Lisa Gluskin Stonestreet
Biography of Lisa Gluskin Stonestreet
Lisa Gluskin Stonestreet (born January 31, 1968) is an award-winning American poet. Stonestreet's second book, The Greenhouse, was awarded the 2014 Frost Place Chapbook Prize and published by Bull City Press in August 2014. Her first book, Tulips, Water, Ash, was chosen by Jean Valentine to receive the 2009 Morse Poetry Prize, and it was published by Northeastern University Press.
Stonestreet is a graduate of Yale University, and she received an MFA in Creative Writing from the MFA Program for Writers at Warren Wilson College where she received the Jacob K. Javits Fellowship in Creative Writing. Her poems have been anthologized in Best New Poets 2005 and Best New Poets 2006 (Samovar Press), and they have appeared in literary journals and magazines, including The Iowa Review, Bellingham Review, Blackbird, and Third Coast. Her honors include fellowships from Millay Colony for the Arts and Vermont Studio Center. She lives with her husband and son in Oakland, California, where she works as a writer, teacher and editor.
Lisa Gluskin Stonestreet Poems
A hot day and a woodpecker carves away at backyard aspen, the dog's ear swiveling like a tiny satellite dish: pinpoint, lock on. Morning and the neighborhood
and I go down into it, the hall again (streetlights, blinds)
out of the depths I cry to you, O Lord —more like out of the middle, the soft chewy center of here: the mailbox,
The build-up, the accretion and you wonder why you ever bothered, all the little objects— why not a perfect silence, a white sheet: cool and opalescent,
Outside rained over the tetherballs, but here I held the world. The joy of getting it down, down right, the sharp purple scent of page
View From The Headlands
The longer I know it, my husband says, this place, the worse I know it is—the ruined, the once. Paradise once (we think), and still the hills, the bridge: some perfect gleaming headway,
Maybe there could have been another life that led us here, where we ended up:
than one, or two, or enough that counting doesn't help: a million poppies, a million rats.
It is only the space between stars. Only matter, falling away from itself:
Outside rained over the tetherballs,
but here I held the world. The joy
of getting it down, down right,
the sharp purple scent of page
under pen—I scratched away
in love with the word.
Number six: squirrel.
Squirrel. It rode the curves,