Laure-Anne Bosselaar: Farmer’s Market in Antwerp
I remember this so clearly — as if it happened today.
How she arranged her skirt, rubbed her hands together.
Laure-Anne Bosselaar: Fire Season Again
The fire now climbs the mountain’s back.
A red-gray haze swirls around the setting sun,
& the skies rain acrid ashes — tiny moth wings
flickering over everything.
Laure-Anne Bosselaar: The Worlds in this World
Elsewhere, somewhere, a tide recedes,
incense is lit, an infant sucks from a nipple,
a grenade shrieks, a man buys his first cane.
Laure-Anne Bosselaar: Widow’s Bedroom
Light puddles over the old floor planks, then climbs
the wall behind his place in our bed, & glows there.
Past noon, slow shadows douse that light & push it
out of the room. As if they knew he won’t come back.
Laure-Anne Bosselaar and Michael Simms: Zoom Reading
Please join us today, Saturday May 18, 11amPDT, 2pmEDT for a Poetry Reading by Laure-Anne Bosselaar and Michael Simms
Laure-Anne Bosselaar: This Longing for Him
Another dawn. Fists in my pockets, I head east
into this street of bungalows
as if I belonged here, among the hundred windows
lit one by one
Laure-Anne Bosselaar: Brief
It happens so often: there — somewhere
in a line, waiting room or store — I see you,
& it’s something about your work-wrecked
hands, cow-lick, the perfect curl of your lips
Laure-Anne Bosselaar: Early Morning Considerations After a Night of Rain
Good morning, welcome, new Thursday. I arc
the blankets away. The dog sheds gladness all
around me as war news shrapnels out of NPR.
Laure-Anne Bosselaar: Morning Praise
Praise not God
or fate, but the weeds & leaves that soften
the earth under my steps toward the widening
light
Laure-Anne Bosselaar: To the Marine Fog
Look, I might not have woken up early enough
to watch you hang your rags over the hedge,
or loiter in the yard’s waning night, but I’m here
now — so linger by my window a little.
Laure-Anne Bosselaar: First Day of the Year
It is early. A bird flies deep into the sky —
into that large silence
Laure-Anne Bosselaar: The Rat Trinity
I loved the rats
of Bruges I watched from the dorm window,
how they slunk out
the courtyard sewer grill, slid along walls,
slipped down the cellar steps like whispers,
and vanished into gray.
Laure-Anne Bosselaar: When the Bed is Made
How mothers, lovers, nurses & hotel maids,
backs aching, have bent over beds for that last
swift tidying.
Michael Simms: Strangers at the Door | Robert Gibb, Laure-Anne Bosselaar and Jose Padua
Here I want to call attention to three mature poets who have done extraordinary work, but have not, in my opinion, received the attention they deserve, and in the process explore different ways one can be an “outsider” in the poetry field.
