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Molly Peacock

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Molly Peacock
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On June 30, 1947, Molly Peacock was born in Buffalo, New York. She attended the State University of New York at Binghamton and Johns Hopkins University, where she received an MA in 1977.

Her collections of poetry include The Second Blush: Poems (W. W. Norton & Co., 2008);Cornucopia (2002); Original Love (1995); Take Heart (1989); Raw Heaven (1984); and And Live Apart (1980).

She is also the author of prose, including How to Read a Poem, and Start a Poetry Circle (1999) and her literary memoir Paradise, Piece by Piece (1998).

She is the editor of the anthology, The Private I: Privacy in a Public World (2001), and co-editor of Poetry in Motion: 100 Poems from the Subways and Buses (1996). A President Emerita of the Poetry Society of America, she was one of the originators of Poetry in Motion, a popular program of that places poems on placards in subways and buses.

Peacock has been a writer-in-residence and teacher at numerous universities, and is currently a member of the Graduate Faculty of Spalding University's Brief Residency MFA Program, Elliston Poet at the University of Cincinnati, and Lecturer at the Unterberg Poetry Center of the 92nd Street Y.

She was an honorary fellow at The Johns Hopkins University, served as Poet-in-Residence at The American Poets' Corner, Cathedral of St. John the Divine, in New York City, and received awards from the Danforth Foundation, the Ingram Merrill Foundation, the New York Foundation for the Arts, the National Endowment for the Arts, and the Woodrow Wilson Foundation. Peacock has performed her one-woman show in poems, The Shimmering Verge, Off Broadway and throughout North America.

She lives in Toronto.

by this poet

It's not the first time
we've bitten into a peach.
But now at the same time
it splits--half for each.
Our "then" is inside its "now,"
its halved pit unfleshed--

what was refreshed.
Two happinesses unfold
from one joy, folioed.
In a hotel room
our moment lies
with its ode inside,
a red tinge,
with a hinge
may favor obscure brainy aptitudes in you
and a love of the past so blind you would
venture, always securing permission,
into the back library stacks, without food
or water because you have a mission:
to find yourself, in the regulated light,
holding a volume in your hands as you
yourself might like to be held