Ann Townsend was born in Pittsburgh, raised in Pennsylvania and New Orleans, and earned her BA from Denison University and her MA and PhD in English literature from The Ohio State University. Townsend’s work fuses pastoral, domestic, and metaphysical concerns in verse that is often described as formally subtle and acute. She has cited Andrew Marvell, James Thomson, and John Clare as major ... more »
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Ann Townsend Poems
The old bridle hanging from a hook in the new barn. Its seams frosted with mildew from the rain.
From His Car
he called me twice, filled the line with his particular human sound, irritating, yes, and meaningless
I'm looking at the intersection of thigh and cloth, oh at you, where, caught in sunlight,
The Coronary Garden
What a fine package you've come wrapped in. A swathing of hospital cotton,
In The Limbo Of Lost Words
After our love, I lie in the shadow of your shoulder and drift to the sound of the seventeen-year locusts outside, their lonely tenor buzz that rises and falls together and as suddenly stops, and flares out again.
Comments about Ann 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)
(31 October 1795 – 23 February 1821)
The old bridle hanging from a hook
in the new barn.
Its seams frosted with mildew
from the rain.
A line of sweat at the cavesson.
In the corners of the bit,
the green alfalfa leavings.
I used to warm it
in my hand, those winter
afternoons, so her mouth
would taste me first.
Now another horse bobs
and ducks against my bridling.
Wants a peppermint.
Bites the hand
and will not jump the ditch,
shears at speed away
from the sudden plastic bag
in the field.
the old leather reins hang,