Biography of George Witte
George Witte is the author of Does She Have a Name? (NYQ Books, May 2014) , Deniability (Orchises Press,2009) and The Apparitioners (Three Rail Press,2005; now distributed by Orchises Press) . His work has appeared in The Atlantic, Antioch Review, Boulevard, Gettysburg Review, Poetry, Ploughshares, Prairie Schooner, Shenandoah, Southwest Review, Virginia Quarterly Review, Yale Review, and in The Best American Poets 2007 anthology. He received Poetry's Frederick Bock Prize for a group of poems, and a fellowship from the New Jersey Council for the Arts/Department of State.
George Witte's Works:
Does She Have a Name? (NYQ Books, May 14)
http: //www.spdbooks.org/Producte/9781630450014/does-she-have-a-name.aspx? rf=1
The Apparitioners: Poems
Both available from Orchises Press:
George Witte Poems
No photograph records that day's unmaking roar. Things ripped from skins,
The gym's ball-light cast silhouettes, blue stars that swarmed the stage, then disappeared. In scarlet caps and snowflake wings your class lined up, obedient, to sing.
The neighbor's grand piano muffled yours, a stand-up, practical and cheap. Aglow, hers justified a private studio, yours the wall between two radiators.
Who swilled the milk except its dregs, savored coffee and unpeeled the final fragrant pear, left cereal crumbs, dry loaf heels,
Hide And Seek
Enough of hollow protocol. Persuaded by intelligence surmised from noise the system's culled through parallel surveillances,
A line is crossed, unnoticed by command But photographed in fame's amoral flash. Bodies piled, trophy game atop which rests One boot; smiles of shy surprise, unabashed.
Asleep, my mother startles into flight: ungainly bird, all beak and hollow bone, helmeted in gauze to swathe the surgeon's burr-hole signature. Rising over town
The snake lay in state like a king Slabbed on limestone, overlooking The river he hunted and ruled. His mail glittered copper and gold
In nondescript cars of uncertain make anonymous monsters arrive and go, glide quiet past schoolyards, apply the brake.
The county ponds still blind With icy cataracts, I walked the ridge's spine Where trees smashed cold-cast
No photograph records
that day's unmaking roar.
Things ripped from skins,
words from definitions.
Letters distilled until