Sofia M. Starnes
Poet, Editor, and Translator
My Approach to Writing
My Approach to Editing

Greetings and welcome to my homepage.

I know no better way of introducing myself
than through some of my verses, excerpted below.
I hope you will wish to read more of my work.

You may wish to know that I have a new book--
six years in the making!
It's titled The Consequence of Moonlight,
and you'll find some poems from that collection
in the "Poetry Selections" page.

The excerpts below are taken from all the collections.


Some excerpts from my poems...

is the word I would use the most cautiously,
How precarious its hum,
ear to earth, plumbing earth, earthwise.

From "The Soul's Landscape" (A Commerce of Moments)


We wake to murk or moonlight
every night, squinting sometimes
at fog, sometimes at fingers faking
marquetry and trees. Where
nothing feels, nothing is ever real.

Heaven, I think, lives off our daily
skin, props us as sentient mushrooms
on our stems, stems over healing
wounds, wounds over soil,
over the gutsy bed of streams--oh,
how the glorious body happens.

From "Mushrooms" (The Consequence of Moonlight)


Let’s say we leave out every thirdness, the odd drone
hovering over a bee-line, the loose tongue
in the uncommon serpent,
threading a twig... instead,
we slip into a commerce of moments: one-two,
one-two: noon gossip for midnight truth,
leaf-lethargy for home.
Two crows have scared the crickets balancing our luck –
a caw, a pull, a pause –
what could, what must become of a life.

From "The Tightrope" (A Commerce of Moments)


I am bewildered by my fall,
how the ground rose between groans and good lips,
how it hummed when the tower homed,

fully into ashes.
And all I heard, whooshed between words, 
was love you, love me.

From "The House That Spoke" (Fully Into Ashes)


A restless voice cries out across the street
and steals what twilight gives them, tipping earth;
the dual scents of lamb and mint converse,
and mindless of the door, feasts wander in.

No matter if they pull the shades, latch inwardly
the locks; the world must sneak its aches, its carbon in.
Won't one of them respond: cheeks risen, feverish?
And won't the other pray with human breath?

From "Why Honeymoons Are Brief" (Love and the Afterlife)