poem index


Laure-Anne Bosselaar

, Belgium
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Laure-Anne Bosselaar

Born in 1943, Laure-Anne Bosselaar grew up in Belgium and moved to the United States in 1987. She is the author of A New Hunger (Ausable Press, 2007), Small Gods of Grief (BOA Editions, 2001), which won the Isabella Gardner Prize for Poetry, and The Hour Between Dog and Wolf (BOA Editions, 1997).

Her poems have also appeared in Ploughshares, The Washington Post, AGNI, and Harvard Review, as well as in numerous anthologies. As an anthologist, she edited Never Before: Poems about First Experiences (Four Way Books, 2004), Outsiders, Poems About Rebels, Exiles and Renegades (1999), and Urban Nature: Poems about Wildlife in the City (2000), and coedited Night Out: Poems about Hotels, Motels, Restaurants and Bars (1997).

Fluent in four languages, she has published poems in French and Flemish and translates American poetry into French and Dutch poetry into English.

About her work, the poet Charles Simic has said, "Laure-Anne Bosselaar understands the complexities and the endless contradictions of our contemporary human predicament. Hers is an authentic poetic voice, one serious enough to be heard at the end of this long and brutal century. She writes wise poems about memory, poems whose art lies in their ability to make these memories ours too. What more could any one of us ask of poetry?"

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.

by this poet


I needed, for months after he died, to remember our rooms—
            some lit by the trivial, others ample

with an obscurity that comforted us: it hid our own darkness.
            So for months, duteous, I remembered: 

rooms where friends lingered, rooms with our beds,

On a platform, I heard someone call out your name:
No, Laetitia, no.
It wasn’t my train—the doors were closing,
but I rushed in, searching for your face.

But no Laetitia. No.
No one in that car could have been you,
but I rushed in, searching for your face:
no longer an infant. A woman now, blond, thirty-

Dust covers the window, but light slips through—
it always does—through dust or cracks or under doors.

Every day at dusk, the sun, through branches,
hits a river's bend & sends silver slivers to the walls.

                        No one's there to see this. No one.
But it