mike miller poet,  poetry,  michael miller poet

me? i’m a pittsburgh-based poet, maker, and nerd. i do businessy things. drink too much coffee. stare up into the night sky as if i’m looking for ghosts. back in the day, i was a bohemian english major in love with ratty sweaters, angst, and poetry. it was the 90s, who wasn’t?

time passed. i wear more hats. the sweaters seem nicer, at least they feel more warm. the angst is now like a breeze through my bones. and there is poetry. there’s always been poetry. in the middle of the night, when my heart beats like the ocean, i whisper, i’m a poet.

so, in the moments between moments, i write poems, then place some of them here. i’m happy if you’ve read my work. i welcome your thoughts and feedback and i gladly offer the same in kind. after all, exchanging ideas is how we grow as human beings.


i don’t talk much about my own poetry. that is to say, i don’t like explaining what i’ve written. for me, when i’m reading a poem, a lot of satisfaction comes from discovering things on my own. whether those things were intended by the poet or invented by me, the reader. i’ve been influenced by the idea of intentional fallacy. in my opinion, what any artist intends to say and what the audience infers can diverge, overlap, and coexist. it’s wonderful how a work of art can assume a life of its own, free from its creator.

with that in mind, before you’re reading, i don’t want to set the scene and walk you through it. i just want to point the way and let you go. likewise, when it’s all done, i’m not going to explain what it was all about, rather it’s your job to draw your own meanings.


i read. reading is a huge part of writing. i write. every day i write something. maybe not pound’s prescribed 75 lines, but it’s something. then i re-write. put it away for a bit. go to work. drive around town. drink coffee. too much coffee. do some yard work. look longingly at the sky. build a fire. eventually, i’ll pull it back out and pare away the words.

if it works for me, i’ll post it and try not to pick at it. that’s the hard part, leaving a poem alone.