Linda Dove holds a Ph.D. in Renaissance literature and most recently taught at Yavapai College in Arizona where she directed the creative writing program. She is the author of In Defense of Objects (Bear Star Press, winner of the Dorothy Brunsman Poetry Award, 2009) and O Dear Deer, (Squall Publishing, winner of the Eudaimonia Poetry Review Chapbook Prize, 2011). Poems have been nominated for a Pushcart Prize and were a finalist for the Robert H. Winner Award from the Poetry Society of America. She lives in Pasadena, California, with her daughter and two Jack Russell terriers.
What a lot of talk that was. What the trail said, what the woods said, what the water said, what the branches (naked in their reach) said, what the hunter could have chosen not to say but did, what each season said in some other room (dormant and otherwise clothed), what the sky said twice. It would be a trick to think any of us said it all in the end, though we watched the show unfold from the edge and though our private room had windows, which means an expansive view. Of course, we can’t forget the deer in the photo, tattoos curled like leafy tendrils along her neck. There we are, back to branches. The way they refuse to let go of our bodies, the way they refuse to let our bodies not go.
from O Dear Deer, ( Squall Publishing, 2011)
St. Nicholas of Tolentino Confronts His Moral Ambivalence in the Buffet Line
I grow weary seeing the vegetables,
to within an inch of their pretty skins.
hanging down into dirt as if the ground
at their dark reach. The carrot’s orange
the turnip head. Or the shiny froth of kale,
I am not removed from their fanciful
scooping warmed-over sides
the hot pink weight of a beet in hand.
can be so easy. How I can suffer the leeks
wither at the sight of the cucumber,
We settle our needs at our peril. I find
In Defense of Objects (I)
An object…makes infinity private.
Unlikely winters: San Francisco and its trolley
Flakes shake to life, bright and insular. Cities
Despite the dizzying effects, the eye rests
No sirens sound, no police sew their yellow
on souvenirs, turning kitsch to treasure.
to the floor, shards of blue shed like tears.
The Christmas ball shatters to an inner life
the object’s pull, the need for pockets to keep
whole or broken, near, as distant as the gray
Rusted keys, horseshoe, rust itself, color of burnt
Petals pool beneath a tree. In morning light,
from In Defense of Objects ( Bear Star Press, 2009)
© 2013 Linda Dove
MOONDAY HOME PAGE (Current
MOONDAY (Previous Features) MOONDAY (Upcoming Features)