poem index


Lisa Russ Spaar

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Lisa Russ Spaar received a BA from the University of Virginia in 1978 and an MFA in 1982.

She is the author of several poetry collections, including Orexia (Persea Books, 2017), Vanitas, Rough (Persea Books, 2012), and Glass Town (Red Hen Press, 1999).

The Boston Review notes, “Lisa Russ Spaar’s intensely lyrical language—baroque, incantory, provocative—enables her to reinvigorate perennial subject matter: desire, pursuit, and absence; intoxication and ecstasy; the transience of earthly experience; the uncertainties of god and grave; the dialectic between fertility and mortality.”

She is also the author of The Hide-and-Seek Muse: Annotations of Contemporary Poetry (Drunken Boat Media, 2013), a collection of poetry history and criticism, and she was a 2014 finalist for the National Book Critics Circle Citation for Excellence in Reviewing. She has edited multiple poetry anthologies, including Monticello in Mind: Fifty Contemporary Poets on Jefferson (University of Virginia Press, 2016).

Spaar has received a Guggenheim Fellowship, the Library of Virginia Award for Poetry, and a Rona Jaffe Award, among other honors and awards. She is a professor of English and creative writing at the University of Virginia.

Selected Bibliography

Orexia (Persea Books, 2017)
Vanitas, Rough (Persea Books, 2012)
Satin Cash (Persea Books, 2008)
Blue Venus (Persea Books, 2004)
Glass Town (Red Hen Press, 1999)

The Hide-and-Seek Muse: Annotations of Contemporary Poetry (Drunken Boat Media, 2013)

by this poet

What might she send — a wet sleeve, 
or platter of brine-latticed bluefish

dusky with capers, lemons, wine;
a briar for your thumb, a mouth, 

lunatic,  to suck the blood:
a signal that one too often

inside & now beside herself with thoughts
of you wonders how she might woo

and through dew-whetted keyhole

      New Year’s Eve

Two sisters side by side,
benched at the gleaming fin

of the living room’s out-of-tune baby grand,
work out a mash-up, Adele’s “Hello”

& Kate Bush’s “Wuthering Heights,”
Hello, it’s me. . . , Heathcliff, it’s me, it’s Cathy,

voices by turns


Turning to watch you leave,
I see we must always walk toward

other rooms, river of heaven
between two office buildings.

Orphaned cloud, cioppino poppling,
book spined in the open palm. Unstoppable light.

I think it is all right.
Or do tonight, garden toad

a speaking stone