Biography of Adam Fitzgerald
Adam Fitzgerald (born December 30, 1983) is an American poet. He is the author of The Late Parade, and his poetry has appeared in Boston Review, Fortnight Journal, Los Angeles Review of Books, Post Road, Rain Taxi, The Brooklyn Rail and many others. Fitzgerald is the founding editor of the poetry journal Maggy. He teaches at Rutgers University and The New School.
Adam Fitzgerald received his BA from Boston College and his MA from Boston University before earning his M.F.A. from the Columbia University. His first book of poetry, The Late Parade, was published by W.W. Norton/Liveright in 2013; the book has received positive reviews from John Ashbery and Harold Bloom, among other notable figures in the literary world.
Adam Fitzgerald Poems
The Love Song Of Saint Sebastian
There would be nothing more to say. You would love me because I should have strangled you
To A Boy Leading A Horse
Under a shudder of sun A murmur of wood. The opal sky impure as lead,
Who is here and who will bother? It doesn't matter dear,
Striated in folds, his red gown flows Like a firemuscle dipped to a flamelip, While featherlegged, lame and limp his toes Writhe wearily wave-enrhythmed steps, chipped
A leaf is scrolling in the dumb verb of your scalp, the matted junk of your hair, where the flat strands that glue together fold aside
The Relay Station
We sleep in private homes now, forgetting the laundry or whomever's name. Snow
Fondly, have we apprehended tomorrow? O let us not say anything rushed too soon, For too soon it was quick unexpectedness Who snapped and left us brushed to go
His stone shoes tipped askew on the curb’s hush, The plump of poor men’s cheeks he saw bestow
The Coming Train
It was a time of grandeur then, When marble strangers huddled in lobbies And cell phones stopped working Their tired itemizing and lonely inventories
The poor man with anonymous face Stalks the cut rows of flower fields Where sleeping turf blurs into bland Patches of sea-blue, chalk, blushing rose
Out of seaweed mermaid wood The wit of snowbird shadows Crowds your lip where no word Has known ferns or urn-songs.
Let him walk home With a swallow and a Sunday river Pinned to his vest; sleeve Dragging in the thirsty dirt.
I have not come too late, too late to the house upon this seldom street. When one is tired and one searches why one is tired and cannot sleep, perhaps one fears they have forgot,
On The Face Of Christopher Marlowe,1585
Dank and of phosphorous hue from your strict Cambridge frame, each harsh cheek a white plum cinched in a pink's slight pinch,
I have not come too late, too late to the house
upon this seldom street. When one is tired
and one searches why one is tired and cannot
sleep, perhaps one fears they have forgot,
forgotten how much to fear one’s self, or
when the night aborts without even a moon’s
retreat, when the flesh that hangs upon the prongs
of one’s dull ribs, heaves and heaves a little less
with each sequent breath, when the lungs traipse