Michael Simms
Michael Simms is an esteemed American poet, editor, and literary activist whose work captures the intricacies of the human experience with grace and insight. Known for his precise language and poignant imagery, Simms often writes about the intersections of nature, family, and the passage of time. His poetry reflects a deep awareness of life’s fragility and resilience, offering readers a lens through which to examine their own lives and surroundings.
In addition to his poetry, Simms is a prominent figure in the literary world as the founder of *Autumn House Press*, a nonprofit publishing house that champions emerging and underrepresented voices in literature. Under his guidance, the press has become a beacon for high-quality poetry, fiction, and nonfiction, significantly enriching the American literary landscape.
Simms’ collections, including *American Ash* and *Nightjar*, showcase his mastery of lyricism and narrative, blending personal reflection with broader societal themes. Beyond his work on the page, he is a dedicated mentor and teacher, inspiring a new generation of writers to find their voices. Through his poetry and his tireless advocacy for literature, Michael Simms continues to leave an indelible mark on contemporary American poetry and publishing.
Ruin of Light by Michael Simms
Everyone he knows will fall, and everyone
they know, the slow march toward oblivion.
Everything else, the love-making, the laughing
with friends, the lifting of glasses in a toast
to this brief reprieve, even poems which
seem immortal in their shining, their
music made of the words he speaks
everyday. Nothing special. Just one
light among many going out, singly
and in pairs, whole groups of souls
holding hands as dawn emerges, tangled
in the branches at first, then descending
into the grass before giving way again.
And there's no stopping this spiral
of ecstasy and despair, this ruin of light,
though beauty consoles us temporarily
City of Desire by Michael Simms
I prefer to think of Jesus as a man
who had to figure things out
clumsily, what to do with the grip
of anger, how to loosen the fingers
one by one, flex them until limber
again, how to tamp down lust.
The woman at the well bending
down, her breasts like bells,
and then to stir the woman
he saved from stoning. She knew
how to make him rise from the self-
imposed sleep of the chaste.
How did he swing his stepfather's
mallet with sufficient strength
to drive the spike home? How
did he learn to obey without
losing himself? I imagine
the young man rending his sleep,
the desert drawing him onward
toward the shining city of desire
Salty Marshes by Michael Simms
He imagines dying here
on this patio beneath the elderberry
he and his son planted. He couldn't
dig deep enough, so his son took over.
My God, the old man thought, looking
at the powerful shoulders of his son.
He feels himself shrinking into wisdom,
remembering the birds on the island
wintering in the salty marshes
of his childhood. Given choice,
he'd come back a blue heron
spearing minnows in the long shadows
of evening. The women who raised him
have left already. He imagines them
on the far shore calling him home
What is Prayer?
I woke thinking it depends on what you mean
by prayer. I got dressed wondering
is this a prayer? Is brushing my teeth a prayer?
Is the smell of coffee a prayer? A blackberry?
Lifting a spoon? Probably not. But stepping
into morning light, elderberries offering
dark fans of fruit, the cedar fence
my son built around the garden,
a waxwing calling across the eons,
are prayers, not mine, but the earth
offering itself to the sky
My Father Swimming
How graceful my father was
in the water all his life he swam
with sure strokes measured calmness
Long after he's gone I sit on a small hill
next to the water a color I've never seen
my seeing having changed my father
I know now was afraid
children calling across the water
A Distant Country
It takes a while before he begins
to dream again. Curled in the dark,
he watches headlights of travelers
climb the wall on their way
to a distant country. He hears
the whistle of a train carrying
old lovers away. His son is small
again, happy before what happened
happened. Trees beside the river
remind him of words he knew before
he spoke. Music of rain
falling on water, wind in the branches,
a crow calls him by name
Syrup
The ants were dying to get at the jar
of maple syrup and its crust
of crystals around the lid
I picked up the jar and washed
each soul clinging to another
down the drain, the slender
legs flailing, the ocelli
looking up at the light
the small bristles covering the body
tasting sweetness to the end
Strength
Before his body weakened
he loved splitting wood,
carrying the weight
in his arms as if he'd given
birth to it, so tenderly did
he feed the flames, so
fiercely did they grow.
The woman enjoyed
the warm room when
the cold pressed against
the glass, but she never
understood what he loved
about cleaving the world,
bringing it home to burn
Jude the Obscure
My daughter Lea is my friend
so I called her last night. We talked
a long time about what she wants.
A good marriage, a better job,
a baby before the window
of youth closes. She remembers
her house in Botswana.
Two hours on a crowded bus
to buy food at Bush Baby Calls
in Maun. She got robbed twice.
Later, her pet goat Bantlé
ate the Baobab in her yard.
I told her I had another family
before she was born. Two stepchildren.
I sometimes wonder what became
of them, whether they survived me.
Lea sometimes wonders what became of Bantlé.
He probably ended up in a stew, she said.
The sunrise in our garden is really something
I said, changing the subject. It really is
she said, remembering the last time
she was here.
And now
standing on the patio in late summer
I wish Lea could see this light
lowering itself gently into the arms
of the Aphrodite sweet shrub
and tangling itself in the thorns
of Jude the Obscure named for
the many petals of our sins against others.
Echinacea are holding their last blossoms,
songbirds are praising the new day,
and the tenacious morning glory
is surviving uninvited, but not alone
Forgiveness
Our garden has survived
the warmest summer since the Pliocene.
I tell friends Eva is in charge of beauty
while I'm in charge of digging holes.
They think I'm joking, but I enjoy
breaking through the gray clay
of this ancient mountain
to reveal darkness where something--
earthworms, mycelia, nematodes --
is supposed to be alive but isn't.
These days digging down
I don't feel resentment anymore.
I've forgiven everyone, even myself.
Years ago I let go of my father
who confused money with virtue
and died broke, full of regret,
saying I'm sorry I'm sorry
because forgiveness wasn't enough.
He came late to understand
we don't get what we want,
we don't get what we need,
we get what we get. What's done
is done. No do-overs. I've tried to be
a better father than my father
but maybe I've failed. The jury
of my past selves can't arrive
at a decision in the dark.
Michael Simms is the founding editor of Vox Populi and the founding editor emeritus of Autumn House Press. Ragged Sky Press has published three collections: American Ash, Nightjar, Strange Meadowlark and Jubal Rising. His speculative fiction novels published by Madville include The Talon Trilogy (2023, 2024, 2025) and Bicycles of the Gods (2022). His poems and essays have been published in Poetry(Chicago), Scientific American, Plume and the Academy of American Poets' Poem-a-Day. In 2011, the Pennsylvania Legislature awarded Simms a Certificate of Recognition for his service to the arts. Originally from Texas, Simms lives in the Mt Washington neighborhood of Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, United States with his wife Eva and their kelpie Josie.
