Christianne Balk is an American poet.
She graduated in biology with honors from Grinnell College.
Her work has appeared in Pequod, Crazy Horse, Sulfur, The Centennial review The Missouri Review, Sonora Review, Prairie Schooner Harper's, and The New Yorker.
She taught at the University of British Columbia.
She lives in Seattle, Washington,... more »
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Christianne Balk Poems
Thousands of tiny fists tamping the surface of the lake flowing like a wide river gone crazy, southeast, westnorth
Lauds for St. Germaine Cousin (1579-1601...
Blessed is the One who lifts the slow sun above this morning's raw orange edge, who moves the ewe to nudge her birth- stunned lamb into the flock's heat, who
The Kitchen Shears Speak
This division must end. Again I'm forced to amputate the chicken's limb; slit the joint, clip the heart, snip wing from back,
Heavy-hocked, barrel-bellied, exhaling billows of steam, they wait while the corn, wheat, clover, and potato fields surround us, finished
Sun salved, we sit on the front porch, careful when we speak, watching the crows swagger near the property line, dabbing – what. A nest of grubs? Ice-wintered berries? New grass shoots?
(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)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(31 May 1819 - 26 March 1892)
(16 August 1920 – 9 March 1994)
Thousands of tiny
fists tamping the surface of the lake
flowing like a wide
river gone crazy, southeast, westnorth
letting the wind push
it around in its bed and the boat
hull hugging the shore.
What else can she do? Even the trees
their crowns, throwing down their leaves as if
she were their only
child. Caught cold-footed in Magnuson
grass, trying to cut
free of the creosote-soaked pilings sunk
deep in the shallow
mud holding the water, holding her
wake for a moment,
furrow folding back over into