Ann Townsend

Ann Townsend is the author of Dime Store Erotics and The Coronary Garden (poems) and editor of Radiant Lyre: Essays on Lyric Poetry (with David Baker). She directs the creative writing program at Denison University and is a founding member of VIDA: Women in Literary Arts.

May/June 2016

The Late Ash Trees

By Ann Townsend

Needles rained in the pine grove.      Acorns tumbled in the tall grass. I was about to inflict phenomenology      upon the oak trees. I was about to dispense some prescription      like […]

May/June 2016

The Mind Is Its Own Place

By Ann Townsend

Mated and unmated, starlings swarm the willow with their devotions until the tree roils and sways, wing-beats sounding the torrent through which they swim. Dopamine, paroxetine, an injection of adrenaline […]

Summer 2014

Rowing in Eden

By Ann Townsend

The only Commandment I ever obeyed—’Consider the Lilies.’                        (L 904) On my desk: an oiled stone that rests to serve as a reminder of its own heft and weight, and […]

Fall 2011

Myopic Keats

By Ann Townsend

At fifteen, John Keats was apprenticed to an Edmonton surgeon, thus setting in motion a series of events which would fundamentally alter his poetic vision. After six years of medical […]

Winter 1998

Dime Store Erotics

By Ann Townsend

The dim gift store shimmers with candy bars and cheap key chains swinging. The night bus checks out at nine; you can still climb on board if you abandon the […]

Winter 1998

House by a Green Sea

By Ann Townsend

You are here now on the bed with me: after five hours of sleeplessness we are tumbled like exhausted runners beneath an eggshell sky. Pressed to the pillow you moan […]

Summer 1995

In a Moment

By Ann Townsend

   She drives alone and quickly   on a snow-blasted highway—no cars, only the salt kiss    of the semis as they steam by.    Jazz on the radio, in and out   with the […]

Summer 1995

The Breathing Treatment

By Ann Townsend

Luminarias light the yards,    fizzy candles snug in sand-filled bags that catch the sleet grazing the street,    the yards, dark houses everywhere Seatbelts tight, we wait out    the traffic light […]

Spring 1992

Rouge

By Ann Townsend

That morning she stood in the kitchen and considered the chair, its ignoble lines, its wood of no interest or value, no grain to coax out with a brush, no […]

Spring 1992

A Trick of the Eye

By Ann Townsend

I have no imagination but what I steal.  I think of it when I walk past the strangely fashioned chair  in the furniture store window, whose back is shaped and […]