What Feeds Us
poems by Diane Lockward


Hear Garrison Keillor read Diane's poems on Writers Almanac.

    Rattle (spring 2008)
    Poetry Southeast   
Valparaiso Poetry Review
    Wild River Review
Writing it Real

    Poetic Asides, Writers' Digest
    Eclectica Magazine
    Valparaiso Poetry Review
PIF Magazine

Diane Lockward is the featured poet in the spring/summer 2007 issue of Valparaiso Poetry Review.

Diane's Speaking/Reading Schedule
About Diane Lockward


Other books from Wind

What Feeds Us is available from your favorite local bookstore, from Amazon, directly from Wind, or try our friends at Spring Church Books.
Wind Publications
600 Overbrook Dr
Nicholasville, KY 40356


Read more of Diane's poems here.

Poetry Websites recommended
by Diane 

Diane Lockward's BLOG


In this brimming collection Diane Lockward's considerable wit engages both what is askew and awry and what to a lesser eye might seem to be standing up straight. She never takes you where you expect to go--that is part of her talent and her sassy wisdom. She is an original and a delight. 
     ---Baron Wormser

What Feeds Us is sometimes humorous and sometimes heartbreaking. Diane Lockward's language is both plain-spoken and rich, lush. This is a wonderful book that might not nourish your body but certainly will nourish your heart.
     ---Thomas Lux

In these sparkling poems, Diane Lockward takes life as it comes and finds nourishment in it all: succulence of the peach, redolence of the pear, the "green grape of sorrow." I love these poems for their craft, sensuality and energy. Like high-wire acts of language and imagination, they almost leap in the air and come down again on the wire, balancing between witty and dark, personal and invented, idea and emotion.
     ---Patricia Fargnoli

From the book --

An Average Day for an Average Liar

                       The average person tells thirteen lies each day.
                  Dr. Georgia Witkin

One, on a day much like any other, I awake with alarm
clock blaring, turn to you, and say, "Your face
is no longer imprinted on my heart."

Two, I aim a dart to the groin, say I’ve taken a paramour.

Three, he’s a man who loves
to build things, handles the adze, hammer, and awl—
his muscular arms, laden with 2 x 4’s, an aphrodisiac.

Four, I say he lives under the cover
of the Witness Protection Program, his name a secret.

Five, he smokes a pipe and smells like figs.

Six, I say he’s a gymnast
in bed, master of every position in the Karma Sutra,
knows what a yoni is and brings it to blossom.

Seven, I praise his intellect, list books he’s read—
Remembrance of Things Past
and all twelve volumes
of Dance to the Music of Time which you once insisted
could only be done if one were sentenced to life
in prison, no possibility of parole.

Eight, his sense of humor coruscates. He juggles
double-entendres, scorns puns, perceives irony, relishes
repartée, never steals a punch line, cherishes my bon mots.

Nine, he pens novels of Russian proportions, is adored
by the literati, writes poetry, too, his last collection
favorably reviewed by William Logan.

Ten, he’s slender, a man of sartorial splendor,
whose every garment I’ve memorized--his blue jeans,
each turtleneck, tank, and tee, every sock in his drawer,
and his hiking boots in which he does not walk
but strides like a man on a mission.

Eleven, he hates watching sports on tv, prefers to toss
a salad, knows every kind of lettuce.

Twelve, each morning in our special hotel he brings me
one perfect pastry from the pâtisserie. He bites
from one end, I the other, the custard between us sweet
as French kisses, our tongues foraging like bees
in blossoms, our faces plastered with chocolate.

Thirteen, I turn off the lights and recant, swear
I made him up, fingers crossed behind my back.
I produce tears and fall upon your chest,
and confess, and confess, and confess.