Gail Gauldin Moore says: When I was an infant and young child, my mother, a brilliant poet herself, put me to sleep by quoting the poetry of Conrad Aiken, A.E. Houseman and others. Thus it was that poetry became me. I began writing poetry in 1990 after a vision of a strange, wooly animal emerged from a cave and began shaking off wool.

Moore was born and raised in Los Angeles but has moved around eight times in the last seven years. Someone told me…that wherever I go, I will still be there. This gave me pause, so I am trying to stay where I am.

She has three poetry books, Poems on the Half Shell, Postcard Poems and most recently, Nancy of the Silences. She has a master's degree in Education, Ed Psy and counseling.

I never knew what Educational Psychology really was, but needing the money, I taught it anyway.

Moore experiences the world through her five senses, moment by moment, so that the reader is pulled - gently, precisely, and absolutely - into her space. The pain she expresses somehow works in the service of nurturing the reader.  — Marjorie Power on

Three Poems from Nancy of the Silences:

What to Do with Your Hands in Winter

We talked about things.
I was a Goddess of ribbons and small blue charms.
I never thought that anyone would
close the seams in me again, but there
you were, piling rainbow dust upon
my hair and filling time.

I touched the root of your wild place
and danced with your acceptance
in the breakwater of your eyes, loving
you with that second sight that only
blind love has.

When I made you an offering of blue and white
seawater, nothing was afraid:
Not even the strong man who kept breaking.
Not even the woman who had put nothing aside.



I said,
Betsy of the leaves,
of the wild hair,
lover of small things,
pour yourself into
the pockets of my soul.
I find this silence

Where are you
in the pale color of days?
In the whine of years?
In the storage space where
love is blinded?

We once lived together.
Now I love alone,
and cannot find you among


Straddling Worlds

There was something I want to tell you
that I did not tell you before because
I was sleeping.

The leaves deserve the light.
They did not bite the light like
winds you have known.

I want to tell you one more thing:
Something is rocking my heart.
It is the breeze, speaking in tongues.

The leaves tremble.
They sound like a billion
tissue paper fairies that say,
everything could be music.



Gail Gauldin Moore



2013 Gail Gauldin Moore


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