If you’re drawn to poetry that explores the emotional undercurrents of everyday life—where the ordinary quietly transforms into something luminous—then the work of Alison Stone is well worth your attention. A prolific and deeply reflective voice in contemporary poetry, Stone has authored nine full-length collections, including Informed (2024) and To See What Rises (2023), each revealing her signature blend of psychological depth, lyrical clarity, and imaginative reach.
Her poetry often navigates the space between inner thought and outer experience, capturing fleeting moments, personal myths, and the subtle tensions of modern life. With publications in prestigious literary journals like The Paris Review and Poetry, Stone’s work has earned both critical acclaim and a devoted readership. Her accolades—including the Frederick Bock Prize and the Madeline Sadin Award—further highlight her impact on the literary world.
Beyond the page, Stone brings a unique perspective shaped by her work as a licensed psychotherapist and visual artist. This fusion of disciplines enriches her poetry, adding layers of insight into human emotion, memory, and identity. Whether she’s writing about love, loss, or the surreal edges of reality, her voice remains intimate, thoughtful, and quietly powerful.
In this blog post, we’ll read selection of Alison Stone’s poems.
Persephone's First Season in Hell
That winter I learned what the animals know.
My hair thickened,
blood grew cold and slow,
and as the flowers had fallen
from my apron, so joy and memory
spilled from the sack of my skin.
Now that food was safe,
I would not eat.
The chewed heart
of pomegranate blocked my throat.
All I had cherished went on
above. Mother's tears watered my roof.
Armored in loneliness
I learned to love no one.
The dead scurried about
while my heart slept --
red seed beneath its tree of bone.
I learned to quicken my husband's pleasure
and to melt memories of his touch with tears.
My marriage lengthened and coiled.
Above the black walls of my world, Apollo
drifted in his ring of fire.
With half his journey done,
the ground above me split.
Like a child in the womb I felt
the tingle beneath the fingernails
that marks the end of death.
Hunger
They have to wait to bury my mother
until my daughter stops nursing.
She had slept in a padded basket
while I stood wooden between my husband and my father;
people droned my mother’s praises
and the coffin loomed.
Now she wakes and roots, all
hunger. A stranger takes us
to the rabbi’s study. Amid clutter
of paper and books, I lift my black shirt. Broken,
numb, I cannot imagine my body
will respond, but her latch draws milk down.
She sucks dreamily. New to this world,
she knows nothing but a mother
who drips tears on her still-closing skull.
Her eyes flicker open and shut. Someone knocks,
asks me to hurry. I rub my daughter’s back.
Her eyes stay closed now
but the fierce gums clamp.
I wait. The knot in my throat starts to soften.
As long as she holds on, nothing is
final. The drive to the grave
postponed, my mother is still above ground, here
with her new grandchild and me.
Poem Inspired by a Line by Natalie Diaz
I submit to mystery, then I become it.
A half-heard phrase compels more than a clear command.
Who’s fool enough to protest when the forest calls,
all that darkness and moon-made shadow.
A half-heard phrase compels more than a clear command.
We follow, as our blood dictates.
All that darkness and moon-made shadows
offer us, we want, at least once.
We follow as our blood dictates.
Ecstasy and oblivion tease with the same release,
offer us what we want. At least once,
every timid heart admits its cravings.
Ecstasy and oblivion tease with the same release.
Lovers long for boundaries to dissolve.
Even timid hearts can admit cravings.
There is no joy without surrender.
Lovers long for boundaries to dissolve,
a vacation from the dusty self.
There is no joy without surrender,
no thrill without the slap of the new.
A vacation from the dusty self
leaves me wanting more --
more thrill with the slap of the new,
more midnight and strange rustlings.
Left wanting more,
I’m Fool enough to go when the forest calls
at midnight with strange rustlings.
I submit to mystery, then I become it.
(The first and last line borrow, and alter, Diaz’s line: “I obey what I don’t understand, then I become it.”)
Money Ghazal
Effortless habits – gain weight, lose money.
Mamma said, Don’t wed for love. Choose money.
Life is suffering, Buddha taught. He’s right.
Which brings more comfort – a hug? Booze? Money?
Midnight. Lipstick on glasses, smoky air.
A blade shines. Someone sings the blues. Money
changes hands. A morning hike raises her
mood -- So much beauty to peruse! Money
irrelevant. The landscape louder than
her thoughts, which buzz with today’s news – Money
denied to storm-struck Puerto Rico. Pus
leaks from wounds, lobbyists ooze money.
Grandpa’s waxy face stitched into a smile.
“Grieving” relatives argue – whose money?
The comedian struggles, wipes his brow.
When quips about sex don’t amuse, money
gets a wry chuckle. So does aging. Sticks
and stones is bullshit -- Words can bruise. Money,
or lack of it, can cause death. Exhausted
from too little fun, he hits snooze. Money’s
an abstraction, bills just ink on paper,
really. The YouTuber gets views, money.
Titan implodes. More ghosts on the ocean
floor, despite prayer, rescue crews, money.
Birds sing morning songs. The neighbors argue
or make loud love. My kitten mews. Money
talks, but what does it say? I open doors
to joy? Get to work? We accuse money
of our own vices. Top lip bitten in
concentration, my daughter glues money
Money Ghazal p.2
to cardboard – one hundred pennies for school’s
hundredth day. I hope she learns – fuse money
and craft, abandon the myth of starving.
An intelligent artist woos money.
Poet, if an altar and incense won’t
draw Her, why not offer your muse money?
Because
Because my daughter wants a poem
without love, death, naked people,
or Persephone
and I can’t imagine
what I don’t know
Because the radio broadcasts
terror through our rooms
Because sometimes for no reason
I remember Sandra Bland, and cry
Because when regret nuzzles next to me
all night, the dog still
greets me in the morning with her eager nose
Because my daughter and I lift
drying worms from the sidewalk
and return them to soil
Because for all my errors and obstinance
still the mountain offers me the many angles of her face
Because a day can begin with laundry
and end with astonishment
Because if I lie still, the cat
may massage my belly
as though I were dough
Because no war’s been averted
by the knowledge that our bones
are made from the same stars
Because my dying friend said she would
contact me, and I won’t be fooled
by birds or odd weather
Because I wanted to be broken
and forgiven and healed into shine
but remain messy and yearning and unsure,
my mind a drunken monkey stung by scorpions
despite decades of timed breath
and best intentions
Because, P. 2
Because while I am willing to ignore
death, naked people, and a goddess, I believe
that love must be allowed in every crevice
it can find a way to enter
Because the dead do not come back
Because birds are only animals
in practical flight
and there are days I can’t recall
my mother’s face
