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Stephanie Strickland

Stephanie Strickland received a BA from Harvard University in 1963, an MFA from Sarah Lawrence College in 1978, and an MS from the Pratt Institute in 1984.

She is the author of numerous poetry collections, including How the Universe Is Made: Poems New & Selected 1985–2019 (Ahsahta Press, 2019), V : WaveTercets / Losing L’una (SpringGun Press, 2014), True North (University of Notre Dame Press, 1997), and Give the Body Back (University of Missouri Press, 1991).

Of her work, Marjorie Perloff writes, "Stephanie Strickland is one of contemporary poetry's polymaths: her poetry displays an astonishing command of scientific knowledge and unusual verbal virtuosity."

Strickland has received fellowships from the National Endowment for the Humanities, the Valparaiso Foundation, and Yaddo, among others. She worked in the Sarah Lawrence College library from 1978 to 2007, and she also served as the editor of Slapering Hol Press from 1990 to 2005. She lives in New York, New York.

Selected Bibliography

How the Universe Is Made: Poems New & Selected 1985–2019 (Ahsahta Press, 2019)
V : WaveTercets / Losing L’una (SpringGun Press, 2014)
Dragon Logic (Ahsahta Press, 2013)
Zone : Zero (Ahsahta Press, 2008)
V: WaveSon.nets / Losing L’una (Penguin Books, 2002)
True North (University of Notre Dame Press, 1997)
The Red Virgin: A Poem of Simone Weil (University of Wisconsin Press, 1993)
Give the Body Back (University of Missouri Press, 1991)

By This Poet


Seeing a Medusa

Only that tinge of crimson-pink
like cyclamen flashing
drew me down, made me see you

in the heave of the wake, all
pale-jelly innard
on your side, resisting nothing

in the wash of green glass, clear gray, the waves
calm today, steady, as you slap
up and down in their hands—a nest

 of tentacles rolling with the foam,
 then hanging, white with poison. You collapse
 an inbreath of water, shudder. Glide.

Gone, before I grew faint
leaning over the boat; gone,
before I even knew

it was you—alive! Not knowing. Reliving
the blow, remembering: you, torn out, despised
and flung dripping to the waves.

Presto! How the Universe is Made

On your Mark, one first O/riginal Form; Get set, a second
angular Segment; Go—the next step, a Rule replacing
each straight side in the first by the second; if I take

a box and for each side of that box substitute a cone
or peak, to make a kind of star—then do again
what I did before: take the star-box

and where I find a straight-line replace it
with a peak, to make a starrier star, nesting the shape
even deeper in the figure, re-placing

peaks to make a Star-in-the-Box! Or, a Diamond-heart-
Star at every level (a shape self-similar); a shape
of extreme complication, in only a few—in five—

iterations, it already reads as texture and is rapidly
sinking as it plummets, repeating, into bonded
lock, where photons mediate, shunting between

heavy center, vibrant orbit. Or deeper, look. No,
look, a quantum leap: the burst box—the born star—is re-
emerging on the line, on the line or/and . . . . Repeat:

0 Shortcut to What?

0                        Nothing that is not there and the nothing that is.
                                    Wallace Stevens, “The Snow Man”

Out the door every
day along High Street
to Sloane. Only the grave
there still and the grave gates, Egyptian
red soft sandstone. Every
day. Truth not flowing down
from a source; but, an exact
accord that makes the whole
simpler than the parts;
those bodies lost all winter
in the snow. The storm
in the night so great,
so erasing the man

so immemorably standing in it, at sea in it,
and the woman in batiste weeds of white at sea
in it on her widowed watching walk.

Gibbs spoke only once
in a Faculty Meeting, during
protracted, tiring debate on elective courses:
should there be—more English, more Classics? More? Or less.
They were astonished to see him rise, after thirty-two years,
though familiar with the high, pained-sounding voice: a man of snow
assessing. Not to be distracted, or dispersed into longcuts,
not to be turned from the whole entire empty mist
hanging in the cold air, not to miss—or
intrude on the nothing that was

in every emotional way,
Gibbs, hidden at home, creating the loneliness
he needed to assume just one responsibility—for which no thanks,
much complaining of it, some wonder. Lost, in the clouds of snow gathering
in CT over Transactions & Proceedings of the local Academy of Sciences,
the one un-evasion he accepted: shortcutting elegance by uncouth
statement that is efficient in every respect. The reward for
getting past the failings of language? To be found
un-readable. Gibbs rose. He said: Mathematics
is a language. And sat down.