Biography of Sandra Fowler
Sandra Fowler born in West Columbia, WV February 4,1937. Has been writing poetry for almost fifty years.Associate Editor, Ocarina from about 1978 to 1989. Had a poem nominated for The Pushcart Prize,1998. Wazir Agha dedicated his Selected Poems to her in 1998. Interviewed by skylark Purdue university Calumet,2000. Honorary Doctorate, World Academy Of arts and Culture,2002. Wall Of Tolerance Honoree,2002.Biography listed in Who's Who Of American Women.Marquis and The Dictionary Of International Biography.England. Chosen by The International Poetry
Translation and Research Centre and the Journal, 'World Poets Quarterly, (Multilingual) , published in China, as
one of the best international poets of 2005.
Chosen by the International Poetry Translation And Research Centre as one of the best Critics of 2007.
Some of her reviews of the work of Indian poet,
Rajaram Ramachandran can be seen at Divine Channel.in.
A CD entitled, 'Before The Music Ends' which featured thirteen of her poems was done by Global Definitions
in 2008. Reader, Ihab Badran. Production, Nancy Badran.
An essay, 'Sandra Fowler: An Exposition', Gina Roussos
for her English Honors Class,2008. Ms. Fowler's poetry
has been translated into seven languages and has, courtesy of, 'The World Poets Quarterly', appeared in 190 countries.Editor's Choice 1-Award, 'The Enchanting
Verses',2009. Member U.S. Executive Committee, United
Minds For Poetry Society,2009-. Inducted into the
Lifetime Achievement Hall Of Fame, UMFPS,2009.
Biographical data included in, 'Who's Who In The
Sandra Fowler's Works:
In The Shape Of Sun, Shalom Publications, Israel,1972-73, with a second printing also in Israel in 1975.The Colors Cry In Rain, Apollo Books U.S.A,1983, and Ever
Sunset, Skylark Publications, India,1992.
Sandra Fowler Poems
(1) Before The Music Ends
Words paint a fragile picture of the dusk. I think them to a poet far away. The light shines dim upon my windowpane. A few tears fall like blue rain in the mind.
If one could bridge the distance with a word, A journey would become a pilgrimage. Elegant letters slant across the page. My leaf has found a home upon your coat.
A Cloud Portrait
Arms hold the soundless music of the sky. The lyricism of the soul burns high. Brief poems dance with distance against space, Snow interlocks the landscape into place.
(1) A Friendship Bridge
You made me love the teachings of Tagore. My thoughts were mesmerized by your sitar. I kept the little flowers from India, Artfully pressed to span a century.
Our minds have become intimate with words. We fly together like two paper birds. Small creeks, big rivers and the mighty sea, Sustains the lyrics of calligraphy.
A Cricket Sang Good Luck
I sat against your knees all night. I watched the sun rise in your coffee cup. In all that time you never spoke to me. I think I must have cried a thousand tears.
A Word And A Flower
You claim my thoughts, Though you have never seen your name in frost. I think the window of a distant train Still mirrors you like a poem in its glass.
A Hymn To Frost
Old leaves have no defence against the wind. A gray hawk is October's inner cry. The bells of Salem church play elegies. Distance becomes a single snowflake's fall.
A Single Note
A lilac for the anonymity, Of Mrs. Hinkle's simple poetry. It shines within the margins of its space, A single note of captivating grace.
Words will no longer come from you to me, Handwritten from a land of minarets. The imagery still lights my afterthoughts, I wish you a long sunset, poet friend.
A Scent Of Snow
The moon is lemon light, November cold. The wind is blowing colors all apart. Old leaves are writing their last signature Upon the dimming windows of the world.
A Scent Of Coffee
The moon has interlocked the night in glass. Trees are no more than dark designs on grass. The mood of music opens like a flower. A scent of coffee validates the hour.
A Shadow Beautiful
How can I write a shadow beautiful? It is elusive, haunting as old verse. The wind transcribes the dusk upon pale leaves. I touch your hand to prove the mood is real.
A Smoke Picture
Hands dream to trace the sculptures of old trees That stand like dark wainscoting to the light. Thickets of wordless poems capture thoughts, Paint lowering moods upon gray window glass.
Something So Fine
You must not look at me in failing light.
The measure of the moment is too bright.
The cold, gold sunset hurts my eyes tonight.
I will not listen to those panes of gray.
Touch was so articulate that day
The smoke of ironweed warmed resolve away.
Your West Virginia face was poetry.