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Jill Bialosky

Jill Bialosky was born in Cleveland, Ohio. She received her undergraduate degree from Ohio University and received a Master of Arts degree from the Writing Seminars at Johns Hopkins University and a Master of Fine Arts degree from the University of Iowa Writer's Workshop.

Her collections of poems are The Players (Alfred A. Knopf, 2015), Intruder (Alfred A. Knopf, 2008), Subterranean (Alfred A. Knopf, 2001), and The End of Desire (Alfred A. Knopf, 1997). Bialosky is also the author of the novels The Life Room (Houghton Mifflin Harcourt, 2007) and House Under Snow (Houghton Mifflin Harcourt, 2003), and the memoirs Poetry Will Save Your Life (Atria Books, 2017) and History of a Suicide: My Sister's Unfinished Life (Atria Books, 2011). She was the coeditor, with Helen Schulman, of the anthology Wanting A Child (1998).

Bialosky has received a number of awards, including the Elliot Coleman Award in Poetry. She is currently an editor at W. W. Norton & Company and lives in New York City.


Selected Bibliography

Poetry

The Players (Alfred A. Knopf, 2015)
Intruder (Alfred A. Knopf, 2008)
Subterranean (Alfred A. Knopf, 2001)
The End of Desire (Alfred A. Knopf, 1997)

Fiction

The Prize: A Novel (Counterpoint, 2015)
The Life Room (Houghton Mifflin Harcourt, 2007)
House Under Snow (Houghton Mifflin Harcourt, 2003)

Nonfiction

Poetry Will Save Your Life (Atria Books, 2017)
History of a Suicide: My Sister's Unfinished Life (Atria Books, 2011)

By This Poet

2

Fathers in the Snow

2.

After father died
the love was all through the house
untamed and sometimes violent.
When the dates came we went up to our rooms
and mother entertained.
Frank Sinatra's "Strangers in the Night,"
the smell of Chanel No.5 in her hair and the laughter.
We sat crouched at the top of the stairs.
In the morning we found mother asleep on the couch
her hair messed, and the smell
of stale liquor in the room.
We knelt on the floor before her,
one by one touched our fingers
over the red flush in her face.
The chipped sunlight through the shutters.
It was a dark continent
we and mother shared;
it was sweet and lonesome,
the wake men left in our house.

Morning Nocturne

I am glad today is dark. No sun. Sky
ribboning with amorphous, complicated
layers. I prefer cumulus on my
morning beach run. What more can we worry
about? Our parents are getting older
and money is running out. The children
are leaving, the new roof is damaged by
rain and rot. I fear the thrashing of the sea
in its unrest, the unforgiving cricket.
But that’s not it. The current is rising.
The dramas are playing out. Perhaps
it’s better to be among these sandpipers
with quick feet dashing out of the surf than
a person who wishes to feel complete.