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Anne Stevenson

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Anne Stevenson

Born in Cambridge, England, on January 3, 1933, Anne Stevenson spent most of her early life in Cambridge, Massachusetts and New Haven, Connecticut. She is the daughter of the American philosopher C.L. Stevenson. She studied at the University of Michigan where she received a B.A. and an M.A. in literature.

Her first book of poems Living in America (Generation, 1965) was followed shortly thereafter by her first critical collection, Elizabeth Bishop (Twayne, 1966). Stevenson is the author of numerous collections of poetry, including It Looks So Simple from a Distance (Poems on the Underground, 2010), Selected Poems (The Library of America, 2008), Stone Milk (Bloodaxe, 2007) Poems 1955–2005 (Bloodaxe, 2006) and A Report from the Border: New & Rescued Poems (2003).

Bitter Fame, her biography of Sylvia Plath, was published by Viking/Penguin in 1989. Other critical books include Five Looks at Elizabeth Bishop (Bloodaxe, 2006) and Between the Iceberg and the Ship: Selected Essays (University of Michigan Press, 1998).

About her writing, she says:

I suspect there isn't really such a thing as free verse. Or if there is, I don't think I've written any. Readers may not always realize how formally constructed my poems are—but I assure you, not a single line has ever been passed over as accidental or unconsidered.

The poet X. J. Kennedy describes her poems as "achievements in which the angle of vision is particularly distinct. It is very much her own. Reading her, one is seldom if ever reminded of any other poets."

Stevenson is the recipient of The Neglected Masters Award from the Poetry Foundation and The Lannan Prize for lifetime achievement. She lives with her husband, Peter Lucas, in Durham City, England.

by this poet

You sleep with a dream of summer weather,
wake to the thrum of rain—roped down by rain.
Nothing out there but drop-heavy feathers of grass  
and rainy air. The plastic table on the terrace
has shed three legs on its way to the garden fence.     
The mountains have had the sense to disappear.  
It's the Celtic
That fire in the garden's an illusion—
the double of the fire that cheers this room.
Now standing at the window in between them,
I watch the spiked montbretia suddenly bloom
and guess the glass is telling me a lie. 
But no, the flames are there. I can't deny
the evidence presented to my eye. 
Only to my doubt
          An Interrupted Monologue by Rembrandt van Rijn, c. 1630

Look for me
where I learned to look for myself, 
in my ring of attempts
in the light of a sinking candle.

A candle?

       My soul, if you will.
My paintings bear witness to its
long affair with the real.
My flesh preferred games

collected in

While we celebrate the tradition of American poetry—Walt Whitman and E...