Eric Torgersen has published poetry, fiction, essays and a full-length study of Rainer Maria Rilke and Paula Modersohn-Becker. He also translates German poetry, especially that of Rainer Maria Rilke and Nicolas Born. He was born in Huntington, New York. He has a BA in German Literature from Cornell University; after two years in the Peace Corps in Ethiopia, he earned an MFA in poetry from the University of Iowa. He retired in the spring of 2008 after 38 years of teaching writing at Central Michigan University. He lives in Mt. Pleasant, Michigan with his wife, the quilt artist Ann Kowaleski. His next book of poems, Heart. Wood., will be published in 2012 by Word Press. more »
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Eric Torgersen Poems
In the kitchen window the coleus I cut down to stumps to make cuttings for friends is spreading new leaves to the sun.
The Story Of White Man Leading Viet Cong...
The Story of White Man Leading Viet Cong Patrol -AP Dispatch, Des Moines Register, August 4, 1968 The slain enemy resembled
That was no language that was your life. That was a punning linguist. That was the headline Author Gets Off. That was an offer of amnesty and amnesia,
An Apple from Walt Whitman
There's never been a poet where I live, but I grew up in the shade of Whitman's name: born in West Hills—our hills—he would have walked our paths along the crest. I walked Whitman Road,
A crackpot gringo in Guatemala told me: when the pilots of the suicide planes began their dives down at the ships they were already dead. Coming from him, a smug didactic metaphor.
On the streets of Mérida, beggars and vendors of shirts and hammocks and panama hats. We perfect our no. But there's always something we can't help saying yes to: I want to join
When They Draw Us
When they draw us, the children, as great beaming sun-faces balanced on sticks, waving sticks, can it be that they see us so soon
Children tattooed, pierced and studded, dreadlocked; parents panicked, indecisive, deadlocked. Mother to daughter: live as you must, if you must; for just a bit longer, keep the door to your bed locked.
Whitman felt his ribs and found the fat holy. Poor mad Smart found Geoffrey the cat holy. Growing up on Yankee turf I found a Mickey Mantle Louisville Slugger bat holy.
I've Come to be One who Cries
've come to be one who cries when the plane the guys built in shop class on the TV news is going to fly and everyone's there, parents, little kids, the teachers not even
I said I was hunting deer. I knew the trails, the split tracks and pellets of shit; circles where they bedded down together. I faced a buck once, for almost ten minutes I think; I moved first and it left me. I ran home to think.
we find it and photograph it bury it out of sight and try to sleep with it
Hang him from a tree he hasn't hung from yet. Fling him off a bridge no one's been flung from yet. Send succor, in whatever dark disguise: a hornet's nest he's not gone running, stung, from yet.
Keep the tale, it's free, just bring the book back. Eat the fish, but bring the line and hook back. No one out here lives by bread alone; relish the coq au vin, but send the cook back.
(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)
In the kitchen window
the coleus I cut down to stumps
to make cuttings for friends
is spreading new leaves to the sun.
the light catches
rise from the new leaves;
red seeps into green
along the veins.
at the sun
and looks and looks and looks.
I would visit my friends
but feel troubled and shy.