Appointed poet laureate of the state of Florida on June 15, 2015, Peter Meinke is the author of over twenty books of poetry. He has received many awards, including a Fulbright Fellowship, two National Endowment for the Arts Fellowships, and three prizes from the Poetry Society of America. He worked at Eckerd College until 1993, when he retired. During his time at the college, he founded and directed its Writing Workshop.


upcoming events

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Apr 04 2018
Miami Chapbook Launch: Layla Benitez-James’ “God Suspected My Heart Was a Geode But He Had to Make Sure”
Celebrate the launch of Layla Benitez-JamesGod Suspected My Heart Was a Geode But He Had to Make Sure, winner of the third annual Toi Derricotte & Cornelius Eady Chapbook Prize, selected by Major Jackson and published by Jai-Alai Books. This event is part of the month-long O, Miami Poetry Festival. Free and open to the public.
Layla Benitez-James is an artist and translator living in Alicante, Spain. Her work has appeared in The Acentos Review, Anomaly, Guernica, Waxwing and elsewhere. Audio essays about translation by Layla can be found at Asymptote Journal Podcast. Layla currently works with the Unamuno Author Series in Madrid as its Director of Literary Outreach.
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Florida poet laureate

Peter Meinke

Peter Meinke was named the poet laureate of Florida in 2015. He is the author of Lucky Bones (University of Pittsburgh Press).


Barque of phosphor
On the palmy beach,

Move outward into heaven,
Into the alabasters
And night blues.

Foam and cloud are one.
Sultry moon-monsters
Are dissolving.

Fill your black hull
With white moonlight.

There will never be an end
To this droning of the surf.
Marco Island, Florida

There should be nothing here I don't remember . . .

The Gulf Motel with mermaid lampposts 
and ship's wheel in the lobby should still be 
rising out of the sand like a

Green and blue and white, it is a flag
for Florida stitched by hungry ibises.

It is a paradise of flocks, a cornucopia
of wind and grass and dark, slow waters.

Turtles bask in the last tatters of afternoon,
frogs perfect their symphony at dusk—

in its solitude we remember ourselves