MICHAEL HOGAN was born in Newport, Rhode Island in 1943. He is the author of twenty-two books including novels, histories, social and political essays, short story collections and poetry. His work has received two Pushcart Prizes, an NEA Creative Writing Fellowship, a PEN Award, the Benjamin Franklin Award and the gold medal of the Mexican Geographical Society. His poetry is widely anthologized ... more »
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michael hogan Poems
In memoriam Francis X. Hogan (1913-1974) On Sunday mornings in March my father would take a homemade kite broad as his back
Newport, The Fifties
I was raised in the decade of the death of the elms with the sight of Sputnik twinkling in the night sky where one could walk the last of the driftwood beaches and see weathered cottages beyond the dunes.
Poem On My 70th Birthday
After a night of rain eucalyptus hangs heavy and redolent with damp breath. Ground fog clings to unmown grasses in the park where the dog bounds like a joyful shadow.
The moon fades over Arizona and the morning sun is more dangerous. Even the rain when it finally falls is no friend to man or woman either. Toads cry like lost children when the torrent ceases
The Terrace, St. Tropez
A girl reclining by an open window. I do not say this way the only thing one saw that day. There was a strip of luminous green,
Lovers You Have Known
The one you could not wait for so you went ahead as children do in the snow to make fallen angels.
Where it comes from is anybody's guess but on a clear afternoon when the earth is brilliant with its own shining— Chinese lanterns of red maples
Love In A Time Of Alzheimer's
Every morning she is born again the tree sparrows singing in the maples the sun coming through the venetian blinds. An awakening from a sleep so profound
2380 Market Street
When her husband died she developed a fear of open places. It happened suddenly. One morning she walked outside and the world was one great vista. Trees were flying off in space. There seemed a mile of lawn between her house and the
Dark and lugubrious, his eyes signify no intent beyond brooding. All day he has been posed on thermals as if the land would rise like a hand
for Lucinda At the southernmost point the sun stands guarding a place
One Summer In Charleston
Not far from the Cooper River Bridge this cornfield ends in marshland. A solitary crow goes there and returns. This morning, children from our farm,
On Translating A Mexican Poet
No es lo mismo decir ventana que "window." - Camilo José Cela Outside the hummingbird blinks
-Viña del Mar, Chile Ascend those hills away from glitz of Malecón and Casino where streets tangle around themselves and stone buildings
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In memoriam Francis X. Hogan (1913-1974)
On Sunday mornings in March my father
would take a homemade kite broad as his back
up the hill near Reeve's Farm.
This was how men learned of flight
he told me then.
Racing down that hill to catch the wind
where there was none to speak of,
the kite (gradually lifting) caught at last
on a thermal from the sea his running almost reached.
He told me breathless watching it rise:
The Chinese were the first.
They made them shaped like dragons
which in those days roamed the whole earth
free and ...