Hello. I’m delighted you’re here! Thank you for your willingness to spend a few minutes with me in this virtual setting. This reading isn’t long; it’s all of 6 minutes/45 seconds and if nothing else it gives you an idea as to what you’ll find in my newest book of poems, Letters to Borges. I hope you enjoy this…
If you like what you hear and you’re tempted to buy the book, I couldn’t be happier. Well, actually I could. Buy the book, then take a moment to comment or write a review on an Amazon, Barnes & Noble, Goodreads, my blog, your blog, facebook, twitter…Well, you get what I mean. I would be ever-so-grateful. It takes a village to sell a book and authors, poets especially, need all the help they can get. But more importantly, should you decide to purchase Letters to Borges, I hope you enjoy the poetry. And if you choose not to (buy), I hope poetry finds its way to you in some other form. Look around you. It’s everywhere!
Thanks ever so much!
Steve Kuusisto
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ABOUT: Stephen Kuusisto is the author of the memoirs Have Dog, Will Travel; Planet of the Blind (a New York Times “Notable Book of the Year”); and Eavesdropping: A Memoir of Blindness and Listening and of the poetry collections Only Bread, Only Light and Letters to Borges. A graduate of the Iowa Writer’s Workshop and a Fulbright Scholar, he has taught at the University of Iowa, Hobart and William Smith Colleges, and Ohio State University. He currently teaches at Syracuse University where he holds a professorship in the Center on Human Policy, Law, and Disability Studies. He is a frequent speaker in the US and abroad. His website is StephenKuusisto.com.
Planet of the Blind 
wonderful poems, I am an unpublished poet and also disabled and happy to see someone like you write beautifully about a difficult subject.
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Out of curiosity, I came to your website to see if I still recognized you and found I had to listen to your poems with my eyes closed, for otherwise there was too much interference. With eyes closed, the words sink in beyond memories of walking to Canandaigua Lake on July 4th to see fireworks with apartment mates and you – phosphorescence flashing in the sky, and explosions of incomprehension at my side; or standing on the lawn between Geneva Hall and that memorial stone, talking poetry and watching eyes roll in rhythm as incredible word and image combinations poured forth, and then in poetry class or on the quad balancing between Lorca and Neruda.
Here in Normandy, over forty years later, words slip between different languages luminously and only by shutting out that light do sounds enter to create previously unimagined landscapes.
Glad to see that words still
are central
to your endeavors.
Christine
(whom you knew by a different name)
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