Grace Schulman

Grace Schulman’s seventh collection of poems, Without a Claim, was published in September 2013 from Houghton Mifflin Harcourt (Mariner Booka). She is Distinguished Professor, Baruch College, CUNY.

July/Aug 2020

Meteor

By Grace Schulman

That night the wind-chapped table shouted, new: fresh peach pie; bread, still warm, and consecrated by watery breezes on the shore of a town whose very name, Springs, was a […]

July/Aug 2017

The Worst

By Grace Schulman

   The worst is not   So long as we can say, “This is the worst.”     — Edgar, in King Lear   No, not the worst, not if it can be named. Say sorrow. […]

July/Aug 2017

The Rooted Bed

By Grace Schulman

When the medics lifted your lean body that once loped over hot sand to the sea,I wanted them to keep you on our bed like the one that waited for […]

Winter 2013

Hickories

By Grace Schulman

Why do I write of hickories, whose boughs touch other boughs across a slender road, when our neighbor, Haneen, born in Gaza, cried that a missile ripped her niece apart […]

Summer 2011

Moon Shell

By Grace Schulman

August, I walk this shore in search of wholeness among snapped razor clams and footless quogues. How easily my palm cradles a moon shell coughed up on shore. I stroke […]

Spring 2010

Without a Claim

By Grace Schulman

Raised like a houseplant on a windowsill looking out on other windowsills of a treeless block, I couldn’t take it in when told I owned this land with oaks and […]

Winter 2005

B

By Grace Schulman

In the beginning was the letter B. Through B, God made the world. Today that sign gleams on a keyboard neither for cadenzas nor waterfall arpeggios, but for prayers tapped […]

Winter 2005

Fifth of July

By Grace Schulman

Hot sun again. Coda to last night's flares that rose in giant O's and fell in tears, a lowd-own blue-note soprano sax blares "O beautiful," razz for the morning after. […]

Spring 2000

Black and White

By Grace Schulman

Black: From bhel to shine, flash burn: shining white. White stones, frost, doves, icelight, icewind. Wanting words for more white and more black, Celan found the cliff where eyebright grew […]

Summer 1992

For That Day Only

By Grace Schulman

New York, June 11, 1883 Daybreak, and she left her poppy-seed roll to follow them as they walked through the city carrying the dead child, her fourth brother born in […]