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I tried to find my old self.
Looked under the bed
In the closet
Inside the kitchen and bathroom cabinets, behind the books on the shelves...
Poetry
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I read in the newspaper
about a poet who returned
from World War II,
amazed to hear people talk
about what they might do
next summer,...
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Mostly, writers bang away at their keyboards in hours of lonely desperation. Some may have domestic partners with whom to share the day’s ou...
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A poem contains its own meaning. Robert Frost, when asked to explain a poem he had just read, is said to have answered, “So you want me to s...
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Title page of 'we plié, unto this last'
what-life, wilderness. what dawn, its smallness and our, our line
strung on with it. what...
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Last December, the New York Times asked Honor Moore — poet, memoirist, feminist, peace activist, daughter of Episcopal Bishop Paul Moore, an...
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Portrait of Peggy Freydberg by Eli Dagostino.
Chorus of Cells
Every morning,
even being very old,
(or perhaps because of it),
I...
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Sailing Camp Shadows
By the time I started this painting I was deep in the zone.
I had found the essence of the story I wanted to tell wit...
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I met Margaret Howe Freydberg 17 years ago when we were both speakers at the first Chilmark Women’s Symposium. She read her poem, “A Letter ...
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These mysterious words are from the poem “Confirmation” from Justen Ahren’s first book of poems, titled A Strange Catechism. The book is a s...