In Memoriam: Sarah Hannah


Yesterday’s Tupelo Press newsletter brought the tragic news that one of their talented authors, Sarah Hannah, had taken her own life. An award-winning poet and literature professor at Emerson College, Sarah was the author of two collections, Longing Distance and Inflorescence, both from Tupelo. The press will hold a memorial service and tribute reading for her at Poets House in New York City in September. Meanwhile, flowers and expressions of sympathy may be sent to her family at the following address: Nathan and Harriet Goldstein, 17 Metropolitan Avenue, Ashland, MA 01721. The following poem is reprinted by permission from Longing Distance:

The Colors Are Off This Season

I don’t want any more of this mumble—
Orange fireside hues,
Fading sun, autumnal tumble,
Stricken, inimitable—Rose.

I want Pink, unthinking, true.
Foam pink, cream and coddle,
Miniskirt, Lolita, pompom, tutu,
Milkshake. Pink without the mottle

Or the dying fall. Pink adored, a thrall
So pale it’s practically white.
A tinted room beneath a gable—
Ice pink, powder, feather-light—

Untried corner of the treble.
I want the lift, not the lower.
Bloodless pink stalled at girl,
No weight, no care, no hour.


Read more poems from this book here.

2 comments on “In Memoriam: Sarah Hannah

  1. Alegria Imperial says:

    Sad is hardly a word to describe the loss of a soul whose only flaw seems the endless search for truth. ‘What a shame!’ as the common phrase is utterly devoid of the value intrinsic in such a loss. Artists have borne the brunt of digging, unpeeling, recovering truth and sometimes plunging in the crucible for truth. Those who withstand life’s inconstancies and hardness are indeed heroes but so are those who die, the truth in their palms. Hail to Sarah Hannah! The Three Monkeys would have changed their stance if they looked close enough for she did find what they have been waiting for or as I suppose they are in this poem:

    We, Three

    Some sights meant to blind
    snag each step in daylight.

    Some words blare from
    breaking hearts, wounded minds.

    Other words awaiting birth curl
    in desert wombs dying for oases

    of light to be seen, vials of oils to
    be cleansed, a slap on cheeks

    to coax a cry then a word then
    the smile of truth.

    If but one truth leaps
    before us, only then will we,

    three, cease resisting
    to look, hear, tell.

  2. zhenimsja says:

    I’ve got to post resembling like tip on my web-blog and this gave me nice thought. Cheers!

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