Maryann Corbett

A. M. Juster interviews Maryann Corbett on the process and inspiration behind her poetry.  Continue Reading »

This tangle of Drosophila, these flies low-orbiting your wineglass and my peachniggle a question: whether meaning liesonly in multitudes. Is all, not each,what matters? The arcana of creationbloom from the totting up of tiny specksfrom generation unto generationof brief lives and uncomplicated . . . . Continue Reading »

From the dank deeps    under dampened compost, to my amazement,    there now emerges almost unspoiled    a metal spoon— stainless steel,    from the ancient stash of our wedding booty.    Wondering how it came there, I mull,    and . . . . Continue Reading »

Bumbling, ungainly, sag-chinned, laughable: on land, the pelicans concede their natures. Hugging the sand, one tries to hide his features, long neck scrunched into shoulders, abashed bill well down. Airborne, they’re different: choreographed. Baroque danseurs, their slow-beat wing pavane impends . . . . Continue Reading »

Lucky: the man who measures out his days among his equals—simple, honest, free, not gripped by cramping fears or jealousies, ruling a farmstead kingdom peaceably. The miseries of grasping for a place do not obsess him. His feelings are unbound, yet his desire, placid and passionless, stops at . . . . Continue Reading »

I’m tired of it, this labored breathing. Tired of phlegm and coughing and the fight for air, bent double on the landing of a stair, in wheezing gasps where nothing is inspired. Tired of the silence next to me in bed when measured snoring suddenly goes still; of counting a nervous one, two, three . . . . Continue Reading »