Biography of Debora Greger
Debora Greger is an award-winning American poet as well as a visual artist.
She was raised in Richland, Washington. She attended the University of Washington and then the Iowa Writers' Workshop. She then went on to hold fellowships at the Fine Arts Work Center in Provincetown and at Harvard University's Radcliffe Institute for Advanced Study. She is a professor of English and creative writing at the University of Florida.
Her poetry has been included in six volumes of The Best American Poetry and she has exhibited her artwork at several galleries and museums across the country. She also has a poem on Poetry 180 in number 42. Her work appeared in Paris Review, The Nation, Poetry, and The New Criterion.
She lives in Gainesville, Florida and Cambridge, England with her life-partner, the poet and critic, William Logan.
Debora Greger's Works:
2004: Western Art. Penguin.
2001: God. Penguin.
1996: Desert Fathers, Uranium Daughters. Penguin.
1994: Off-Season at the Edge of the World. University of Illinois Press.
1990: The 1002nd Night. Princeton University Press.
1985: Blank Country (limited edition chapbook). Meadow Press.
1985: And. Princeton University Press.
1980: Cartography (limited edition chapbook). Penumbra Press.
1980: Movable Islands. Princeton University Press.
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Debora Greger Poems
Head, Perhaps Of An Angel
limestone, with traces of polychromy, c. 1250 Point Dume was the point, he said, but we never came close,
Station 40, Chiriu: The Poet Ariwara No ...
What is sky but water, more water, crossed by eight bridges? Is the ancient poet in a rush to reach land?
The Poetry of Bad Weather -new-
Someone had propped a skateboard by the door of the classroom, to make quick his escape, come the bell.
The Dictionary of Silence
And in that city the houses of the dead are left empty, if the dead are famous enough; by day the living pay to see if dust is all
A Woman On The Dump
Out of the cracks of cups and their handles, missing, the leaves unceremoniously tossed, unread, from a stubble of coffee ground ever more finely into these hollowed grounds,
A Woman On The Dump
Is it peace,
Is it a philosopher’s honeymoon, one finds
On the dump?
Out of the cracks of cups and their handles, missing,
the leaves unceremoniously tossed, unread,
from a stubble of coffee ground ever more finely
into these hollowed grounds,