Deborah Ager is an American poet.
Ager founded the poetry magazine known as 32 poems or 32 Poems Magazine in 2003 with the poet John Poch. She was educated at the University of Maryland (B.A.) and the University of Florida (M.F.A.).
Her writing has appeared in New England Review, The Georgia Review, Birmingham Poetry Review, Los Angeles Review, Barn Owl, North American Review, and Best New Poets 2006. She has received fellowships and/or scholarships from the MacDowell Colony, the Virginia Center for the Creative Arts, the Atlantic Center for the Arts, the Mid Atlantic Arts Foundation. She was a Walter E. Dakin fellow at the Sewanee Writers' Conference as... more »
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Deborah Ager Poems
We are what we repeatedly do. —Aristotle You know how it is waking
Night: San Francisco
Rain drenches the patio stones. All night was spent waiting for an earthquake, and instead
The yard half a yard, half a lake blue as a corpse. The lake will tell things you long to hear: get away from here.
Santa Fe In Winter
The city is closing for the night. Stores draw their blinds one by one, and it's dark again, save for the dim
Over the fence, the dead settle in for a journey. Nine o'clock. You are alone for the first time today. Boys asleep. Husband out.
Night In Iowa
The Space Coast
Florida An Airedale rolling through green frost, cabbage palms pointing their accusing leaves
They tell me that your heart has been found in Iowa, pumping along Interstate 35. Do you want it back?
The Tortoise In Keystone Heights
When I knew, it was raining. Winter in decline. I was tired. You in your soaked shirt diffused into the western sky bulging with clouds,
The factory siren tells workers time to go home tells them the evening has begun. When living with the tall man
Comments about Deborah Ager
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
(26 April 1564 - 23 April 1616)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(31 May 1819 - 26 March 1892)
(31 October 1795 – 23 February 1821)
We are what we repeatedly do.
You know how it is waking
from a dream certain you can fly
and that someone, long gone, returned
and you are filled with longing,
for a brief moment, to drive off
the road and feel nothing
or to see the loved one and feel
everything. Perhaps one morning,
taking brush to hair you'll wonder
how much of your life you've spent
at this task or signing your name
or rising in fog in near darkness
to ready for work. Day begins
with other people's needs first
and your thoughts disperse ...