Connecticut

State Poet Laureate

In 1985, Connecticut established a state poet laureate position, which is currently held by Margaret Gibson, who was appointed to a three-year term in 2019. Gibson is the author of twelve poetry collections, most recently Not Hearing the Wood Thrush (LSU Press, 2018).



City and County Poets Laureate 

Bethel 

In 2022, Richard Magee was appointed the poet laureate of Bethel. 



Hartford

Frederick-Douglass Knowles II was named poet laureate of Hartford, Connecticut in 2018. Knowles will serve a three-year term.


Canton

In 2019, David Leff was named poet laureate of Canton, Connecticut. Leff will serve a four-year term.


Ridgefield

In 2020, Barb Jennes was appointed poet laureate of Ridgefield. 


Vernon

In 2019, Pegi Deitz-Shea was named poet laureate of Vernon, Connecticut. Deitz Shea will serve a one-year term.


Westport

In 2019, Diane Meyer Lowman was named poet laureate of Westport, Connecticut. Lowman will serve a two-year term.


Woodbury

In 2021, Sandy Carlson was named poet laureate of Woodbury, Connecticut. Carlson will serve a three-year term.

recent & featured listings

Connecticut poet laureaute
Margaret Gibson

Margaret Gibson was born in Richmond, Virginia. She received a BA from Hollins College and an MFA from the University of Virginia. She is the author of several collections of poetry, including Not Hearing the Wood Thrush (LSU Press, 2018); Broken Cup (LSU Press, 2014), a finalist for the 2016 Poets' Prize; The Vigil: A Poem in Four Voices (LSU Press, 1993), a finalist for the National Book Award; and Long Walks in the Afternoon (LSU Press, 1982), a Lamont Poetry Selection. The recipient of a National Endowment for the Arts Fellowship and a Pushcart Prize, Gibson was named the poet laureate of Connecticut in 2019. She is Professor Emerita at the University of Connecticut, and lives in Preston, Connecticut.

Read about Margaret Gibson’s 2020 Poets Laureate Fellowship project.

Margaret Gibson, photo credit Ted Hendrickson

Related Poets

Related Poems

Christmas Away from Home

Her sickness brought me to Connecticut.
Mornings I walk the dog: that part of life
is intact. Who's painted, who's insulated
or put siding on, who's burned the lawn
with lime—that's the news on Ardmore Street.

The leaves of the neighbor's respectable
rhododendrons curl under in the cold.
He has backed the car
through the white nimbus of its exhaust
and disappeared for the day.

In the hiatus between mayors
the city has left leaves in the gutters,
and passing cars lift them in maelstroms.

We pass the house two doors down, the one
with the wildest lights in the neighborhood,
an establishment without irony.
All summer their putto empties a water jar,
their St. Francis feeds the birds.
Now it's angels, festoons, waist-high
candles, and swans pulling sleighs.

Two hundred miles north I'd let the dog
run among birches and the black shade of pines.
I miss the hills, the woods and stony
streams, where the swish of jacket sleeves
against my sides seems loud, and a crow
caws sleepily at dawn.

By now the streams must run under a skin
of ice, white air-bubbles passing erratically,
like blood cells through a vein. Soon the mail,
forwarded, will begin to reach me here.

Weir Farm

Not vistas, but a home-sized landscape,
beloved rooms storied, painted, lived.
A farm bought with a painting
and a ten dollar personal check.
And almost from the beginning,
the intention to pass on
what an artist sees, what artists make.
A parcel of land, a vast legacy.

Admire the houses, barns, outbuildings,
and studios, uniformly Venetian red.
Respect the visible sweat work of stones
laid in walls and foundations, terraces and walks.
Admire the sunken garden, the wildflower meadows,
the path through thick woods to the fishing pond.
Walk through the farm envisioned by artists.
Admire the home artists made.

Or you can step from a museum’s polished floor
across a carven, gilded threshold
into the farm reimagined in brushstrokes.
From that wooden bridge over there,
hear those three women’s tinkling laughter?
Over there the other way, see
the black dog panting near the youngish man
lifting stones into a half-built wall?

Step out of the frame again, and be
enveloped in birdsong and dapple.
Feel the welcome of small particulars:
the grove beside that boulder,
the white horse tied in front of that barn.
With eyes made tender, see
those elms, from shadows on the grass
to the highest leaves’ shimmer.

With your friends, lovers, family, stride
across this chromatic broken brushwork.
Sit a minute at the granite picnic table
with the artist’s daughters, dressed in summer white.
You can daub this earth, so lyric, so gentle,
from the limited palette of your own love right now.
Any place you care for can hold an easel.
Everything around you is beautiful plein air.

A Winter Without Snow

Even the sky here in Connecticut has it,
That wry look of accomplished conspiracy,
The look of those who've gotten away

With a petty but regular white collar crime.
When I pick up my shirts at the laundry,
A black woman, putting down her Daily News,

Wonders why and how much longer our luck
Will hold.  "Months now and no kiss of the witch."
The whole state overcast with such particulars.

For Emerson, a century ago and farther north,
Where the country has an ode's jagged edges,
It was "frolic architecture."  Frozen blue-

Print of extravagance, shapes of a shared life
Left knee-deep in transcendental drifts:
The isolate forms of snow are its hardest fact.

Down here, the plain tercets of provision do,
Their picket snow-fence peeling, gritty,
Holding nothing back, nothing in, nothing at all.

Down here, we've come to prefer the raw material
Of everyday and this year have kept an eye
On it, shriveling but still recognizable--

A sight that disappoints even as it adds
A clearing second guess to winter.  It's
As if, in the third year of a "relocation"

To a promising notch way out on the Sunbelt,
You've grown used to the prefab housing,
The quick turnover in neighbors, the constant

Smell of factory smoke--like Plato's cave,
You sometimes think--and the stumpy trees
That summer slighted and winter just ignores,

And all the snow that never falls is now
Back home and mixed up with other piercing
Memories of childhood days you were kept in

With a Negro schoolmate, of later storms
Through which you drove and drove for hours
Without ever seeing where you were going.

Or as if you've cheated on a cold sickly wife.
Not in some overheated turnpike motel room
With an old flame, herself the mother of two,

Who looks steamy in summer-weight slacks
And a parrot-green pullover.  Not her.
Not anyone.  But every day after lunch

You go off by yourself, deep in a brown study,
Not doing much of anything for an hour or two,
Just staring out the window, or at a patch

On the wall where a picture had hung for ages,
A woman with planets in her hair, the gravity
Of perfection in her features--oh! her hair

The lengthening shadow of the galaxy's sweep.
As a young man you used to stand outside
On warm nights and watch her through the trees.

You remember how she disappeared in winter,
Obscured by snow that fell blindly on the heart,
On the house, on a world of possibilities.