Sandra Simonds

Jan 23, 2025 | poetryfoundation.org | Sandra Simonds |Elizabeth Harball

This Be the Place is a series of short essays in which poets explore the mysteries and meaning of a particular place. It was there when we moved in seven years ago. An octagonal, wooden pavilion in the yard. A gazebo. A tiny plaque bolted to the side told me it was a gift from the local garden club to the previous owner. It seemed wondrous for my husband and I to have our first house, set back from the highway at the end of a dirt road in a tiny town in Vermont.

Apr 1, 2024 | yalereview.org | Sandra Simonds

Sandra Simonds He had been human. I remember nothing. —Emily Dickinson For many days, he called. I told him not to; he kept calling. He said he didn’t knowwhy I turned him on. Me either? I hid in a large field of aster becauseit was May, a time of purples. May, the optimal. I answered that I live a bad life and that I am mad. Shoot me a picture of your lament. How near the hue of kinesis,these spring waters, I answered. He wrapped himself tightlyin my prepositions, sent a verbor two between my thighs.

Jun 15, 2023 | poetryfoundation.org | Sandra Simonds

Sandra Simonds is the author of eight books of poetry and a novel, including Assia (Noemi Press, 2023), Atopia (Wesleyan University Press, 2019), Orlando (Wave Books, 2018), Further Problems with Pleasure, winner of the 2015 Akron Poetry Prize, (Saturnalia Books, 2015), (Bloof Books,...

Jun 9, 2023 | poetryfoundation.org | Sandra Simonds

Sandra Simonds is the author of eight books of poetry and a novel, including Assia (Noemi Press, 2023), Atopia (Wesleyan University Press, 2019), Orlando (Wave Books, 2018), Further Problems with Pleasure, winner of the 2015 Akron Poetry Prize, (Saturnalia Books, 2015), (Bloof Books,...

Jun 2, 2023 | poetryfoundation.org | Sandra Simonds

You warned me about striving. You said once they gave you a house with waves of peppermint in the backyard, the Library of Babylon, and free lunch, they would take it away. Still, I ate the fake meat they served on Fridays, always alone with my petite jar of grief. I liked the jar because it gave me something to look forward to. The truth is uncomfortable— now that’s something I told you.