapes will disappear from my mind, even the ghost of you lingering there, your voice coming down the stairwell, “Is that you, Richard?” “It’s me.” Memories, versions, voices come to an end, the stairs, rooms, buildings all gone too, you on the third floor buzzing me in.