Eric is now on Facebook. 

Eric Torgersen

Eric Torgersen has published eight books and chapbooks of poetry, two of fiction, and a full-length study of Rainer Maria Rilke and Paula Modersohn-Becker. He also translates German poetry, especially that of Rainer Maria Rilke and Nicolas Born. He was born in Melville, New York. He has a BA in German Literature from Cornell University; after two years in the Peace Corps in Ethiopia, he earned an MFA in poetry from the University of Iowa. He retired in the spring of 2008 after 38 years of teaching writing at Central Michigan University. He lives in Mt. Pleasant, Michigan with his wife, the quilt artist Ann Kowaleski. He’s available for workshops and readings.  (photo by Peggy Brisbane)

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Eric is finishing his last term as Honorary Chancellor of the Poetry Society of Michigan. The third person to be given this honor, he succeeded Laurence Thomas and Jack Ridl. Congratulations to new Chancellor Patricia Barnes.

​Eric's most recent book, In Which We See Our Selves: American Ghazals, can be ordered at:
​http://mayapplepress.com/in-which-we-see-our-selves-american-ghazals-eric-torgersen/

HOLY    

Whitman felt his ribs and found the fat holy.
​Poor mad Smart found Geoffrey the cat holy. 

Growing up on Yankee turf I found 
a Mickey Mantle Louisville Slugger bat holy. 

A grown man now, I do confess to finding 
one pose you strike on your new blue yoga mat holy. 

I have not one objection to your calling 
the old man in the robe and pointy hat holy. 

No reason, if it helps you stalk the tiger, 
not to call its trim and pungent scat holy. 

Would you please shut that squalling monster up 
(although in theory I find the little brat holy)? 

I still recall how Allen lightened up 
the crowd at the reading by saying, “It’s not all that holy.” 

Can we agree to stop calling every last thing 
that makes our little hearts go pitter-pat holy? 

Perhaps someday I’ll take the begging bowl 
and call each last flea, tick and gnat holy. 

Don’t be so pleased with that so-called self of yours, Eric, 
till you call the fires of the Benares ghat holy. 

(from In Which We See Our Selves )​

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