Biography of Matthew Rohrer
Matthew Rohrer (born 1970) is an American poet.
Born in Ann Arbor, Michigan, Rohrer was raised in Oklahoma. He earned a B.A. from the University of Michigan (where he won a Hopwood Award for poetry) and a Master of Fine Arts degree in poetry from the University of Iowa.
His first book of poetry, A Hummock in the Malookas (1995), was selected by Mary Oliver for the 1994 National Poetry Series. In 2005, his collection A Green Light was shortlisted for the International Griffin Poetry Prize. James Tate said of A Green Light, "There are poems in A Green Light that can break your heart with their unexpected twists and turns. You think you know where you are and then you don't and it is inexplicably sad. You experience some kind of emotion that you can't even name, but it's deep and real. That's the power of Matthew Rohrer's new poems."
He was poetry editor for Fence magazine.
He lives in Brooklyn, New York and teaches at New York University.
This page is based on the copyrighted Wikipedia Matthew Rohrer; it is used under the Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported License. You may redistribute it, verbatim or modified, providing that you comply with the terms of the CC-BY-SA.
Matthew Rohrer Poems
Strangers came into the apartment walked right to the bookshelf to spill beer on your book.
is an imaginary flower that never fades. The amaranth is blue with black petals, it's yellow with red petals, it's enormous and grows into the shape
They learned to turn off the gravity in an auditorium and we all rose into the air, the same room where they demonstrated
In the middle garden is the secret wedding, that hides always under the other one and under the shiny things of the other one. Under a tree
I believe there is something else entirely going on but no single
There Is Absolutely Nothing Lonelier
There is absolutely nothing lonelier than the little Mars rover never shutting down, digging up
Search for Extraterrestrial Intelligence
I'm writing upside down with the space pen, listening to the rain. My wife is writing about the Black Death
In the middle garden is the secret wedding,
that hides always under the other one
and under the shiny things of the other one. Under a tree
one hand reaches through the grainy dusk toward another.
Two right hands. The ring is a weed that will surely die.
There is no one else for miles,
and even those people far away are deaf and blind.
There is no one to bless this.