Biography of Russell Edson
Russell Edson (1935 – April 29, 2014) was an American poet, novelist, writer and illustrator, and the son of the cartoonist-screenwriter Gus Edson.
He studied art early in life and attended the Art Students League as a teenager. He began publishing poetry in the 1960s. His honors as a poet include a Guggenheim fellowship,a Whiting Award, and several fellowships from the National Endowment for the Arts.
Edson published numerous collections of prose poetry, short stories and fables, one novel, The Song of Percival Peacock, and The Falling Sickness: A Book of Plays. His final book was See Jack (University of Pittsburgh Press, 2009).
He lived in Darien, Connecticut with his wife Frances.
Russell Edson Poems
You haven't finished your ape, said mother to father, who had monkey hair and blood on his whiskers. I've had enough monkey, cried father.
A scientist has a test tube full of sheep. He wonders if he should try to shrink a pasture for them. They are like grains of rice.
One Lonely Afternoon
Since the fern can't go to the sink for a drink of water, I graciously submit myself to the task, bringing two glasses from the sink. And so we sit, the fern and I, sipping water together.
A Stone Is Nobody's
A man ambushed a stone. Caught it. Made it a prisoner. Put it in a dark room and stood guard over it for the rest of his life.
On The Eating Of Mice
A woman prepared a mouse for her husband's dinner, roasting it with a blueberry in its mouth. At table he uses a dentist's pick and a surgeon's scalpel,
A man is fighting with a cup of coffee. The rules: he must not break the cup nor spill its coffee; nor must the cup break the man's bones or spill his blood.
There was a man who found two leaves and came indoors holding them out saying to his parents that he was a tree.
A father with a huge eraser erases his daughter. When he finishes there's only a red smudge on the wall. His wife says, where is Amyloo? She's a mistake, I erased her.
Up in a dirty window in a dark room is a star which an old man can see. He looks at it. He can see it. It is the star of the room; an electrical freckle that has fallen out of his head and gotten
There was a man who didn't know how to sleep; nodding off every night into a drab, unprofessional sleep. Sleep that he'd grown so tired of sleeping. He tried reading The Manual of Sleep, but it just put him
On the other side of a mirror there's an inverse world, where the insane go sane; where bones climb out of the earth and recede to the first slime of love.
The barber has accidentally taken off an ear. It lies like something newborn on the floor in a nest of hair. Oops, says the barber, but it musn't've been a very good ear, it came off with very little complaint.
A Historical Breakfast
A man is bringing a cup of coffee to his face, tilting it to his mouth. It's historical, he thinks. He scratches his head: another historical event. He really ought to rest, he's making an awful lot of
A Journey Through The Moonlight
In sleep when an old man's body is no longer aware of his boundaries, and lies flattened by gravity like a mere of wax in its bed . . . It drips down to the floor and moves there like a tear down a
One Lonely Afternoon
Since the fern can't go to the sink for a drink of
water, I graciously submit myself to the task, bringing two
glasses from the sink.
And so we sit, the fern and I, sipping water together.
Of course I'm more complex than a fern, full of deep
thoughts as I am. But I lay this aside for the easy company
of an afternoon friendship.