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Michael Meyerhofer poems, quotations and biography on Michael Meyerhofer poet page. Read all poems of Michael Meyerhofer and infos about Michael Meyerhofer.
Michael Meyerhofer’s book, 'Leaving Iowa', won the Liam Rector First Book Award and is available from
www.amazon.com. His second book, 'Blue Collar Eulogies', is forthcoming from Steel Toe Press. He is also the author of four chapbooks-'Cardboard Urn', 'The Right Madness of Beggars', 'The Clay-Shaper's Husband', and the forthcoming 'Real Courage'. His work has appeared in Ploughshares, Arts & Letters, River Styx, North American Review, Green Mountains Review, MARGIE, Southern Poetry Review, Big Muddy, Flyway, Free Lunch, Diagram, and others. He recently won the James Wright Poetry Award, the Laureate Prize, and the Annie Finch Poetry Prize. more »
Michael Meyerhofer Poems
After the funeral, your hair
and skin baked to ash,
your body brought back in a gray box... more »
In real life, there was no chainsaw.
Nor was there a blood-sucking grandfather
carried down the stairs in his wheelchair
by a family of bumpkin cannibals.... more »
Forget the wrestlers with quick-
silver torsos and Spartan shoulders,
the sheen of cornstalks like secrets... more »
He ends, of course, with armor
like an iron cast of rivets and seams,
the shield hewn from a living tree,
his spear with its phallic handle... more »
With each day, I feel more
the weight of what must be said.
The sentences no poem has touched.
The joy and strife buried in the ground... more »
They say there are more people living now
on this earth than have ever lived before
which means, in terms of reincarnation,
that some of the people we pass on streets... more »
I was seven, running across the ice
when I slipped and cracked my skull,
blood bursting like crimson novas... more »
Comments about Michael Meyerhofer
After Watching The Texas Chainsaw Massacre
In real life, there was no chainsaw.
Nor was there a blood-sucking grandfather
carried down the stairs in his wheelchair
by a family of bumpkin cannibals.
No meditation on cows and sledgehammers
either, much less a van of college kids
pondering astrology just before, one by one,
they’re pulled behind the sliding tin door
of a killing room under the stairs, resplendent
with an overgrown chicken in a bird cage.
There were bones, yes, and grave-robbing,
even a homemade suit of women’s skin
but the true killer, Ed Gein, acted alone.
His weapon of ...
I read your poem 'Into the Deep' in Asimov's magazine that references the Kingston Trio. I would like to be able to show it on the Kingston Crossroad message board for other Trio fans.