Laure-Anne Bosselaar (1943-present)
From Beligum, France, Laure-Anne Bosselaar is a very well-known poet. She has studied four languages and has published two in flemish and french. In 1987 was a big transition for her. That was when she moved to the United States. She has been awarded a Fellowship at the Breadloaf Writers' Conference and was a Writer in Residence at Hamilton College and the Vermont Studio Center. She teaches at Sarah Lawrence College and the University of Southern Maine, as well as leading poetry workshops at writers' conferences across the country. As well as writing poems, Laure-Anne speaks poems and is known for her poetic voice.Currently, she lives in New York City with her husband who is also a poet.
From Beligum, France, Laure-Anne Bosselaar is a very well-known poet. She has studied four languages and has published two in flemish and french. In 1987 was a big transition for her. That was when she moved to the United States. She has been awarded a Fellowship at the Breadloaf Writers' Conference and was a Writer in Residence at Hamilton College and the Vermont Studio Center. She teaches at Sarah Lawrence College and the University of Southern Maine, as well as leading poetry workshops at writers' conferences across the country. As well as writing poems, Laure-Anne speaks poems and is known for her poetic voice.Currently, she lives in New York City with her husband who is also a poet.
AT DAWN
Crows—their constant
beak-clicking, triple-beat squawks.
My love as he sighs, stirs,
weighs a wrist or knee on me,
then sinks back, coiled
into the thick flesh of sleep.
The coffeemaker's chokes,
the garbage truck's brake-squeaks.
Last night's sweet crumbs
of dried-out apricot pie.
Then—light: how it creeps
down night's taut rope, lands,
aslant, on the kitchen counter
to shellac two clementines
shrinking in a chipped bowl.
I take note, write it down: crows' scorn,
love's weight, street sounds—
tastes, colors, death, charms
crammed into a fraction of dawn:
all of this—already gone.
FOR MY SON
I sit against the scarred trunk of an oak.
The sun barely winnows through its branches.
Beyond a lit spot small as a newborn's fist,
a twig quivers, then arcs toward light.
What caused such languid inclination
makes its way down the leaf: a tiny snail,
gold as corn. For an instant, they sway,
lit, in utter balance—then, in a deep bow,
the leaf releases its weight onto earth and curls
back into the shade—the vitreous path
of that moment now in its center. Mathieu,
if nature's cruelties know no limits,
neither do the boundaries of its grace.
I give thanks for you.