She grew up in Illinois. She received a B.A. from Oberlin College in 1971, an M.A. from Northwestern University, an M.F.A. from the University of Iowa Writers Workshop, and her Ph.D. from Stanford University. She teaches American poetry and Renaissance literature at the University of Michigan, where she has also directed the M.F.A. program in creative writing.
She served as the judge for the 2008 Brittingham Prize in Poetry. Her poems are featured in American Alphabets: 25 Contemporary Poets (2006) and many other anthologies. more »
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Linda Gregerson Poems
When love was a question, the message arrived in the beak of a wire and plaster bird. The coloratura was hardly to be believed. For flight,
Dark still. Twelve degrees below freezing. Tremor along the elegant, injured right front
My Father Comes Back From The Grave
For Karen I think you must contrive to turn this stone on your spirit to lightness.
Linda, said my mother when the buildings fell, before, you understand, we knew a thing about the reasons or the ways
Interior Of The Oude Kerk, Delft, With O...
Emanuel de Witte, 1653 [?] And you, friend, in a footnote, thanked for kindly inspecting the date “under magnification,” who
A kind of counter- blossoming, diversionary, doomed, and like the needle with its drop
Eyes Like Leeks
It had almost nothing to do with sex. The boy in his corset and farthingale, his head-
Coinage of the not-yet-wholly- hardened custodians of public health, as health is roughly measured in the rougher parts of Dearborn.
With Emma At The Ladies-Only Swimming Po...
In payment for those mornings at the mirror while, at her expense, I’d started my late learning in Applied
Love the drill, confound the dentist. Love the fever that carries me home. Meat of exile. Salt of grief. This much, indifferent
Maudlin; Or, The Magdalen’s Tears
If faith is a tree that sorrow grows and women, repentant or not, are swamps,
The ones too broke or wise to get parts from a dealer come here where the mud is red and eternal. Eight front ends
is doing her usual for comic relief. She doesn’t see why she should get on the boat, etc.,
Father Mercy, Mother Tongue
If the English language was good enough for Jesus Christ, opined the governor of our then-most-populous
Comments about Linda Gregerson
When love was a question, the message arrived
in the beak of a wire and plaster bird. The coloratura
was hardly to be believed. For flight,
it took three stagehands: two
on the pulleys and one on the flute. And you
thought fancy rained like grace.
Our fog machine lost in the Parcel Post, we improvised
with smoke. The heroine dies of tuberculosis after all.
Remorse and the raw night air: any plausible tenor
might cough. The passions, I take my clues
from an obvious source, may be less like climatic events
than we conventionalize, ...