Alison Townsend (born Pennsburg, Pennsylvania) is an American poet.
She grew up in New York. She teaches at the University of Wisconsin-Whitewater.
Her work has appeared in Calyx, Clackamas Literary Review, Fourth Genre, New Letters, The North American Review, and The Southern Review.
She is married and lives outside Madison, Wisconsin. more »
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Alison Townsend Poems
Jane Morris Poses For Rossetti's Proserp...
He wanted to paint me. Though I was married to his best friend, I felt his eyes follow me everywhere, his gaze like a sable brush on my skin.
persephone remembers: the bed
It happens in the dark. If it was light would she be able to stand it? Her father's bed a cave she crawls into when she wakes, forgetting, then remembering,
Persephone at the Mall
Sleepwalking. That's what you think when you see the girl walking alone at West Towne Mall; she's
Persephone in America
Because the body is a map and because the map I know best is the one of this country, I pluck her from the pages of the book of myth
Demeter Faces Facts
No matter what you do, she's a girl looking both ways isn't she? When you really think about it. When you stand in her shoes, whether they are the open-toed, gold sandals of Greek myth, platform wedges and Indian water-buffalo
blue willow: persephone falling
You think it will never happen again. Then one day in November it does, the narrow, dusty boards of the trapdoor you fell through twenty years before cracking apart, a black grin
Radio Love Poem
The radio makes me nervous. But there was a time when I loved it, thir- teen and falling asleep to the hum of my black-cased transistor, its leather handle looped securely around one wrist. Pulse beat against pulse
Comments about Alison Townsend
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
(26 April 1564 - 23 April 1616)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
(31 May 1819 - 26 March 1892)
(16 August 1920 – 9 March 1994)
Jane Morris Poses For Rossetti's Proserpine
He wanted to paint me.
Though I was married to his best friend,
I felt his eyes follow me everywhere,
his gaze like a sable brush on my skin.
He undressed me, though it wasn't me
he wanted at first, but the way my body
arranged itself under my clothes, my bones
and muscles struts for the teal velvet
drapery he dressed me in. And my hair,
of course, that cloud of auburn
I let loose, coppery strands
floating around me like opium smoke.
I could tell right away he enjoyed