About this poet

Charles Rafferty received an MFA from the University of Arkansas.

He is the author of several books of poetry, including The Smoke of Horses (BOA Editions, 2017), A Less Fabulous Infinity (Louisiana Literature Press, 2006), and The Man on the Tower (University of Arkansas Press, 1995), which received the Arkansas Poetry Award.

Rafferty’s work, Lydia Davis writes, is “sometimes lyrical and ecstatic, sometimes funny and self-deprecating, sometimes wistful, but always beautifully precise….”

Rafferty is the recipient of a fellowship from the National Endowment for the Arts and a grant from the Connecticut Commission on Culture & Tourism. He directs the MFA program at Albertus Magnus College and lives in Sandy Hook, Connecticut.


Selected Bibliography

Poetry
The Smoke of Horses (BOA Editions, 2017)
The Unleashable Dog (Steel Toe Books, 2014)
A Less Fabulous Infinity (Louisiana Literature Press, 2006)
During the Beauty Shortage (M2 Press, 2005)
Where the Glories of April Lead (Mitki/Mitki, 2001)
The Man on the Tower (University of Arkansas Press, 1995)

Prose
Saturday Night at Magellan’s (Fomite Press, 2013)

Greetings

I counted the water towers, I counted the active smokestacks.
These were the breadcrumbs I thought would lead me back. Now
I know it’s possible to drive so far we forget why we left, that the
journey continues even after the car breaks down. I used to think
I had no message, but the message is me—bloodshot and hungry,
spilled coffee down the front of my shirt. People of the future,
gather round. I have traveled through ink to greet you.

Copyright © 2018 Charles Rafferty. Used with permission of the author. This poem originally appeared in The Cincinnati Review, Winter 2018.

Copyright © 2018 Charles Rafferty. Used with permission of the author. This poem originally appeared in The Cincinnati Review, Winter 2018.

Charles Rafferty

Charles Rafferty

Charles Rafferty is the author of several poetry collections, The Smoke of Horses (BOA Editions, 2017).

by this poet

poem

Famous people have been dying all week, and the Christmas tree just stopped drinking. Talk about omens. It's impossible to get the venetian blinds to stay level anymore. Everywhere I look, people are running the errands they won't remember by this time tomorrow. I remember how, years ago, I had to cut the fishing

poem

I’m on the brink of daffodils.
The backyard snow is full of urine
blooms, the mud underneath is ready
to be itself. It won’t be long
before the planet tilts and the birds
roll north like marbles, the sap
crawls out of the bedrock. The meadow's
sublimation makes me feel
like a

poem

When I was ten, the grandstand burned to the ground in the next town over. The black smoke galloped into the air right over our house, and ash the size of silver dollars began landing on the lawn. Later, when we heard what happened, we believed it was the smoke of horses, the smoke of our drunk fathers, the smoke