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About this poet

Stephen Kuusisto was born in Exeter, New Hampshire, in 1955. He received a BA from Hobart and William Smith Colleges and an MFA from the University of Iowa. He is the author of the poetry collections Letters to Borges (Copper Canyon Press, 2013) and Only Bread, Only Light (Copper Canyon Press, 2000). He is also the author of several works of nonfiction, including Have Dog, Will Travel: A Poet’s Journey (Simon & Schuster), which is forthcoming in 2018. Kuusisto, who was born legally blind, is a disability rights activist and has served as a cultural diplomat for the U. S. State Department. He currently teaches at Syracuse University in New York.

Letter to Borges from London

When I was a boy I made a beehive
From old letters—dark scraps from a trunk,
Lost loves; assurances from travelers.
It was intricate work.
The blind kid and the worker bee lost whole days.
I made a library for inchworms.

Now I’m a natural philosopher but with the same restless hands.
Some days I put cities together—
Santiago and Carthage;
Toronto and Damascus.
If strangers watch closely, Borges,
They’ll see my fingers working at nothing.

In Hyde Park near the Albert Memorial and alone on a bench
I reconstructed the boroughs of New York—
Brooklyn was at the center, Kyoto in place of Queens.
This was a city of bells and gardens, a town for immigrants.
The old woman passing by saw my hands at work.
She thought I was a lost blind man, a simpleton,
Said, “Poor Dearie!” and gave me a quid.

From Letters to Borges (Copper Canyon Press, 2013). Copyright © 2013 by Stephen Kuusisto. Used with the permission of the author.

From Letters to Borges (Copper Canyon Press, 2013). Copyright © 2013 by Stephen Kuusisto. Used with the permission of the author.

Stephen Kuusisto

Stephen Kuusisto

Stephen Kuusisto is the author of the poetry collections Letters to Borges (Copper Canyon Press, 2013) and Only Bread, Only Light (Copper Canyon Press, 2000). 

by this poet

poem

There is at times a small fire
In the brain, partita for violin,
Brier, black stem,
All burning in the quarter notes.
And the hedgerow
Beyond the barn
Calls its starlings in.
Then frost, sere leaves,
A swollen half-moon
Like a drowsy fingertip
Above the apple trees

poem

The dry universe
Gives up its fruit,

Black seeds are raining,
Pascal dreams of a wristwatch,

And heaven help me
The metempsychosis of book

Is upon me. I hunch over it,
The boy in the asylum

Whose fingers leapt for words.
(In the dark books are living things,

poem

Up late, reading alone,
I feed printed pages
Into the Kurzweil scanner,
An electronic reader
For the blind.

Randomly now
I take books from my shelves,
Open the mysterious volumes,
And lay them flat on the machine.
I can’t say
What’s coming next—
I wait in