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New and Selected Poems
An indispensable collection of more than four decades of profound, luminous poetry from acclaimed poet Marie Howe.
Characterized by “a radical simplicity and seriousness of purpose, along with a fearless interest in autobiography and its tragedies and redemptions” (Matthew Zapruder, New York Times Magazine), Marie Howe’s poetry transforms penetrating observations of everyday life into sacred, humane miracles. This essential volume draws from each of Howe’s four previous collections—including What the Living Do (1997), a haunting archive of personal loss, and the National Book Award–longlisted Magdalene (2017), a spiritual and sensual exploration of contemporary womanhood—and contains twenty new poems. Whether speaking in the voice of the goddess Persephone or thinking about aging while walking the dog, Howe is “a light-bearer, an extraordinary poet of our human sorrow and ordinary joy” (Dorianne Laux).
Characterized by “a radical simplicity and seriousness of purpose, along with a fearless interest in autobiography and its tragedies and redemptions” (Matthew Zapruder, New York Times Magazine), Marie Howe’s poetry transforms penetrating observations of everyday life into sacred, humane miracles. This essential volume draws from each of Howe’s four previous collections—including What the Living Do (1997), a haunting archive of personal loss, and the National Book Award–longlisted Magdalene (2017), a spiritual and sensual exploration of contemporary womanhood—and contains twenty new poems. Whether speaking in the voice of the goddess Persephone or thinking about aging while walking the dog, Howe is “a light-bearer, an extraordinary poet of our human sorrow and ordinary joy” (Dorianne Laux).
179 pages, Kindle Edition
First published April 2, 2024
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1383 people want to read
About the author
Marie Howe
25 books337 followersBorn in Rochester, New York, Marie Howe attended Sacred Heart Convent School and the University of Windsor. She received an MFA from Columbia University, where she studied with Stanley Kunitz, whom she refers to as “my true teacher.”
Howe has taught at Sarah Lawrence College, Columbia, and NYU. She co-edited (with Michael Klein) the essay anthology In the Company of My Solitude: American Writing from the AIDS Pandemic (1994). She has received fellowships from the Bunting Institute at Radcliffe College, the National Endowment for the Arts, the Guggenheim Foundation, and the Fine Arts Work Center in Provincetown.
Howe has taught at Sarah Lawrence College, Columbia, and NYU. She co-edited (with Michael Klein) the essay anthology In the Company of My Solitude: American Writing from the AIDS Pandemic (1994). She has received fellowships from the Bunting Institute at Radcliffe College, the National Endowment for the Arts, the Guggenheim Foundation, and the Fine Arts Work Center in Provincetown.
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May 6, 2025
**
WINNER of the 2025 Pulitzer Prize for Poetry
What does poetry speak into your life. For poet Marie Howe, as she said in an interview with NPR ‘poetry holds the knowledge that we are alive and that we know we're going to die. The most mysterious aspect of being alive might be that — and poetry knows that.’ Such statements function as a succinct examination of her own work across poems that examine loss, grief, but also ‘the spiritual dimensions of life as they present themselves in this world’ and her newly released New and Selected Poems grants the reader an impressive and immersive overview of a career bent on capturing this elusive mystery of life. An impressive career garnering various fellowships and a position as State Poet of New York, Howe’s poetry blossoms on the page as if, like the speaker in How the Story Started , ‘driven toward desire by desire.’ With a batch of new poems that are not eclipsed by the best-of elements of the rest of this collection, New and Selected Poems is a heartfelt testimony to poetic investigation and the power of this amazing poet.
Annunciation
‘Even if I don't see it again -- nor ever feel it
I know it is -- and that if once it hailed me
it ever does--
And so it is myself I want to turn in that direction
not as toward a place, but it was a tilting
within myself,
as one turns a mirror to flash the light to where
it isn't -- I was blinded like that -- and swam
in what shone at me
only able to endure it by being no one and so
specifically myself I thought I'd die
from being loved like that.
To enter a Marie Howe poem is to enter transcendental beauty. It is much like her own poem The Meadows in which she writes:
'As we walk into words that have waited for us to enter them, so the meadow, muddy with dreams, is gathering itself together and trying, with difficulty, to remember how to make wildflowers.'
In selecting Howe’s first collection, The Good Thief, for the National Poetry Series, Margaret Atwood commended Howe ability to craft ‘poems of obsession that transcend their own dark roots.’ Howe dredges up plenty of heavy emotions in her works, most notably the collection What the Living Do, an elegiac confrontation of grief and loss in the face of her brother John’s passing from AIDs in 1989, and treds tenderly through aspects of sorrow. Though while Howe hits devastating notes, its not without a playfulness or occasionally a wry humor, such as in her new poem, Reincarnation , in which her dog may be her deceased ‘Radical American history professor’ come back or, somehow more sadly, simple ‘actually himself — a dog.’ Her words arrive like a blow, a sadness, but also a comfort especially in the face of loss and the following poem, What the Living Do, has become one of her best know for such reasons as it chronicles all the little tidbits that for into what we call a life and ‘What you finally gave up’ upon departing it. But all is not lost, because memory holds the ones we love to us even in their absence.
What the Living Do
Johnny, the kitchen sink has been clogged for days, some utensil probably fell down there.
And the Drano won't work but smells dangerous, and the crusty dishes have piled up
waiting for the plumber I still haven't called. This is the everyday we spoke of.
It's winter again: the sky's a deep, headstrong blue, and the sunlight pours through
the open living-room windows because the heat's on too high in here and I can't turn it off.
For weeks now, driving, or dropping a bag of groceries in the street, the bag breaking,
I've been thinking: This is what the living do. And yesterday, hurrying along those
wobbly bricks in the Cambridge sidewalk, spilling my coffee down my wrist and sleeve,
I thought it again, and again later, when buying a hairbrush: This is it.
Parking. Slamming the car door shut in the cold. What you called that yearning.
What you finally gave up. We want the spring to come and the winter to pass. We want
whoever to call or not call, a letter, a kiss — we want more and more and then more of it.
But there are moments, walking, when I catch a glimpse of myself in the window glass,
say, the window of the corner video store, and I'm gripped by a cherishing so deep
for my own blowing hair, chapped face, and unbuttoned coat that I'm speechless:
I am living. I remember you.
Collected here are poems from each of her works, such as the rather fascinating collection Magdalene in which Howe plays with the figure of Mary Magdalene in order to examine the biblical figure in mythical and mystical proportions that touch upon the history of humanity as well as arrive as sharp commentary upon the present. It is less a historical overview of Mary and more crafting Mary in a way that depicts her in conversation with women throughout history, as she does in Magdalene Afterwards:
‘I was hung as a witch by the people in my own town.
I was sent to the asylum at sixteen.
I was walking with my younger sister looking for firewood
when we saw the group of men approaching.
…
I’m the woman in the black suit and heels hailing a taxi.
I’m in prayer, in meditation, I’ve shaved my head’
Through Howe we often look at our own humanity and question the things we do, the society we allow, the horrors we let shadow the beauty of life. Such as in Chainsaw where she asks:
‘What have we made? What are we making?
And who or what made us that we should make such things as we do and did?
We grow smaller—we break things,
then turn to each other and beg for what no human can give.’
In her 2008 collection, The Kingdom of Ordinary Time: Poems, Howe pushes further into the mystical examinations of life, to harness ‘thing and spirit both: the real / world: evident, invisible.’ It is a natural progression from her more personal, confessional poetry, pushing out into the world, beyond the individual, even beyond the visible world as transcendental investigations of living. The poems here make you feel seen but also part of something far larger than yourself. And in the New section, which take place ‘In the middle of my life — just past the middle,’ we see she is still at the top of her game and only getting better, wiser, and always wonderful. As a big fan of poetry about Persephone from Greek mythology, I was pleased to find a series of poems about her here with Persephone looking at how:
‘like everything alive I was meant to be split open,
To blossom, to be sucked, to be eaten,
To lean, to bend, to wither,
To die and die and die until I died.’
Such sentiments could stir in each of our hearts, and that is what makes Howe so wonderful–she weds the mythic, the mystic, the grandiose and epic with the personal and makes us all epic in her ways.
The Map
The failure of love might account for most of the suffering in the world.
The girl was going over her global studies homework
in the air where she drew the map with her finger
touching the Gobi desert,
the Plateau of Tiber in front of her,
and looking through her transparent map backwards
I did suddenly see,
how her left is my right, and for a moment I understood.
While ‘anything I've ever tried to keep by force I lost,’ the poetry of Marie Howe makes space for the things that are lost and, in this way, gives them a shape, a memory and a feeling that resonates deep within us and carries them forward through time even in their absence. It is also a reminder to value what we have before us, to slow down and appreciate life lest we, like in the poem Hurry , where a mother must question why she is rushing her child: ‘Where do I want her to hurry to? To her grave? /To mine? Where one day she might stand all grown?’
New and Selected Poems is a marvelous collection from across Howe’s career and makes for an excellent retrospective or a perfect starting place for those hoping to get to know her work.
4.5/5
Postscript
What we did to the earth, we did to our daughters
one after the other.
What we did to the trees, we did to our elders
stacked in their wheelchairs by the lunchroom door.
What we did to our daughters, we did to our sons
calling out for their mothers.
What we did to the trees, what we did to the earth,
we did to our sons, to our daughters.
What we did to the cow, to the pig, to the lamb,
we did to the earth, butchered and milked it.
Few of us knew what the bird calls meant
or what the fires were saying.
We took of earth and took and took, and the earth
seemed not to mind
until one of our daughters shouted: it was right
in front of you, right in front of your eyes
and you didn’t see.
The air turned red. The ocean grew teeth.
What does poetry speak into your life. For poet Marie Howe, as she said in an interview with NPR ‘poetry holds the knowledge that we are alive and that we know we're going to die. The most mysterious aspect of being alive might be that — and poetry knows that.’ Such statements function as a succinct examination of her own work across poems that examine loss, grief, but also ‘the spiritual dimensions of life as they present themselves in this world’ and her newly released New and Selected Poems grants the reader an impressive and immersive overview of a career bent on capturing this elusive mystery of life. An impressive career garnering various fellowships and a position as State Poet of New York, Howe’s poetry blossoms on the page as if, like the speaker in How the Story Started , ‘driven toward desire by desire.’ With a batch of new poems that are not eclipsed by the best-of elements of the rest of this collection, New and Selected Poems is a heartfelt testimony to poetic investigation and the power of this amazing poet.
Annunciation
‘Even if I don't see it again -- nor ever feel it
I know it is -- and that if once it hailed me
it ever does--
And so it is myself I want to turn in that direction
not as toward a place, but it was a tilting
within myself,
as one turns a mirror to flash the light to where
it isn't -- I was blinded like that -- and swam
in what shone at me
only able to endure it by being no one and so
specifically myself I thought I'd die
from being loved like that.
To enter a Marie Howe poem is to enter transcendental beauty. It is much like her own poem The Meadows in which she writes:
'As we walk into words that have waited for us to enter them, so the meadow, muddy with dreams, is gathering itself together and trying, with difficulty, to remember how to make wildflowers.'
In selecting Howe’s first collection, The Good Thief, for the National Poetry Series, Margaret Atwood commended Howe ability to craft ‘poems of obsession that transcend their own dark roots.’ Howe dredges up plenty of heavy emotions in her works, most notably the collection What the Living Do, an elegiac confrontation of grief and loss in the face of her brother John’s passing from AIDs in 1989, and treds tenderly through aspects of sorrow. Though while Howe hits devastating notes, its not without a playfulness or occasionally a wry humor, such as in her new poem, Reincarnation , in which her dog may be her deceased ‘Radical American history professor’ come back or, somehow more sadly, simple ‘actually himself — a dog.’ Her words arrive like a blow, a sadness, but also a comfort especially in the face of loss and the following poem, What the Living Do, has become one of her best know for such reasons as it chronicles all the little tidbits that for into what we call a life and ‘What you finally gave up’ upon departing it. But all is not lost, because memory holds the ones we love to us even in their absence.
What the Living Do
Johnny, the kitchen sink has been clogged for days, some utensil probably fell down there.
And the Drano won't work but smells dangerous, and the crusty dishes have piled up
waiting for the plumber I still haven't called. This is the everyday we spoke of.
It's winter again: the sky's a deep, headstrong blue, and the sunlight pours through
the open living-room windows because the heat's on too high in here and I can't turn it off.
For weeks now, driving, or dropping a bag of groceries in the street, the bag breaking,
I've been thinking: This is what the living do. And yesterday, hurrying along those
wobbly bricks in the Cambridge sidewalk, spilling my coffee down my wrist and sleeve,
I thought it again, and again later, when buying a hairbrush: This is it.
Parking. Slamming the car door shut in the cold. What you called that yearning.
What you finally gave up. We want the spring to come and the winter to pass. We want
whoever to call or not call, a letter, a kiss — we want more and more and then more of it.
But there are moments, walking, when I catch a glimpse of myself in the window glass,
say, the window of the corner video store, and I'm gripped by a cherishing so deep
for my own blowing hair, chapped face, and unbuttoned coat that I'm speechless:
I am living. I remember you.
Collected here are poems from each of her works, such as the rather fascinating collection Magdalene in which Howe plays with the figure of Mary Magdalene in order to examine the biblical figure in mythical and mystical proportions that touch upon the history of humanity as well as arrive as sharp commentary upon the present. It is less a historical overview of Mary and more crafting Mary in a way that depicts her in conversation with women throughout history, as she does in Magdalene Afterwards:
‘I was hung as a witch by the people in my own town.
I was sent to the asylum at sixteen.
I was walking with my younger sister looking for firewood
when we saw the group of men approaching.
…
I’m the woman in the black suit and heels hailing a taxi.
I’m in prayer, in meditation, I’ve shaved my head’
Through Howe we often look at our own humanity and question the things we do, the society we allow, the horrors we let shadow the beauty of life. Such as in Chainsaw where she asks:
‘What have we made? What are we making?
And who or what made us that we should make such things as we do and did?
We grow smaller—we break things,
then turn to each other and beg for what no human can give.’
In her 2008 collection, The Kingdom of Ordinary Time: Poems, Howe pushes further into the mystical examinations of life, to harness ‘thing and spirit both: the real / world: evident, invisible.’ It is a natural progression from her more personal, confessional poetry, pushing out into the world, beyond the individual, even beyond the visible world as transcendental investigations of living. The poems here make you feel seen but also part of something far larger than yourself. And in the New section, which take place ‘In the middle of my life — just past the middle,’ we see she is still at the top of her game and only getting better, wiser, and always wonderful. As a big fan of poetry about Persephone from Greek mythology, I was pleased to find a series of poems about her here with Persephone looking at how:
‘like everything alive I was meant to be split open,
To blossom, to be sucked, to be eaten,
To lean, to bend, to wither,
To die and die and die until I died.’
Such sentiments could stir in each of our hearts, and that is what makes Howe so wonderful–she weds the mythic, the mystic, the grandiose and epic with the personal and makes us all epic in her ways.
The Map
The failure of love might account for most of the suffering in the world.
The girl was going over her global studies homework
in the air where she drew the map with her finger
touching the Gobi desert,
the Plateau of Tiber in front of her,
and looking through her transparent map backwards
I did suddenly see,
how her left is my right, and for a moment I understood.
While ‘anything I've ever tried to keep by force I lost,’ the poetry of Marie Howe makes space for the things that are lost and, in this way, gives them a shape, a memory and a feeling that resonates deep within us and carries them forward through time even in their absence. It is also a reminder to value what we have before us, to slow down and appreciate life lest we, like in the poem Hurry , where a mother must question why she is rushing her child: ‘Where do I want her to hurry to? To her grave? /To mine? Where one day she might stand all grown?’
New and Selected Poems is a marvelous collection from across Howe’s career and makes for an excellent retrospective or a perfect starting place for those hoping to get to know her work.
4.5/5
Postscript
What we did to the earth, we did to our daughters
one after the other.
What we did to the trees, we did to our elders
stacked in their wheelchairs by the lunchroom door.
What we did to our daughters, we did to our sons
calling out for their mothers.
What we did to the trees, what we did to the earth,
we did to our sons, to our daughters.
What we did to the cow, to the pig, to the lamb,
we did to the earth, butchered and milked it.
Few of us knew what the bird calls meant
or what the fires were saying.
We took of earth and took and took, and the earth
seemed not to mind
until one of our daughters shouted: it was right
in front of you, right in front of your eyes
and you didn’t see.
The air turned red. The ocean grew teeth.
January 8, 2025
As an introduction to Howe's work this volume was perhaps not the best place to start; the new poems appear first & I was struggling to connect with them, & nearly set the entire book aside. But things began snapping into place once I reached the earlier work & I'm glad I hadn't been permanently detoured.
This isn't generally my preferred style of poetry—I do prefer flashier wielding of language, I fully admit—but I found many moments here made me suddenly catch my breath in recognition or epiphany. "On Men, Their Bodies," a literal catalogue of cocks, is one of the most delightful things I've encountered on the page in a good while.
My days and nights pour through me like complaints / and become a story I forgot to tell ("Prayer")
This isn't generally my preferred style of poetry—I do prefer flashier wielding of language, I fully admit—but I found many moments here made me suddenly catch my breath in recognition or epiphany. "On Men, Their Bodies," a literal catalogue of cocks, is one of the most delightful things I've encountered on the page in a good while.
My days and nights pour through me like complaints / and become a story I forgot to tell ("Prayer")
August 10, 2025
in a collection this long, it's almost a given that certain poems will flag, or pale in comparison to others. nonetheless, this is a pulitzer-winning project, a lifetime's worth of work written in an intimately accessible style and weaving together a wide quilt of subject matter (childhood, wild life, sexual desire, familial strife, death/grief, bullying, and more). for anyone looking to dip their toes into the world of contemporary poetry—anyone who wants to begin in the more simple, clear-eyed registers of poets like mary oliver—here's a potential place to start. 3.6/5.
May 17, 2024
One of my favorite poets, and one I met many years ago. This book is like alchemy.
October 26, 2025
so brilliant
i’ve been thinking a lot lately about collections of poems vs. collected/selected books because i find there’s something very sacred about the former and disappointing (though still important) about the latter. this group of selected poems, however, still felt very sacred to me
some of my favorites:
- part of eve’s discussion
- the dream
- the last time
- what the living do
- courage
- poems from the life of mary
- fourteen
if only sarah lawrence had given me more aid and had a smaller program i would have gone there and BEGGED to work and write under marie howe
i’ve been thinking a lot lately about collections of poems vs. collected/selected books because i find there’s something very sacred about the former and disappointing (though still important) about the latter. this group of selected poems, however, still felt very sacred to me
some of my favorites:
- part of eve’s discussion
- the dream
- the last time
- what the living do
- courage
- poems from the life of mary
- fourteen
if only sarah lawrence had given me more aid and had a smaller program i would have gone there and BEGGED to work and write under marie howe
February 12, 2025
A beautiful collection of works by one of my favorite poets, who so simply captures the divine in every day life.
Favorites:
- Keeping Still
- Sorrow
- The Gate
- What the Living Do
- The Star Market
- Why the Novel is Necessary but Sometimes Hard to Read
- Annunciation
- My Mother’s Body
- Calvary
- Waiting at the River
- Magdalene at the Theopoetics Conference
- Magdalene Afterwards
Favorites:
- Keeping Still
- Sorrow
- The Gate
- What the Living Do
- The Star Market
- Why the Novel is Necessary but Sometimes Hard to Read
- Annunciation
- My Mother’s Body
- Calvary
- Waiting at the River
- Magdalene at the Theopoetics Conference
- Magdalene Afterwards
March 14, 2025
The feminine urge to be a poet strengthens
February 11, 2026
Even though this is a sampler of work across decades, the poems tackle consistent themes throughout: the passage of time, the death of loved ones, and the small joys of being alive. Howe excels in capturing specific details that make her experiences feel universal. Will be checking out What the Living Do next.
Favorites:
"Prologue"
"Mary's Argument"
"The Girl"
"How Some of It Happened"
"What the Living Do"
"The Affliction"
Favorites:
"Prologue"
"Mary's Argument"
"The Girl"
"How Some of It Happened"
"What the Living Do"
"The Affliction"
October 9, 2025
“But there are moments, walking, when I catch a glimpse of myself in the window glass,
say, the window of the corner video store, and I'm gripped by a cherishing so deep
for my own blowing hair, chapped face, and unbuttoned coat that I’m speechless:
I am living. I remember you.”
- What The Living Do
😭😭😭
say, the window of the corner video store, and I'm gripped by a cherishing so deep
for my own blowing hair, chapped face, and unbuttoned coat that I’m speechless:
I am living. I remember you.”
- What The Living Do
😭😭😭
January 12, 2026
** the attic, the last time, the promise, separation, my dead friends, buddy, prayer, poems from the life of mary, my mother's body, october, magdalene afterwards
September 28, 2025
DNF @ page 76/ 2 stars for what I read
This is an anthology of sorts. It's essentially a collection of poems from different collections by Marie Howe. I think that this makes the poetry suffer since there is no through line. After discussing the collection with my poetry book club, I've decided I will go back and give her 1997 collection a shot, but I don't think a selection of poems helped me to love or even like Marie Howe as a poet. In fact, I often found several lines quite jarring and would find myself sucked out of the poem. She is clearly not a poet for me, but I am willing to give a specific collection a try in hopes that maybe it was the selection that didn't work for me.
This is an anthology of sorts. It's essentially a collection of poems from different collections by Marie Howe. I think that this makes the poetry suffer since there is no through line. After discussing the collection with my poetry book club, I've decided I will go back and give her 1997 collection a shot, but I don't think a selection of poems helped me to love or even like Marie Howe as a poet. In fact, I often found several lines quite jarring and would find myself sucked out of the poem. She is clearly not a poet for me, but I am willing to give a specific collection a try in hopes that maybe it was the selection that didn't work for me.
July 2, 2025
Advent
Not that we knew or could imagine
what some mild blue evenings made us homesick for.
Call it forethought but not thought of,
not conceived exactly.
When it happened, we said we saw it coming
approaching a horizon we hadn't
known was there. It occurred to us
at once-which altered time thereafter.
By then we could not remember the before
before it had the after in it.
Not that we knew or could imagine
what some mild blue evenings made us homesick for.
Call it forethought but not thought of,
not conceived exactly.
When it happened, we said we saw it coming
approaching a horizon we hadn't
known was there. It occurred to us
at once-which altered time thereafter.
By then we could not remember the before
before it had the after in it.
June 22, 2024
Love having so many of Marie Howe’s best poems in one book I can return to again and again—especially love the new poems!
December 20, 2025
New and Selected Poems by Marie Howe is the Pulitzer Prize recipient for poetry in 2025. This anthology collects poetry across her nearly 40 year career.
Howe’s style is simple. Most poems are written couplets with no other concerns for structure, rhyme, or rhythm. They are often autobiographical, raw, and “human.” She hits on the big themes of humanity: life, death, love, lust, loneliness, loss, spirituality.
The collection begins with her most recent poems. I didn’t enjoy these as much as the older poems that come later. In particular, I found the ones about the death of her brother and in the section of poems relating to Mary Magdalene most intriguing.
Overall, though, this was not my preferred style of poetry. I tend to be a bit conservative in my poetry tastes. I like form, rhyme, rhythm, figurative language, clever wordplay, and beautiful flourishes of language.
Howe’s style is simple. Most poems are written couplets with no other concerns for structure, rhyme, or rhythm. They are often autobiographical, raw, and “human.” She hits on the big themes of humanity: life, death, love, lust, loneliness, loss, spirituality.
The collection begins with her most recent poems. I didn’t enjoy these as much as the older poems that come later. In particular, I found the ones about the death of her brother and in the section of poems relating to Mary Magdalene most intriguing.
Overall, though, this was not my preferred style of poetry. I tend to be a bit conservative in my poetry tastes. I like form, rhyme, rhythm, figurative language, clever wordplay, and beautiful flourishes of language.
September 25, 2025
Not since Sylvia Plath's Ariel have I had to wait for a back-ordered collection of poems! That is how popular Marie Howe's New and Selected Poems has been since winning the Pulitzer Prize this year. And I can tell you after reading poems that made me cry, that made me laugh, that made me ponder my place in this world, and the next one, the wait was worth it.
The collection spans decades, but Howe's poetry feels, and makes the reader feel, present:
I could gaze clear across --- four years since I'd lifted his hand from
the sheets on his bed and cooled it in my hand.
A light breeze through the open window, James's warm cheek,
a brightness in the windy trees as I remember, crumbs and dishes still
on the table, and a small glass bottle of milk and an open jar of
rasberry jam.
A present that, time and again, fixes the reader in place:
It was the look we'd pass
across the table when Dad was drunk again and dangerous,
the level look that wants to tell you something,
in a crowded room, something important, and can't.
These are poems born of isolation, and identity, and doubt, and strength, and pain, and prayer, but above all, of finding the humane in being --- and trying to be --- human.
You could do worse, much worse, than swing on these birches.
The collection spans decades, but Howe's poetry feels, and makes the reader feel, present:
I could gaze clear across --- four years since I'd lifted his hand from
the sheets on his bed and cooled it in my hand.
A light breeze through the open window, James's warm cheek,
a brightness in the windy trees as I remember, crumbs and dishes still
on the table, and a small glass bottle of milk and an open jar of
rasberry jam.
A present that, time and again, fixes the reader in place:
It was the look we'd pass
across the table when Dad was drunk again and dangerous,
the level look that wants to tell you something,
in a crowded room, something important, and can't.
These are poems born of isolation, and identity, and doubt, and strength, and pain, and prayer, but above all, of finding the humane in being --- and trying to be --- human.
You could do worse, much worse, than swing on these birches.
June 27, 2025
Wow. This book made me so very glad I chose to read more poetry this year. I was gobsmacked by what the author herself refers to as "the common human song" that is poetry. Certainly, HER poetry and experiences were in many ways my own. Perhaps I have been reluctant to share those.
In one interview, she quotes fellow poet, Muriel Rukeyser, who said, "What would happen if one woman told the truth about her life? The world would split open." Indeed.
In one interview, she quotes fellow poet, Muriel Rukeyser, who said, "What would happen if one woman told the truth about her life? The world would split open." Indeed.
August 13, 2025
Beautiful! There were obviously some pieces I connected with more than others, but I loved the collection as a whole. It was interesting to see some of her older work next to her newer work, but it showed the growth and change of her artistry.
Read
September 20, 2025stunning stunning stunning body of work. favorite collection I’ve read so far this year.
a list of favorites:
Part of Eve’s Discussion
The Willows
The Singularity
What the Living Do
The Star Market
Easter
Prayer
Courage
Poems from the Life of Mary
My Mother’s Body
Magdalene at the Theopoetics Conference
Magdalene Afterwards
a list of favorites:
Part of Eve’s Discussion
The Willows
The Singularity
What the Living Do
The Star Market
Easter
Prayer
Courage
Poems from the Life of Mary
My Mother’s Body
Magdalene at the Theopoetics Conference
Magdalene Afterwards
July 8, 2025
Thank you, Ann Patchett, for recommending this collection of poems. There are some that, for me, as too personal, but there are also some real keepers--poems to go back to and savor, like "Hymn". Sometimes, poetry is the balm one needs.
November 13, 2025
Howe’s poetry is simple but profound. She takes everyday life and turns it into rich insights on our human condition.
January 26, 2026
zo ongelofelijk prachtig
my dead friends is mijn favoriet
my dead friends is mijn favoriet
May 12, 2025
The next time someone asks what I want to be when I grow up, I’ll say Marie Howe.
October 7, 2025
What a powerhouse of a poetry collection! Howe’s incisive observations cut to the quick of life, revealing the truth of earthly existence without dissecting the innocent frog or detaching the wondrous butterfly’s wings or conducting an autopsy on humanity’s heart of darkness. Each poem is a revelation, and the collection reads like scripture of the One religion. Like Chelan Harken, Howe is an awakened voice of the dawning Aquarian Age—“Hymn” its anthem, “The Singularity” its manifesto.
“For every atom belonging to me as good
belongs to you. Remember?
There was no Nature. No
them. No tests
to determine if the elephant
grieves her calf or if
the coral reef feels pain. Trashed
oceans don’t speak English or Farsi or French;
would that we could wake up to what we were
when we were ocean, and before that
to when sky was earth, and animal was energy, and rock was
liquid, and stars were space, and space was not
at all—nothing,
before we came to believe humans were so important
before this awful loneliness.”
—from “The Singularity,” pp. 32-33
Favorite Poems:
NEW POEMS
“Postscript”
“The Saw, The Drill”
“Persephone, in the meadow”
“Advent”
“What the Earth Seemed to Say, 2020”
“The Letter”
“The Maples”@
“Jack and the Moon”
“The Willows”@
“Hymn” $
“The Singularity” $
THE GOOD THIEF
“Part of Eve’s Discussion”
“Death, the Last Visit”
“The Meadow” $
“Gretel, from a sudden clearing”
“Without Devotion” &
“Sorrow”
“Encounter” !
WHAT THE LIVING DO
“The Boy”
“Sixth Grade”
“Buying the Baby”
“Practicing”
“The Girl”
“How Some of It Happened”
“The Last Time”
“The Promise”
“Prayer”
“My Dead Friends”
THE KINGDOM OF ORDINARY TIME
“Reading Ovid” !
“Prayer”
“Why the Novel Is Necessary but Sometimes Hard to Read”
“My Mother’s Body”
“The Spell”
MAGDALENE
“On Men, Their Bodies”
“The Affliction”
“The News”
“For every atom belonging to me as good
belongs to you. Remember?
There was no Nature. No
them. No tests
to determine if the elephant
grieves her calf or if
the coral reef feels pain. Trashed
oceans don’t speak English or Farsi or French;
would that we could wake up to what we were
when we were ocean, and before that
to when sky was earth, and animal was energy, and rock was
liquid, and stars were space, and space was not
at all—nothing,
before we came to believe humans were so important
before this awful loneliness.”
—from “The Singularity,” pp. 32-33
Favorite Poems:
NEW POEMS
“Postscript”
“The Saw, The Drill”
“Persephone, in the meadow”
“Advent”
“What the Earth Seemed to Say, 2020”
“The Letter”
“The Maples”@
“Jack and the Moon”
“The Willows”@
“Hymn” $
“The Singularity” $
THE GOOD THIEF
“Part of Eve’s Discussion”
“Death, the Last Visit”
“The Meadow” $
“Gretel, from a sudden clearing”
“Without Devotion” &
“Sorrow”
“Encounter” !
WHAT THE LIVING DO
“The Boy”
“Sixth Grade”
“Buying the Baby”
“Practicing”
“The Girl”
“How Some of It Happened”
“The Last Time”
“The Promise”
“Prayer”
“My Dead Friends”
THE KINGDOM OF ORDINARY TIME
“Reading Ovid” !
“Prayer”
“Why the Novel Is Necessary but Sometimes Hard to Read”
“My Mother’s Body”
“The Spell”
MAGDALENE
“On Men, Their Bodies”
“The Affliction”
“The News”
August 28, 2024
This became my summer book of poetry. I bought a copy of this collection at the recommendation of a friend. I was not familiar with Marie Howe’s poetry before. I enjoyed seeing her style shift over the years included in this collection. My favorite new poem was “Advent” and my favorite older poem was “The Meadow.” For both poems, I committed what I normally consider a cardinal sin - I folded the corner of the page! Haha now I’ll always remember these poems.
February 1, 2025
Great collection! My favorites:
——————————-
The Promise
In the dream I had when he came back not sick but whole, and wearing his winter coat,
he looked at me as though he couldn't speak, as if there were a law against it, a membrane he couldn't break.
His silence was what he could not
not do, like our breathing in this world, like our living,
as we do, in time.
And I told him: I'm reading all this Buddhist stuff,
and listen, we don't die when we die. Death is an event, a threshold we pass through. We go on and on
and into light forever.
And he looked down, and then back up at me. It was the look we'd pass
across the table when Dad was drunk again and dangerous, the level look that wants to tell you something,
in a crowded room, something important, and can't.
———————-
The Maples
I asked the stand of maples behind the house,
How should I live my life?
They said, shhh shhh shhh ...
How should I live, I asked, and the leaves seemed to ripple and gleam.
A bird called from a branch in its own tongue,
And from a branch, across the yard, another bird answered.
A squirrel scrambled up a trunk then along the length of a branch.
Stand still, I thought,
See how long you can bear that.
Try to stand still, if only for a few moments, drinking light breathing.
————————-
What the Earth Seemed to Say, 2020
Do you still believe in borders?
Birds soar over your maps and walls, and always have.
You might have watched how the smoke from your own fires
travelled on wind you couldn't see
wafting over the valley
and up and over the hills and over the next valley and the next hill
Did you not hear the animals howl and sing?
Or hear the silence of the animals no longer howling?
Now you know what it is to be afraid.
You think this is a dream? It is not
a dream. You think this is a theoretical question?
What do you love more than what you imagine is your singular life?
The water grows clearer. The swans settle and float there.
Are you willing to take your place in the forest again?
To become loam and bark, to be a leaf falling from a great height,
to be the worm who eats the leaf,
and the bird who eats the worm? Look at the sky-are you
willing to be the sky again?
You think this lesson is too hard for you.
You want the time-out to end. You want
to go to the movies as before, to sit and eat with your friends.
It can end now, but not in the way you imagine. You know the mind that has been talking to you for so long, the mind that
can explain everything? Don'tlisten.
You were once a citizen of the country called: I Don't Know.
Remember the boat that brought you there? It was your body.
Climb in.
——————————-
The Promise
In the dream I had when he came back not sick but whole, and wearing his winter coat,
he looked at me as though he couldn't speak, as if there were a law against it, a membrane he couldn't break.
His silence was what he could not
not do, like our breathing in this world, like our living,
as we do, in time.
And I told him: I'm reading all this Buddhist stuff,
and listen, we don't die when we die. Death is an event, a threshold we pass through. We go on and on
and into light forever.
And he looked down, and then back up at me. It was the look we'd pass
across the table when Dad was drunk again and dangerous, the level look that wants to tell you something,
in a crowded room, something important, and can't.
———————-
The Maples
I asked the stand of maples behind the house,
How should I live my life?
They said, shhh shhh shhh ...
How should I live, I asked, and the leaves seemed to ripple and gleam.
A bird called from a branch in its own tongue,
And from a branch, across the yard, another bird answered.
A squirrel scrambled up a trunk then along the length of a branch.
Stand still, I thought,
See how long you can bear that.
Try to stand still, if only for a few moments, drinking light breathing.
————————-
What the Earth Seemed to Say, 2020
Do you still believe in borders?
Birds soar over your maps and walls, and always have.
You might have watched how the smoke from your own fires
travelled on wind you couldn't see
wafting over the valley
and up and over the hills and over the next valley and the next hill
Did you not hear the animals howl and sing?
Or hear the silence of the animals no longer howling?
Now you know what it is to be afraid.
You think this is a dream? It is not
a dream. You think this is a theoretical question?
What do you love more than what you imagine is your singular life?
The water grows clearer. The swans settle and float there.
Are you willing to take your place in the forest again?
To become loam and bark, to be a leaf falling from a great height,
to be the worm who eats the leaf,
and the bird who eats the worm? Look at the sky-are you
willing to be the sky again?
You think this lesson is too hard for you.
You want the time-out to end. You want
to go to the movies as before, to sit and eat with your friends.
It can end now, but not in the way you imagine. You know the mind that has been talking to you for so long, the mind that
can explain everything? Don'tlisten.
You were once a citizen of the country called: I Don't Know.
Remember the boat that brought you there? It was your body.
Climb in.
May 7, 2024
THE MAPLES
I asked the stand of maples behind the house,
How should I live my life? They said, shhh shhh shhh …
How should I live, I asked, and the leaves seemed to ripple and gleam.
A bird called from a branch in its own tongue,
And from a branch, across the yard, another bird answered.
A squirrel scrambled up a trunk then along the length of a branch.
Stand still, I thought,
See how long you can bear that.
Try to stand still, if only for a few moments, drinking light breathing.
Some lovely new poems and revisits of some old; this poetry is hit or miss for me, and too many misses to love the collection.
Excerpts
THE WILLOWS
As we are made by what moves us,
willows pull the water up into their
farthest reach which curves again
down divining where their life begins.
So, under travels up, and down and up again,
and the wind makes music of what water was.
HYMN
It began as an almost inaudible hum, low and long for the solar winds
and far dim galaxies, a hymn growing louder, for the moon and the sun,
a song without words for the snow falling, for
snow conceiving snow conceiving rain, the rivers rushing without shame,
the hum turning again higher—into a riff of ridges peaks hard as consonants,
summits and praise for the rocky faults and
crust and crevices then down down to the roots and rocks and
burrows the lakes’ skittery surfaces, wells, oceans, breaking waves,
the salt-deep: the warm bodies moving within it: the cold deep: the
deep underneath gleaming, some of us rising as the planet turned into dawn,
some lying down as it turned into dark; as each of us rested— breaking
into harmonies we’d not known possible. finding the chords
as we found our true place singing in a million million keys
the human hymn of praise for every something else there is
and ever was and will be: the song growing louder and rising.
(Listen, I too believed it was a dream.)
THE MEADOW
As we walk into words that have waited for us to enter them, so the meadow, muddy with dreams, is gathering itself together and trying, with difficulty, to remember how to make wildflowers.
ANNUNCIATION
Even if I don’t see it again—
nor ever feel it I know it is—
and that if it once hailed me it ever does—
And so it is myself I want to turn in that direction
not as towards a place, but it was a tilting within myself, as one turns a mirror
to flash the light to where it isn’t—I was blinded like that—
and swam in what shone at me only able to endure it
by being no one and so specifically myself
I thought I’d die from
being loved like that.
I asked the stand of maples behind the house,
How should I live my life? They said, shhh shhh shhh …
How should I live, I asked, and the leaves seemed to ripple and gleam.
A bird called from a branch in its own tongue,
And from a branch, across the yard, another bird answered.
A squirrel scrambled up a trunk then along the length of a branch.
Stand still, I thought,
See how long you can bear that.
Try to stand still, if only for a few moments, drinking light breathing.
Some lovely new poems and revisits of some old; this poetry is hit or miss for me, and too many misses to love the collection.
Excerpts
THE WILLOWS
As we are made by what moves us,
willows pull the water up into their
farthest reach which curves again
down divining where their life begins.
So, under travels up, and down and up again,
and the wind makes music of what water was.
HYMN
It began as an almost inaudible hum, low and long for the solar winds
and far dim galaxies, a hymn growing louder, for the moon and the sun,
a song without words for the snow falling, for
snow conceiving snow conceiving rain, the rivers rushing without shame,
the hum turning again higher—into a riff of ridges peaks hard as consonants,
summits and praise for the rocky faults and
crust and crevices then down down to the roots and rocks and
burrows the lakes’ skittery surfaces, wells, oceans, breaking waves,
the salt-deep: the warm bodies moving within it: the cold deep: the
deep underneath gleaming, some of us rising as the planet turned into dawn,
some lying down as it turned into dark; as each of us rested— breaking
into harmonies we’d not known possible. finding the chords
as we found our true place singing in a million million keys
the human hymn of praise for every something else there is
and ever was and will be: the song growing louder and rising.
(Listen, I too believed it was a dream.)
THE MEADOW
As we walk into words that have waited for us to enter them, so the meadow, muddy with dreams, is gathering itself together and trying, with difficulty, to remember how to make wildflowers.
ANNUNCIATION
Even if I don’t see it again—
nor ever feel it I know it is—
and that if it once hailed me it ever does—
And so it is myself I want to turn in that direction
not as towards a place, but it was a tilting within myself, as one turns a mirror
to flash the light to where it isn’t—I was blinded like that—
and swam in what shone at me only able to endure it
by being no one and so specifically myself
I thought I’d die from
being loved like that.
January 15, 2026
“New and Selected Poems” by Marie Howe contains some brilliant pieces you will love, and others that will have you doubting your aptitude. She sure summarizes 2020 pretty well. “What the Angels Left” uses a pair of scissors as a vehicle for exploring loss, uncertainty, and power. What does a random sighting mean, and do we need material items?
Out of about 100 pieces, I had a strong reaction to about 6. Poetry is not really my thing, but it is magic when it works. “Sixth Grade” tells about bullying like an adult would remember childlike emotions. “The Cold Outside” represents a recurring theme of mortality and the shame of being a burden.
“Buddy” explores the mundane aspects of the owner and dog, but it will place you right there and remind you of interactions with your best friend. She cherishes these relationships while feeling loss from others. “Before the Fire” makes poetry out of staring at a fireplace and wondering what everything means. It took several re-reads before I grasped what the short poem was truly saying.
“The Affliction” does not cover any new ground, the act of seeing yourself as if you were someone else, but it does it in a new way that makes you relate and visualize. Overall, the work has a lot of poems that, as a white male, do not relate to me specifically about motherhood, sexual desire, and childbirth, but they taught me a lot.
I only read poetry once a year, when the Pulitzer Prizes come out, but I am glad I do. The line between poetry and prose is narrow, and anyone who loves the English language will admire Howe’s way with words. Even though it is a collection, the overall theme resonates as a true literary experience that you will enjoy.
Out of about 100 pieces, I had a strong reaction to about 6. Poetry is not really my thing, but it is magic when it works. “Sixth Grade” tells about bullying like an adult would remember childlike emotions. “The Cold Outside” represents a recurring theme of mortality and the shame of being a burden.
“Buddy” explores the mundane aspects of the owner and dog, but it will place you right there and remind you of interactions with your best friend. She cherishes these relationships while feeling loss from others. “Before the Fire” makes poetry out of staring at a fireplace and wondering what everything means. It took several re-reads before I grasped what the short poem was truly saying.
“The Affliction” does not cover any new ground, the act of seeing yourself as if you were someone else, but it does it in a new way that makes you relate and visualize. Overall, the work has a lot of poems that, as a white male, do not relate to me specifically about motherhood, sexual desire, and childbirth, but they taught me a lot.
I only read poetry once a year, when the Pulitzer Prizes come out, but I am glad I do. The line between poetry and prose is narrow, and anyone who loves the English language will admire Howe’s way with words. Even though it is a collection, the overall theme resonates as a true literary experience that you will enjoy.
December 17, 2025
*happy sigh*
I spent the past two weeks savoring this book. Mostly I would take in a few poems after work, until the spinning thoughts and emotions of the day slowly dissolved - my heart rate slowed - and my mind gelled around the imagery in these pages. It’s a book of healing, it’s completely my style of poetry, and over all 40 years of writing there were more than enough pieces that clicked for me.
I wish I owned it. Alas, I chose to borrow this one from the library, so it goes on the TBP list. Generally I don’t hesitate to buy poetry as it is the sole genre I know I will reread and appreciate from new perspectives. But, Christmas….
I digress.
The book opens with 20 new pieces from 2023, then moves to 12 from “The Good Thief” (1987). This was my favorite part of the book. Simple but so lovingly executed that I can feel the vibrations of selection behind each word, each punctuated line, each italic or white space. It is all art, and it is magnificent in its complete beauty. Editing my own poetry to this level of spare purity is absolutely my mission.
The pieces in the center of the book, from 1997’s “What the Living Do” and 2008’s “The Kingdom of Ordinary Time” focus heavily on grief, family of origin and loss. “Magdalene” (2017) represents a return to daily life concerns and especially focuses on mothering. There are threads of the sacred that tie all these together, some more obviously than others.
“(listen, I too believed it was a dream)”
Enthusiastically recommended by me and the 2025 Pulitzer committee.
I spent the past two weeks savoring this book. Mostly I would take in a few poems after work, until the spinning thoughts and emotions of the day slowly dissolved - my heart rate slowed - and my mind gelled around the imagery in these pages. It’s a book of healing, it’s completely my style of poetry, and over all 40 years of writing there were more than enough pieces that clicked for me.
I wish I owned it. Alas, I chose to borrow this one from the library, so it goes on the TBP list. Generally I don’t hesitate to buy poetry as it is the sole genre I know I will reread and appreciate from new perspectives. But, Christmas….
I digress.
The book opens with 20 new pieces from 2023, then moves to 12 from “The Good Thief” (1987). This was my favorite part of the book. Simple but so lovingly executed that I can feel the vibrations of selection behind each word, each punctuated line, each italic or white space. It is all art, and it is magnificent in its complete beauty. Editing my own poetry to this level of spare purity is absolutely my mission.
The pieces in the center of the book, from 1997’s “What the Living Do” and 2008’s “The Kingdom of Ordinary Time” focus heavily on grief, family of origin and loss. “Magdalene” (2017) represents a return to daily life concerns and especially focuses on mothering. There are threads of the sacred that tie all these together, some more obviously than others.
“(listen, I too believed it was a dream)”
Enthusiastically recommended by me and the 2025 Pulitzer committee.
May 29, 2025
OH MY GOD THIS COLLECTION IS SO GOOD!
Get it and enjoy! Below - the first of many poems in here that floored me...and I repeat - there are many!
Another Theory of Time
So, I tell my daughter
-we are eating dinner, reading through the book of stories-
I'm worried about Jason. If I seem distracted, that's what's on my mind.
And she says, Take it out of your mind,
then dips and eats a dumpling, and says, But don't take out Jason.
And this morning at the deli I say,
I'm grumpy because
it's the first day of school, and
I'm thinking of so many things.
and she says, Take them out, and I say, How do I do that?
and she says, Think about Now.
I bite into my egg and cheese on a sesame bagel, and it is good. It is.
Although it does bother me—
how she always wants to sit at the tiny deli counter
so near the garbage bins— eating meatballs for breakfast.
Then she says, I can't remember the future or the past.
The local high school girls order iced coffee and whole wheat bagels with nothing on them. My girl eats her meatballs, and I stare past the cutouts of ham and turkey taped to the window and think about the moment I want so much to leave
-how small it is sometimes, this Now-
constricting, me with my bad teeth and aging elbows,
as person after person tosses their trash inches behind my back before walking out the open door.
Get it and enjoy! Below - the first of many poems in here that floored me...and I repeat - there are many!
Another Theory of Time
So, I tell my daughter
-we are eating dinner, reading through the book of stories-
I'm worried about Jason. If I seem distracted, that's what's on my mind.
And she says, Take it out of your mind,
then dips and eats a dumpling, and says, But don't take out Jason.
And this morning at the deli I say,
I'm grumpy because
it's the first day of school, and
I'm thinking of so many things.
and she says, Take them out, and I say, How do I do that?
and she says, Think about Now.
I bite into my egg and cheese on a sesame bagel, and it is good. It is.
Although it does bother me—
how she always wants to sit at the tiny deli counter
so near the garbage bins— eating meatballs for breakfast.
Then she says, I can't remember the future or the past.
The local high school girls order iced coffee and whole wheat bagels with nothing on them. My girl eats her meatballs, and I stare past the cutouts of ham and turkey taped to the window and think about the moment I want so much to leave
-how small it is sometimes, this Now-
constricting, me with my bad teeth and aging elbows,
as person after person tosses their trash inches behind my back before walking out the open door.
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