Diana Cole translated many foreign language songs for programs which inspired her to write her own poems. In addition to being nominated for a Pushcart Prize, her poems have appeared in numerous journals including Blueline, Avocet, Off the Coast, The Christian Century, The Cider Press Review, Poetry East, Spillway, Tar River Poetry and The Main Street Rag. She is a member of the Ocean State Poets whose mission is to encourage the reading, writing and sharing of poetry. She offers a workshop in speaking poems, Poetry Aloud. In addition to writing, Diana is a stained glass and mosaic artist.

Books by Diana Cole:

Other poems on the web by Diana Cole:
"Life is Up"
"The Border"

Diana Cole's Website.

About Songs by Heart:

"'I can / not help but rave,' asserts the speaker of Diana Cole's poem 'Loosestrife,' 'at the sight / of this wild bacchanal / that saved a gray day / from my indifference.' In a similar vein, I cannot help but marvel over this collection of poems that move with grace and fever from the brutal to the redeemed, from the quotidian to the philosophical, from precision to profundity. No subject is unworthy of the attention of this mind that synthesizes, of this heart that rhapsodizes, of this eye that finds the idiosyncrasies of phenomena and understands their place in the great and grinding order of human culpability and human reverence."
—Tom Daley

"Diana Cole's poetry frames and focuses the world in vivid perceptions fluently rendered. Her empathy for her subjects—whether beached whales, flowers, dying trees, or paintings—refreshes them and confirms their place in the universe. The poet, including herself in the process, also finds her place in this adroitly shaped vision."
—William Doreski

"These are poems that dismiss out of hand the consolations of the 'endless serene.' Instead, these poems opt for purpose, energy, engagement with the real. Speaking in the voice of Eve at the edge of Eden, Diana Cole says 'I want to see into the core, / taste the fruit I must avoid.' Thus, with the poet to guide us, we enter a world where the sleek heron hunts the dazed little vole, where whales beach themselves and no one can save them, where gold and red falling leaves swirl around in our minds as much as they do around our bodies. It is a world where sometimes even 'the air has teeth.' We recognize this as our world, our only one, and in these vividly crafted lyrics we are reminded again of the truth in Wallace Stevens' dictum: death is the mother of beauty."
—Fred Marchant