Tom Sleigh (/sleɪ/) is an American poet, dramatist, essayist and academic, who lives in New York City. He has published seven books of original poetry, one full-length translation of Euripides' Herakles and a book of essays. At least five of his plays have been produced. He has won numerous awards, including the 2008 Kingsley Tufts Poetry Award, worth $100,000, an Academy Award from the American Academy of Arts and Letters, The Shelley Award from the Poetry Society of America, and a Guggenheim Foundation grant. He currently serves as director of Hunter College's Master of Fine Arts (MFA) program in Creative Writing. He is the recipient of the Anna-Maria Kellen Prize and Fellow at the ... more »
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Tom Sleigh Poems
My mother and I and the dog were floating Weightless in the kitchen. Silverware Hovered above the table. Napkins drifted
His head rose like a torch in a tomb. Banquet-style, as at a second Symposium, The others lounged on couches or lay knocked out.
The Animals In The Zoo Don't Seem Worrie...
Looking at the lion behind the plate glass I wasn't sure what I was looking at: a lion, OK, but he seemed to come apart, not literally
I had a blueprint of history in my head —
Staring up into the tank's belly lit by a bare bulb hanging down off the exhaust, a mechanic's hands are up
Lathe of the ocean. Perpetual Motion machine of the waves. Everything still Being turned and shaped to a shape nobody Foresees: Ten years ago, was it, when we
But where, oh where is the holy idiot, truth teller and soothsayer, familiar of spirits, rat eater, unhouseled wanderer
A Wedding at Cana, Lebanon, 2007
He said, "It is terrible what happens." And "So, Mr. Tom, do not forget me"—an old-fashioned ring, pop tunes, salsa! salsa! the techno-version of Beethoven's
Across the road from where we nap under a dead elm dazzles the meadow where the partisans strung the traitors up,
Out the barred window sandbags in a sagging wall surround the guard post where a soldier half-hidden by the flag
What came wafting down the ditch by the marsh grass waving
Song That Can Only Be Sung Once
The Parallel Cathedral
The cathedral being built around our split level house was so airy, it stretched so high it was like a cloud of granite and marble light the house rose up inside.
What she is waiting for never arrives or arrives so slowly she can't see it: Like the river bluing silver
Comments about Tom Sleigh
(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 mother and I and the dog were floating
Weightless in the kitchen. Silverware
Hovered above the table. Napkins drifted
Just below the ceiling. The dead who had been crushed
By gravity were free to move about the room,
To take their place at supper, lift a fork, knife, spoon—
A spoon, knife, fork that, outside this moment's weightlessness,
Would have been immovable as mountains.
My mother and I and the dog were orbiting
In the void that follows after happiness
Of an intimate gesture: Her hand stroking the dog's head
And the dog looking up, expectant, into ...