About
G. H. Mosson is the author of six collections of poetry, including Singing the Forge (David Robert Books, 2025), and the chapbook-sized, Family Snapshot as a Poem in Time (Finishing Line Press 2019). Kirkus Review called Family Snapshot, “A profound and heartfelt meditation on the meaning of parenthood.” He practices law as his vocation, the literary arts as his avocation, and lives in Maryland.
His poetry has appeared in The Tampa Review, The Hollins Critic, Free State Review, The Potomac Review, Smartish Pace, Loch Raven Review, California Quarterly, Evening Street Review, and has been nominated four times for the Pushcart Prize. Over the years, he has reviewed poetry for various online journals, most recently the Heavy Feather Review (U.S.) and Loch Raven Review (Md.), and in the past, Rattle (Calif.), JMWW Journal (U.S.), Boxcar Poetry Review (Calif.), Broadkill Review (De.), and The Baltimore Review (Md.). He also blogs on this Web site.
Mosson has an MA from The Johns Hopkins Writing Seminars, where he focused on English meter and attended on a teaching fellowship. He has a MFA in poetry from New England College, where he also was a teaching assistant and had a great time in Henniker, NH. His writing and literary projects have received support from The Puffin Foundation of New Jersey, The Baltimore Office of Promotion and The Arts, and a research grant from the University of Baltimore.
If he had to choose coffee or tea, well, he would choose coffee, almost all of the time. If he had to choose coffee or ice cream, he’d still choose coffee most of the time. As said by Jack Gilbert, “We must admit there will be music despite everything.”
Contact
2025
“. . . .The morning
flows after twilight
a luminous river,
and who steps ashore upon that
white sheet, need not
imagine permanence.”
–Frank O’Hara, Collected Poems, p. 79
2024
“Don’t dream your life, but live your dream.”
–Mark Twain
2023
It was two white horses, the omnibus horses unhitched that morning by Bossuet. They had been straying all day from street to street and had finally stopped there, with the weary patience of brute beasts that no more understood the actions of man than man understands the actions of providence.
– Victor Hugo, Les Miserables
(trans. Christine Donougher, Penguin Classics, 2013, p. 1007)