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Sophie Cabot Black

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Sophie Cabot Black

Sophie Cabot Black was born in New York City in 1958 and grew up on a small farm in Connecticut. She received a BA from Marlboro College in 1980 and an MFA in creative writing from Columbia University in 1984.

She is the author of The Exchange (Graywolf Press, 2013); The Descent (Graywolf Press, 2004), winner of the Connecticut Book Award; and The Misunderstanding of Nature (Graywolf Press, 1994), winner of the Poetry Society of America’s Norma Farber First Book Award. The Boston Review notes, “Black’s taut, resonant lyrics are chastened of all excess verbiage and reveal a poet of keen assurance and consummate craft, but perhaps what most amazes the reader is that such honed writing can speak with such emotional immediacy.”

In an interview for the New Yorker, Black says, “For me, the act of writing comes out of query. Each image turns to the next with its question and gets answered. Or with its answer it gets questioned. Poetry is my way to understand what is difficult. How one thing can be explained through another—is to get closer, to unhide what feels hidden.”

The recipient of fellowships from the MacDowell Colony, the Fine Arts Work Center in Provincetown, and the Bunting Institute, Black has taught at the New School, Rutgers, and Columbia University. She divides her time between New York City and Wilton, Connecticut.


Selected Bibliography

The Exchange (Graywolf Press, 2013)
The Descent (Graywolf Press, 2004
The Misunderstanding of Nature (Graywolf Press, 1994)

by this poet

poem

To put one and one together making
Two and so on. A house appears, room
With a bed in it. To configure anyway,

Even without enough information.
We work into it, the chosen. To measure
Everything out until the one who takes over

Becomes taken. This as strategy, the art
Of how we

poem
Not

that you are unloved
but that you love
and must decide which

to remember; tracks left
in the field, a language
of going away or coming back—

and to look up
from the single mind,
to let untangle

the far-off snow
from sky
until no longer

poem

Which cannot be written tries anyway—
From one room to another, each time startled
And does not want to hear of the already

Passed through, the country of before.
Poem that at each door believes itself
In the room closest to the end

Where finally everything will be gone over,