Biography of Norman Dubie
Norman Dubie (born April 10, 1945 Barre, Vermont) is an American poet.
He is the author of more than eighteen books, often assuming historical personae in his works. Dubie's poetry has been included in The New Yorker, Ploughshares, The Paris Review, FIELD, and Blackbird, an online journal of literature and the arts.
A recipient of numerous fellowships (including the National Endowment for the Arts and the Ingram Merrill Foundation) and awards, Dubie is a graduate of Goddard College and the Iowa Writer's Workshop. He teaches in the graduate Creative Writing Program at Arizona State University, in Tempe AZ, where he is Regents Professor of English.
The Tucson-based band Calexico have stated that Dubie's poetry was very influential on their album Carried to Dust, particularly the song "Two Silver Trees".
Norman Dubie Poems
February: The Boy Breughel
The birches stand in their beggar's row: Each poor tree Has had its wrists nearly Torn from the clear sleeves of bone,
The Czar's Last Christmas Letter: A Barn...
You were never told, Mother, how old Illyawas drunk That last holiday, for five days and nights He stumbled through Petersburg forming
Of Politics, & Art
for Allen Here, on the farthest point of the peninsula
Her Monologue Of Dark Crepe With Edges O...
Mistress Adrienne, I have been given a bed with a pink dresser In the hothouse Joining the Concord Public Library: the walls and roof are
In the cold heavy rain, through its poor lens, a woman
South Boston Morning
Very pragmatic closets of falling water, bath and sewer, complex dwellers eating black bread,
The General's men sit at the door. Her eyes Are fat with belladonna. She's naked Except for the small painted turtles
Behind The Old Soldiers' Hospital
Steam banks chugging out the brick autoclave under the laundry room, screams rising up chutes while the sergeant's leg is sawed off above the long sock.
The Pennacesse Leper Colony For Women, C...
The island, you mustn't say, had only rocks and scrub pine; Was on a blue, bright day like a blemish in this landscape. And Charlotte who is frail and the youngest of us collects
The Composer's Winter Dream
Vivid and heavy, he strolls through dark brick kitchens Within the great house of Esterhazy: A deaf servant's candle
Elegy To The Sioux
The vase was made of clay With spines of straw For strength. The sunbaked vase
A winter evening at the cottage by the bay, And I sat in the black and gold of the dead garden Wrapped in blankets, eating my sister's suet pudding. The fountain was wrapped in dirty straw and
Herman Melville's Book Of Four Sentences
The snow fence could be seen leaving a woman who's eating cold noodles. It's not made of abandoned bee boxes
The first morning after anyone's death, is it important To know that fields are wet, that the governess is Naked but with a scarf still covering her head, that
It is not 1937 for long. A clump of ash trees and a walk
Down the the boathouse: inside linen is tacked up
In a long blank mural; the children sit on the wings
Of the dry dock, and then, over the water in a circle
Of rowboats, the aunts and uncles wait while
At their center the projectionist, Jean Renoir,
On a cedar raft, casts silhouettes of rabbits, birds,
And turtles for the sleepy children. Corks
Come out of old bottles, it is a few minutes past sunset