Poet of the Month feature
Radio: WYPR Baltimore Radio
Deborah Ager Interviews Deborah Ager for Fun
DCist: An Interview
Brightest Young Things Blog: An Interview
The Best American Poetry blog: An Interview
The Southeast Review: An Interview
The Writer’s Center: An Interview with Deborah Ager
We Who Are About To Die Blog: Getting to Know Deborah Ager
Book Review by Robert Peake: Midnight Voices, poetry collection
Book Review by Serena Agusto-Cox: Midnight Voices, poetry collection
Poems in Online Magazines
Audio and Text: From the Fishouse: A variety of poems in text and audio and my audio answers to various questions about writing.
Text: “Astrophobia” in New South
Text: “Electricity” and “The Head” in Anti-
Text: “Dear Deborah” and others La Petite Zine
Text: No Tell Motel, various poems
The Problem with Describing Men
If I said lacerated light
In an unusually warm November.
If I said ice-cold palm on my inner thigh
And the way a tree opens its branches
When sun finally heats the garden.
If I said the power of a ‘67 Charger
Mixed with a detective’s mystery.
If I said love, sometimes, yes, love
And jumping-from-a-moving-car anger.
Said the whir of a sander, the scent
Of birch, and tablespoons of sawdust.
What if I said night or a wave
Rocking into shore? If I said their names
One by one to the red sky? Said empty armchair?
Luck, dusky words, fight, torn photo.
What if I said moon? What if I said
White light dividing a lake in two?
The Space Coast
An Airedale rolling through green frost,
cabbage palms pointing their accusing leaves
at whom, petulant waves breaking at my feet.
I ran from them. Nights, yellow lights
scoured sand. What was ever found
but women in skirts folded around the men
they loved that Friday? No one found me.
And how could that have been, here, where
even botanical names were recorded
and small roads mapped in red?
Night, the sky is black paper pecked with pinholes.
Tortoises push eggs into warm sand.
Was it too late to have come here?
Everything’s discovered. Everything’s spoken for.
The air smells of salt. My lover’s body.
Perhaps it is too late. I want to run
the beach’s length, because it never ends.
The barren beach. Airedales grow
fins on their hard heads, drowned surfers
resurface, and those little girls
who would not be called back to safety are found.