Galvin Himself

NEWS ALERT:<a href=" release/696825">Poets' Choice Publishing and the William Meredith Foundation Announce the Publication of Master Poet Martin Galvin’s New and Selected Poems, A WAY to HOME</a>


poet and teacher


     Galvin grew up in Mount Airy, a wee part of  Philadelphia, Pennsylvania;  he attended Catholic schools including St. John's High school, Manayunk, Pennsylvania where he graduated in a class of 26 and then from Villanova University with a BA degree in Liberal Arts.    Two years at sea on  the F.D. Roosevelt, an aircraft carrier, gave him a reality check.  Gradually,  he continued his education and received a Masters  degree and a Ph.D. in American Literature  from the University of Maryland, College Park,  while teaching literature at St. Joseph College, Emmitsburg, Maryland.   Currently he teaches an occasional poetry class at the Writer’s Center in Bethesda, MD where he has led writing groups since 1977. Much of his teaching career,  he happily spent teaching creative writing and poetry at Walt Whitman High School, Bethesda, MD and at several Universities.  

His poetry, fiction and essays have appeared in hundreds of journals including:  Poetry, The Atlantic Monthly, The New Republic, Best American Poetry 1997, Commonweal, JAMA, Christian Science Monitor, Sub-Tropics, Poetlore,  Notre Dame Review, Science 84, Images, ,Delaware Poetry Review, Four Quarters,  Orion,  Kansas Quarterly, Poetry East, the Texas Review, the Broadkill Review, Innisfree Poetry Journal, Dryad, and others.  Many of his poems have appeared in anthologies including Best American Poetry 1997. 

He is married to Theresa Gorzkowski Galvin.  They have  two daughters, Brenna (CA) married to Chris Sidhall and Tara (PA) married to Greg Curry, and four grandchildren, Davis, James, Shannon and Sarah.

He has lived in Chevy Chase, MD for 40 years and  spends summers in Ocean View, DE.

Martin Galvin can be contacted at:

8101 Connecticut Ave., C507, Chevy Chase, MD 20815





The night we heard the news from space,
my daughter, who is three, remarks
with no surprise but careful to instruct:
"The moon is like a doorknob,"
to that other self all children seem
to have and have to answer to.

I sit trying to construct a poem of praise.
Spacemen and women stumble down the page.
She says again, impatient to be gone,
"The moon's a doorknob," and,
already dressed to play outside,
waits for me to open up the sky.