Maureen Thorson
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maureenthorson.bsky.social
Maureen Thorson
@maureenthorson.bsky.social
880 followers 360 following 860 posts
Poet person. Check out my new interview with Colorado Review: https://coloradoreview.colostate.edu/2025/10/a-conversation-with-maureen-thorson/
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maureenthorson.bsky.social
“No licking tongues will melt like candle wax.” A poem by Andrew Motion.
To Whom It May Concern This poem about ice cream has nothing to do with government, with riot, with any political scheme. It is a poem about ice cream. You see? About how you might stroll into a shop and ask: One Strawberry Split. One Mivvi. What did I tell you? No one will die. No licking tongues will melt like candle wax. This is a poem about ice cream. Do not cry.
November 26, 2025 at 1:24 AM
maureenthorson.bsky.social
“The season all coated in soft silver.” A poem by Sandra Lim.
ABOVE US ARE THE LAST LIGHTS planting something within us that also represents death for the taking at every turn; greeting the season all coated in soft silver with a strong handshake; loving and hating, those buttons done up all the way to the top of your sweater.
November 25, 2025 at 1:07 AM
maureenthorson.bsky.social
“We could strike this sentence out entire” A poem by Lucy Ives
from ANAMNESIS Suppose we write the sentence, "Paul had a very great mind" Later we can return, strike through the word "mind" and write "brain" Later we might add, before the word "had," the words, "the owner of the restaurant" We might add, "whose sign is the shape of a sleeping deer" We could strike this sentence out entire We could write, "Debt has become the watch word" Well write, "Recommended for you" But we can cross this out Write, "My family has three members" Strike through "has," write, "is" Strike through "members," write, "both my mother and father, in the apartment right now" Strike through "right now," write, "in the mornings, noon, and in the evenings" Strike "both" through Write, "Lucy was saying that" Strike the whole sentence
November 24, 2025 at 12:55 AM
maureenthorson.bsky.social
“Face of gold like the gods' skin.” A poem by Eleni Sikelianos.
THE BA, THE KA, THE AKH, THE NAME, AND THE SHADOW Weigh the heart against the feather of Truth. Do you come out heavy? Do you come out light? Too pride-hustled? Too sleek? My human-headed bird, bird- shaped human my ba, face of gold like the gods' skin Fly off to bash in the sun but come home tonight divested of that dress I recognize clothed in some animal I don't Still I know you and I know your names
November 23, 2025 at 1:42 AM
maureenthorson.bsky.social
“And fire is deeper still.” A poem by Ann Darr.
A Divining Rod I have ruined our campsite by sinking a well. Dowsed for it with a forked stick that carried a stone, a pit, a cherry, and when the pull was strong, we staked the spot and called the rig. Never mind that the pull was strong an equal number of steps from wherever I began. Meaning water is everywhere. And fire is deeper still. And someday I shall dowse for fire, and not be satisfied until hell breaks loose.
November 22, 2025 at 1:36 AM
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“The clamour of that never-ending song.” A poem by Charlotte Mew.
Not for That City BY CHARLOTTE MEW Not for that city of the level sun, Its golden streets and glittering gates ablaze— The shadeless, sleepless city of white days, White nights, or nights and days that are as one— We weary, when all is said, all thought, all done. We strain our eyes beyond this dusk to see What, from the threshold of eternity We shall step into. No, I think we shun The splendour of that everlasting glare, The clamour of that never-ending song. And if for anything we greatly long, It is for some remote and quiet stair Which winds to silence and a space for sleep Too sound for waking and for dreams too deep.
November 21, 2025 at 2:34 AM
maureenthorson.bsky.social
“Like a candle-lit room in a folktale.” A poem by Leonard E. Nathan.
The Potato Eaters BY LEONARD E. NATHAN Sometimes, the naked taste of potato reminds me of being poor. The first bites are gratitude, the rest, contented boredom. The little kitchen still flickers like a candle-lit room in a folktale. Never again was my father so angry, my mother so still as she set the table, or I so much at home.
November 20, 2025 at 1:20 AM
maureenthorson.bsky.social
“Your star, steel-set, keeps lone and frigid tryst.” A poem by H.D.
STARS WHEEL IN PURPLE Stars wheel in purple, yours is not so rare as Hesperus, nor yet so great a star as bright Aldeboran or Sirius, nor yet the stained and brilliant one of War; stars turn in purple, glorious to the sight; yours is not gracious as the Pleiads are nor as Orion's sapphires, luminous; yet disenchanted, cold, imperious face, when all the others blighted, reel and fall, your star, steel-set, keeps lone and frigid tryst to freighted ships, baffled in wind and blast.
November 19, 2025 at 1:10 AM
maureenthorson.bsky.social
“We love each other like poppy and memory.” A poem by Paul Celan, translated by Susan H. Gillespie.
CORONA From my hand autumn nibbles its leaf: we are friends. We shell time from the nuts and teach it to walk: tme returns to the shell. In the mirror is Sunday, the dream enfolds sleeping, the mouth speaks true. My eye looks down to the sex of my lover: we speak of dark things, we love each other like poppy and memory, we sleep like wine in the clamshells, we gaze at each other. like the sea in the moon’s bloody ray. We stand and embrace at the window, they watch us from the street: It is time that they knew! It is time that the stone decided to bloom, that haste turned a heartwheel. It is time to be time. It is time.
November 18, 2025 at 12:37 AM
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“Dance with me, dancer. Oh, I will.” A poem by Robert Hass.
THE PROBLEM OF DESCRIBING TREES The aspen glitters in the wind And that delights us. The leaf flutters, turning, Because that motion in the heat of August Protects its cells from drying out. Likewise the leaf Of the cottonwood. The gene pool threw up a wobbly stem And the tree danced. No. The tree capitalized. No. There are limits to saying, In language, what the tree did. It is good sometimes for poetry to disenchant us. “Dance with me, dancer. Oh, I will.” Mountains, sky, The aspen doing something in the wind.
November 17, 2025 at 12:42 AM
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“Huge and bright, over the black mountain.” A poem by Anna Akhmatova, translated by Judith Hemschemeyer.
LOT’S WIFE Lot's wife looked back from behind him and became a pillar of salt. —Book of Genesis And the righteous man followed the envoy of God, Huge and bright, over the black mountain. But anguish spoke loudly to his wife: It is not too late, you can still gaze At the red towers of your native Sodom, At the square where you sang, at the courtyard where you spun, At the empty windows of the tall house Where you bore children to your beloved husband. She glanced, and, paralyzed by deadly pain, Her eyes no longer saw anything; And her body became transparent salt And her quick feet were rooted to the spot. Who will weep for this woman? Isn't her death the least significant? But my heart will never forget the one Who gave her life for a single glance.
November 16, 2025 at 1:05 AM
maureenthorson.bsky.social
“A home-based man at home in the end.” A poem by Seamus Heaney.
Quitting Time The hosed-down chamfered concrete pleases him. He'll wait a while before he kills the light On the cleaned-up yard, its pails and farrowing crate, And the cast-iron pump immobile as a herm Upstanding elsewhere, in another time. More and more this last look at the wet Shine of the place is what means most to him - And to repeat the phrase, 'My head is light', Because it often is as he reaches back And switches off, a home-based man at home In the end with little. Except this same Night after nightness, redding up the work, The song of a tubular steel gate in the dark As he pulls it to and starts his uphill trek.
November 15, 2025 at 2:04 AM
maureenthorson.bsky.social
“Don’t talk to stranglers.” A poem by D.A. Powell.
Talk to Strangers BY D. A. POWELL don't talk to stranglers when yr wasted do talk to swingers don't talk to swindlers if you can tell them apart from the strangers who are just strangers no stranger than you alone and afraid to be alone cuz they might want to touch your throat
November 14, 2025 at 2:32 AM
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“In benediction over nun-like hills.” A poem by Claude McKay.
The Tropics in New York BY CLAUDE MCKAY Bananas ripe and green, and ginger-root, Cocoa in pods and alligator pears, And tangerines and mangoes and grape fruit, Fit for the highest prize at parish fairs, Set in the window, bringing memories Of fruit-trees laden by low-singing rills, And dewy dawns, and mystical blue skies In benediction over nun-like hills. My eyes grew dimn, and I could no more gaze; A wave of longing through my body swept, And, hungry for the old, familiar ways, I turned aside and bowed my head and wept.
November 13, 2025 at 2:50 AM
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“Your winding hair is different now.” A poem by Hakan Sandell, translated by Bill Coyle
Your Hair of Snakes and Flowers BY HẢKAN SANDELL, TRANSLATED BY BILL COYLE When I saw one of those men touch your hair, I heard for the first time in many a year the ancient battle trumpets and I saw the banners of an army winding off to war and felt that blind power urging me to knock him out with one punch, send him tumbling to the floor. If nobody had held me back, stopped me, I would—God help me—have killed him on the spot, stomped out his blood, and spit in it. I'm sorry, but you must be aware your winding hair is different now, a hornets' nest, a snakes' lair! Yes, like a ball of snakes in a flower basket, dear.
November 12, 2025 at 1:11 AM
maureenthorson.bsky.social
Many thanks to @tomsnarsky.bsky.social for selecting this little bit of Xmas mystery for publication in HAD!
November 11, 2025 at 4:42 PM
maureenthorson.bsky.social
“The soul of the old dog won't leave her master.” A poem by Dean Young.
A Beginner's Guide to Endings So some mice decide to try climbing a mountain. An unexpected wedding guest leads the dance. Nothing pleases your father. A bundle of letters is found deep in a trunk. The soul of the old dog won't leave her master. The last task is to bring back a burning branch. A jug comes out of the darkness; take a swig and pass it on. The entrance is guarded by a beast that can take many forms. And this is why willow trees bend down. People say they saw worms crawling from the ground. In the courtyard, next to a beggar, an eagle drops a crown. The horse can go no further. The god has to be tricked to take the world back on his shoulder. It follows then that reality is intermittent. Goodbye mother, farewell home. And that is why the girl put on armor. And you and I have always known each other. And that is why the stars are drunkards.
November 11, 2025 at 1:32 AM
maureenthorson.bsky.social
“I am singing sadly to the barn.” A poem by Matthew Zapruder.
SCARECROW Remember her strapped to the air, her grey dress flapping a little? The field mice ran beneath her feet learning new technologies. I don't scare anybody, she complained, smiling, a nest on her head. Which was how much I loved her, all through the harvest and dismantling. I am the morning dove who nests in the gutter. I am singing sadly to the barn.
November 10, 2025 at 1:38 AM
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“Like the skin of a tightening fist.” A poem by Monica Youn.
IGNATZ OASIS When you have left me the sky drains of color like the skin of a tightening fist. The sun commences its gold prowl batting at tinsel streamers on the electric fan. Crouching I hide in the coolness I stole from the brass rods of your bed.
November 9, 2025 at 1:44 AM
maureenthorson.bsky.social
“The rain drums down like red ants.” A poem by Anne Sexton.
THE FURY OF RAIN STORMS The rain drums down like red ants, each bouncing off my window. These ants are in great pain and they cry out as they hit, as if their little legs were only stitched on and their heads pasted. And oh they bring to mind the grave, so humble, so willing to be beat upon with its awful lettering and the body lying underneath without an umbrella. Depression is boring, I think, and I would do better to make some soup and light up the cave.
November 8, 2025 at 1:44 AM
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“When will I have a shiny mind?” A poem by Andrei Codrescu.
Xerox the Spirit and Be Well The outside comes in to watch itself—well, fuck it! The inside gets out. Goodbye. When will I have a shiny mind? A mind on which the balls can roll, and the trains. A mind in which the years leave tracks for some original suppleness to roll out of it like trains. Will they unearth the stations, clean up the plains? “They" go by silently and nothing, nothing is smooth, no, not when you stand sulking inside an out-of-season marigold and paw your reasons ike an angry worm as the floors sway, pushed by remote control by the military. Nothing, nothing will ever stop because under us the soil boils with psychotic illusions!
November 7, 2025 at 1:57 AM
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“The great quiet humming of the soul at night” A poem by Frank Stanford.
In Another Room I Am Drinking Eggs from a Boot BY FRANK STANFORD Hans Richter What if the moon was essence of quinine And high heels were a time of day When certain birds bled The chauffeur is telling the cook The antler would pry into ice floes Swim with a lamp And we’d be shivering in a ditch Biting through a black wing There would be boats There would be a dream country The great quiet humming of the soul at night The only sound is a shovel Clearing a place for a mailbox
November 6, 2025 at 1:46 AM
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“These memories won't get any bigger, will they?” A poem by Alice Fulton.
Because We Never Practiced With The Escape Chamber BY ALICE FULTON we had to read the instructions as we sank. In a hand like carded lace. Not nuclear warheads on the sea's floor nor the violet flow over the reactor will outlive this sorrouful rhyme. Vain halo! My project becalmed, I'll find I've built a monument more passing than a breeze. It will cost us, Pobrecito. We can't buy a prayer. Did you call my name or was that the floorboard wheezing? These memories won't get any bigger, will they? I think something is coming that will vastly improve our quietude. I'm growing snow crystals from vapor in anticipation and praying for the velvet-cushioned kneeler that I need to pray. I made this little sound for you to wait in.
November 5, 2025 at 2:42 AM
maureenthorson.bsky.social
Very happy to have been interviewed by @coloradoreview.bsky.social about my poems in their summer issue! Many thanks to Erin Peters for inviting me to talk with her. Link in my bio ❤️
November 4, 2025 at 1:40 PM
maureenthorson.bsky.social
“The distressed of heart will remain here in grey droves for hours.” A poem by Charles Martin.
PROPOSAL FOR A MONUMENT OF PEARS Four pears in all, and all of them gigantic: Two in the foreground looming up, obscurely Questioning our values, giving answers In an ambiguous fashion which will surely Ofer much comfort, solace: the distressed of Heart will remain here in grey droves for hours, Until the third pear seems to them the breast of A green girl, ripening: beyond it towers The patriarch of pears—orgulous, sullen, Not to be sliced compliantly in wedges And taken as dessert with runny cheeses: Restored, the pilgrims sink upon their knees, as They see the carved words, brown around the edges, Of its simple inscription: FOR THE FALLEN
November 4, 2025 at 1:53 AM