Marilyn Hacker Poems
- Exiles Her brown falcon perches above the sink as steaming ...
- Morning News Spring wafts up the smell of bus exhaust, of ...
- Nearly A Valediction You happened to me. I was happened ...
- Invocation This is for Elsa, also known as Liz, an ...
- Desesperanto After Joseph Roth Parce que c'était...
- Rune Of The Finland Woman For Sára Karig "You are so ...
- Iva's Pantoum We pace each other for a long time. I packed ...
Born in New York City on November 27, 1942, Marilyn Hacker was the only child of a working-class Jewish couple, each the first in their families to attend college. Hacker attended the Bronx High School of Science before enrolling at New York University, where she received a BA in Romance Languages in 1964.
Hacker moved to London in 1970, where she worked as a book dealer. With the mentorship of Richard Howard, then the editor of The New American Review, Hacker’s first collection of poems, Presentation Piece, was published by the Viking Press in 1974. The collection was both the Lamont Poetry Selection of the Academy of American Poets and the recipient of the National Book ... more »
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Quotationsmore quotations »
''Poetry seems to have been eliminated as a literary genre, and installed instead, as a kind of spiritual aerobic exercisenobody need read it, but anybody can do it.''Marilyn Hacker (b. 1942), U.S. poet and editor. As quoted in A Gift That Cannot be Refused, ch. 7, by Mary Biggs (1990). Said in 1983.
''The woman poet must be either a ... sexless, reclusive eccentric, with nothing to say specifically to women, or a brilliant, tragic, tortured suicide.''Marilyn Hacker (b. 1942), U.S. poet and editor. As quoted in How to Suppress Women's Writing, ch. 6, by Joanna Russ (1983). Said on November 2, 19...
Her brown falcon perches above the sink
as steaming water forks over my hands.
Below the wrists they shrivel and turn pink.
I am in exile in my own land.
Her half-grown cats scuffle across the floor
trailing a slime of blood from where they fed.
I lock the door. They claw under the door.
I am an exile in my own bed.
Her spotted mongrel, bristling with red mange,
sleeps on the threshold of the Third Street bar
where I drink brandy as the couples change.
I am in exile where my neighbors are.
On the pavement, cans of ashes burn.
Her green lizard ...