Linda Pastan is an American poet of Jewish background. She was born in New York on May 27, 1932. Today, she lives in Potomac, Maryland with her husband Ira Pastan, an accomplished physician and researcher.
She is known for writing short poems that address topics like family life, domesticity, motherhood, the female experience, aging, death, loss and the fear of loss, as well as the fragility of life and relationships.
Linda Pastan has published at least 12 books of poetry and a number of essays. Her awards include the Dylan Thomas Award, a Pushcart Prize, the Alice Fay di Castagnola Award (Poetry Society of America), the Bess Hokin Prize (Poetry Magazine), the 1986 ... more »
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Linda Pastan Poems
My husband gives me an A for last night's supper, an incomplete for my ironing, a B plus in bed.
To A Daughter Leaving Home
When I taught you at eight to ride a bicycle, loping along beside you
I want to write you a love poem as headlong as our creek after thaw
A New Poet
Finding a new poet is like finding a new wildflower out in the woods. You don't see
When our cars touched When you lifted the hood of mine To see the intimate workings underneath, When we were bound together
Something About The Trees
I remember what my father told me: There is an age when you are most yourself. He was just past fifty then, Was it something about the trees that make him speak?
Home For Thanksgiving
The gathering family throws shadows around us, it is the late afternoon Of the family.
We think of hidden in a white dress among the folded linens and sachets of well-kept cupboards, or just out of sight sending jellies and notes with no address
What We Want
What we want is never simple. We move among the things we thought we wanted:
When they taught me that what mattered most was not the strict iambic line goose-stepping over the page but the variations in that line and the tension produced
The New Dog
Into the gravity of my life, the serious ceremonies of polish and paper and pen, has come
After Adam Zagajewski
Pierre Bonnard would enter the museum with a tube of paint in his pocket and a sable brush. Then violating the sanctity
The door of winter is frozen shut, and like the bodies
(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)
My husband gives me an A
for last night's supper,
an incomplete for my ironing,
a B plus in bed.
My son says I am average,
an average mother, but if
I put my mind to it
I could improve.
My daughter believes
in Pass/Fail and tells me
I pass. Wait 'til they learn
I'm dropping out.