Author Archives: Dale Hobson

My recent Adirondack Center for Writing residency allowed me to complete drafts of the five remaining poems in my “Light Year” series, exploring the qualities of light in each month of the year, and to do some revision work on … Continue reading →

We all have one special thing that is the real sign of spring for us. It might be the first trillium, the first lilac. For me, it’s the first heron. Here’s a new poem from a moment long ago when … Continue reading →

My friend Allen Hoey was fascinated with the esoteric multiverse philosophies of Gurdjieff and his follower, the mathmetician Ouspensky. Here’s a primer, as best I understand. Your life as explained by Ouspensky Every choice in life splits you in two– the … Continue reading →

In her monthly astronomy chat this week, Aileen O’Donoghue put a number to how much less light we have each day as September drags us off beyond the end of summer. That brought on another outburst in my ongoing poetry … Continue reading →

Another “Light Year” poem. July Light Today the light is no light, just a glow that comes from everywhere and nowhere—not quite fog, but shadowless, diffused through the muggy air, and this vague unease that presages thunderstorm. But other days … Continue reading →

Another poem in the series “Light Year,” examining the qualities of light in each month of the year. May light There are only two seasons in the North Country winter and not-winter. April was cruel as usual, arbitrary, fickle, indecisive—unable … Continue reading →

Two years ago I had this idea that each month of the year shone with its own unique quality of light, and that I should write a twelve-poem cycle that would capture those qualities. Until yesterday, I had managed to … Continue reading →

Two years ago I had this idea that each month of the year shone with its own unique quality of light, and that I should write a twelve-poem cycle that would capture those qualities. As it is with many summer … Continue reading →

Finally, a poem fresh from the oven. February Light I see the snow has fallen overnight, pure and shining as the New Jerusalem set down outside my kitchen window. Cupping a white mug of black coffee, I peer into woods … Continue reading →