Fanny Howe

Oct 15, 2024 | poets.org | Idra Novey |Patricia Smith |Fanny Howe |Maggie Smith

Find and share the perfect poems. Under the marked-down dresses, we conjured trips to Oslo. Also to Lima. Mel says the game was my idea, hidingbehind hundreds of hems, inventing trips to cities we knewonly as pleasing arrangements of letters, places we’d likelynever see. Mel says it’s how she remembers me: cross-legged, knottinglengths of licorice, traveling the planet under racks of final sales.

Jan 18, 2024 | brickmag.com | Fanny Howe |Howard Zinn |Thomas Larson

Sweep up your shadow But you can’t turn back. There is no other way Through the black glens Or the lens of an eye. A keeping, a stride, Into episodes that arise. Equidistant: The interior egg Until cracked open To stars some million Beats away. How did the chick With thanks to God Get yellow in the nightOf its oval chamber. The fire of its colourWas not a colour yet. Now a green grenadeIs tossed on the mighty Shannon floor. Ahead of its invention, before its time. I would like an answer To my answer.

Oct 15, 2023 | poetryfoundation.org | Fanny Howe

The stroll from my cell along the path above the donkeys past a door open, a door shut and a strong smell of wood and cigarettes ends where music helps white marguerites cut through the masonry. * Dark for words with a clicking wren a yellow tit and over the clover a shovel and a rustle of grain. He’s training calves with shouts and food to follow him to another field before the second bell. * Broom loops over the buttercups.

May 16, 2023 | theparisreview.org | Fanny Howe

By Fanny Howe May 16, 2023 Poetry William Blake once wrote to a friend that he conversed with the Spiritual Sun on Primrose Hill. Today his words saying as much are carved on the stone curb atop the grassy knoll where the Druid Order has gathered for the Autumn Equinox since the poet’s times, and today still do.

Apr 10, 2023 | artsfuse.org | Fanny Howe

Some people fled William Corbett’s bravura; others stayed, laughing. By Fanny HoweWilliam Corbett, poet and teacher, died this summer on August 10 in Greensboro, Vermont. Only a few years before, he left Boston and moved to Brooklyn to join his children, and there he had a wonderful time. But in his last weeks, he still called Boston “home”. Bill loved art and life, food and friends, the Red Sox and movies. His memory was phenomenal and his presence too. His poetry was delicate, sensitive and elegiac.