poem index

poet

Ben Doller

Warsaw , NY , United States
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Ben Doller

Ben Doller (previously Doyle) was born in Warsaw, New York in 1973. He completed his undergraduate education at the State University of New York at Oswego and West Virginia University, and he received an MFA from the Iowa Writers' Workshop, where he was awarded a Teaching-Writing Fellowship.

He is the author of Fauxhawk (Wesleyan University Press, 2015), Dead Ahead (Fence Books, 2010), FAQ (Ahsahta Press, 2009), and Radio, Radio (Louisiana State University Press, 2001), which was selected by Susan Howe for the 2000 Walt Whitman Award

Doller has taught at the Iowa Writers' Workshop, West Virginia University, and Denison University, and he served as the Distinguished Visiting Professor at Boise State University in 2007. He is coeditor of the Kuhl House Contemporary Poetry Series at the University of Iowa Press, and is vice editor and designer of 1913 a journal of forms and 1913 Press.

He is an associate professor at the University of California, San Diego, and lives in North Park, San Diego.


Selected Bibliography

 

Fauxhawk (Wesleyan University Press, 2015) 
Dead Ahead (Fence Books, 2010)
FAQ (Ahsahta Press, 2009)
Radio, Radio (Louisiana State University Press, 2001)

by this poet

poem
When I bend back to gaze at the satellite convulsions, I
am an aqueduct for twilit rain. Quite literally I stand

in the littoral zone: a lens--no an aqueous humor, my
feet on the land below the high-water mark, my hand

a glazed waver: hello light-purple lights, hello red spots,
you've beaten the stars out
poem
In the middle of every field,
obscured from the side by grass
or cornhusks, is a clearing where
she works burying swans alive
into the black earth. She only
buries their bodies, their wings.
She packs the dirt tight around
their noodle necks & they shake
like long eyelashes in a hurricane.
She makes me feed
poem
Tug
The tug on my arm but soon spread
Perhaps now they could prove me there.

I've been watching the sky closely & for some time,
My hands in it, making crude, beautiful doves.

Sometimes a sprinkler spits
An arc of silver water over me,

Hissing, bisecting. Half of a thing
As much of a thing as ever can be.

If