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Poetry. Lesle Lewis's new poems give, and take, the unit of the meaning of the sentence. She rhymes with Michael Burkard, Robert Creeley, Mary Ruefle, Jean Valentine, James Tate, Fanny Howe. Who speaks here represents an esoteric, doubting, canny, coherent, chemical self which wakes-sleeps-utters all from the same mouth with wayward, roving, strabismic wall-eye. It is the generous, centering indeterminacy we may have been missing.
I studied art at Bard before figuring out I was better at writing, but before becoming a poet and teacher, I worked as a beekeeper at UMass, a house-builder on a woman's carpentry crew, and a cow-milker at various local farms. My husband and I moved to the woods of New Hampshire with our baby in 1980. We lived in the dark; our house had no electricity and no alternative energy sources. We had chickens and goats and horses and a series of dogs and cats. (We still live in the same house but have solar power now.) I became more serious about writing. I went back to school and got my MFA at Umass. I taught at the Community of Vermont, Keene State College, and then Landmark College for a number of years. I am the author of RAINY DAYS ON THE FARM (Fence Books, 2019) and A BOOT'S A BOOT (Cleveland State University Poetry Center, 2014). Now I lead a pretty quiet life. I do a lot of reading and gardening and bushwhacking and contemplating (these days about compassion, about art, about death, about the state of the earth). Dan and I are doing some adventuring with Jack, our camper bus. Author City: ALSTEAD, NH USA