Christina Pugh is the author of two books of poems: Restoration (Northwestern University Press / TriQuarterly Books, 2008) and Rotary (Word Press, 2004), which received the Word Press First Book Prize. She has also published a chapbook, Gardening at Dusk (Wells College Press, 2002). Her poems have appeared in The Atlantic Monthly, Poetry, TriQuarterly, Ploughshares, and other periodicals, as well as in anthologies. Her honors have included the Lucille Medwick Memorial Award from the Poetry Society of America, the Grolier Poetry Prize, an individual artist fellowship in poetry from the Illinois Arts Council, the Ruth Lilly Poetry Fellowship from Poetry magazine, and residencies at the ... more »
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Christina Pugh Poems
Closer to a bell than a bird, that clapper ringing the clear name of its inventor:
April makes no difference to the Lavalle cork tree imported from central Japan;
And at the picnic table under the ancient elms, one of my parents turned to me and said: “We hope you end up here,” where the shade relieves the light, where we sit
They are white planets in a galaxy, these wheels of cheese—before the fungi knobble the skin, cobble some resistance in the rind. Deep in the cool caves of Auvergne, a nun sets the circles on shelves
I and Thou
Must we cultivate our kindness? Can we book a fellow-feeling for the sake of the fellow, not the Ghost? Last night, for example, the whitehaired girl told us singing was like praying; and that
Comments about Christina Pugh
(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)
Closer to a bell than a bird,
that clapper ringing
the clear name
of its inventor:
by turns louder
and quieter than a clock,
its numbered face
was more literate,
triplets of alphabet
like grace notes
above each digit.
And when you dialed,
each number was a shallow hole
your finger dragged
to the silver
then the sound of the hole
to its proper place
on the circle.
You had to wait for its return.
You had to wait.
Even if you were angry
and your finger flew,
you had to ...