Biography of Meghan O'Rourke
Meghan O'Rourke (born 1976 in Brooklyn, New York) is an American poet and critic.
O'Rourke was formerly a fiction editor at The New Yorker and from 2005-2010 was poetry co-editor at The Paris Review. She is also an occasional contributor to The New York Times. O'Rourke has written on a wide and eclectic range of topics, including horse racing, gender bias in the literary world, the politics of marriage and divorce, and the place of grief and mourning in modern society. She has published poems in literary journals and magazines including The New Yorker, Best American Poetry, The New Republic, and Poetry. Her first book of poems, Halflife, was published by Norton in 2007. O'Rourke's book, The Long Goodbye, a memoir of grief and mourning written after the death of her mother, was published to wide critical acclaim in April 2011. She lives in Brooklyn, New York. O'Rourke suffers from an autoimmune disorder which she has written about for The New Yorker.
Meghan O'Rourke Poems
Even now I can't grasp "nothing" or "never." They're unholdable, unglobable, no map to nothing.
Stone by stone, body by body in the grass: For this we trade our lone compass,
Grew up on the Jersey Shore in the 1970s. Always making margaritas in the kitchen, always laughing and doing their hair up pretty,
Inventing a Horse
Inventing a horse is not easy. One must not only think of the horse. One must dig fence posts around him.
My Life as a Subject
Because I was born in a kingdom, there was a king. At times the king was a despot; at other times,
Ophelia to the Court
My shoes are unpolished, my words smudged. I come to you undressed (the lord, he whispers Smut; that man, he whispers such). I bend
Demeter in Paris
You can only miss someone when they are present to you. The Isle of the Dead is both dark and light.
We had a drink and got in bed. That's when the boat in my mouth set sail, my fingers drifting in the shallows of your buzz cut.
The Night Where You No Longer Live
Was it like lifting a veil And was the grass treacherous, the green grass
Sun In Days
I tried to live that way for a while, among the trees, the green breeze, chewing Bubblicious and by the edge of the pool spitting it out.
Pawnbroker, scavenger, cheapskate, come creeping from your pigeon-filled backrooms, past guns and clocks and locks and cages,
Pawnbroker, scavenger, cheapskate,
come creeping from your pigeon-filled backrooms,
past guns and clocks and locks and cages,
past pockets emptied and coins picked from the floor;
come sweeping with the rainclouds down the river
through the brokenblack windows of factories
to avenues where movies whisk through basement projectors
and children peel up into the supplejack twilight—
there a black-eyed straight-backed drag queen