Henry Lyman

Henry Lyman’s work has appeared in The Nation, New England Watershed, The New York Times, Poetry, Talking River, TQ, and other periodicals. He edited Robert Francis’s posthumous collection Late Fire, Late Snow and an anthology of New England poetry, After Frost, and has published two books of translations. For twenty years he hosted Poems to a Listener, a radio series of readings and conversation with poets. He lives in Northampton, Massachusetts, and serves as a trustee of Fort Juniper and an executor of Robert Francis’s literary estate.


The Dinner Bell by Henry Lyman

  Now whenever I pick it up a flick of my finger nudges from the brass a slow circular singing back to where we lean across our pitchforks listening, mouths already watering for gravy spreading over porcelain as cupping his hands he calls ohhhkaaay all the way up to where […]


Generations by Henry Lyman

  A woman on a bicycle with her child in the basket rides her way through wartime, passing the miles murmuring the names of things, cow, horse, tree, sheep, field, trough, barn, in his ear as they go, and everything he hears the child sees, the things he sees becoming […]


Filial by Henry Lyman

  Long winter clouds, and a train rushing on over empty flatlands, and no one on the train save two dim figures silhouetted in a window, erect, familiar, their faces lifted always toward those distances before them, the train receding to a station house with no one on the platform […]


Madeline’s Library by Henry Lyman

  The people they were cropping for kept a dump behind the big house where she went sometimes to rummage through the trash for pages fallen from their bindings, bits of children’s stories or a fragment of a novel, travelogues that began and ended miles before their destination, and whatever […]


Two Old Gents by Henry Lyman

  When the beast started toward him he whistled to it as to a dog, holding out a hand like Daniel to the lion at what was neither dog nor lion but just a squat gray Dorsetshire named Churchill. It was the oldest one we ever had, older than its […]


Side Canyons by Henry Lyman

Sometimes they reveal a handprint, child-sized almost, our shapes being smaller then, of one of us beside the same rock wall that curves along the same dry creek bed, somebody whose whim it was to dip a hand in mud and leave its image waiting, forever maybe, for someone else […]