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Emma Trelles
Emma Trelles is the author of the chapbook Little Spells (GOSS183) and Tropicalia, winner of the Andres Montoya Poetry Prize and forthcoming from the University of Notre Dame Press.
Interests: books, bands, poems, peace, hiking, camping, politics, cats, gardens, movies, and mulling.
Recent Activity
Los contempladores, acrylic on canvas, 2004, Tomás Sánchez The Island Within by Richard Blanco for Ruth Behar I’m still thinking about your porch light like a full moon casting a foggy halo in the frigid air last night, the bare oaks branching into the sky like nerve endings inches away from the frozen stars, the pink gables of your Victorian home protesting yet another winter for you captive in Ann Arbor as you practice mambo by the fireplace. I’m following your red-velvet shoes to conga beats and bongo taps taking your body, but not your life, from the snow mantling your windows outside, 1,600 miles away from Cuba. I’m tasting the cafecito you made, the slice of homemade flan floating in burnt sugar like the stories you told me you can’t finish writing, no matter how many times you travel through time back to Havana to steal every memory ever stolen from you. You’re a thief anyone would forgive, wanting only to imagine faces for names chiseled on the graves of your family at Guanabacoa, walk on Calle Aguacate and pretend to meet the grandfather you never met at his lace shop for lunch, or pray the Kaddish like your mother at the synagogue in El Vedado, stand on the steps there like you once did in a photo you can’t remember taking. I confess I pitied you, still trying to reach that unreachable island within the island you still call home. I thought I was done with Cuba, tired of filling in the blanks, but now I’m not sure. Maybe if I return just once more, walk the sugarcane fields my father once cut, drive down the road where my mother once peddled guavas to pay for textbooks, sit on the porch of my grandmother’s house, imagine her still in the kitchen making arroz-con-leche— maybe then I’ll have an answer for you last night when you asked me: Would you move to Cuba? Would you die there? Richard Blanco is the fifth Presidential Inaugural Poet in US history—the youngest, first Latino, immigrant, and gay person to serve in such a role. Born in Madrid to Cuban-exiled parents and raised in Miami, the negotiation of cultural identity and place characterize his body of work, including three poetry collections (Looking for the Gulf Motel, Directions to the Beach of the Dead, and City of a Hundred Fires); and two memoirs (The Prince of Los Cocuyos: A Miami Childhood and For All of Us, One Today: An Inaugural Poet’s Journey). The University of Pittsburgh Press has published commemorative chapbooks of One Today, Boston Strong, and Matters of the Sea, the poem he wrote and presented at the historic reopening of the US Embassy in Havana. Blanco’s many awards include the Agnes Starrett Poetry Prize from the University of Pittsburgh Press, the Beyond Margins Award from the PEN American Center, the Paterson Poetry Prize, the Thom Gunn Award, and a Lambda Literary Award for Memoir. He is a Woodrow Wilson Visiting Fellow, a... Continue reading
Posted 2 days ago at The Best American Poetry
"Pericos" (the flock), by Amber Rose, from the series "El Aviario." Year: 2014 Technique: Ink and acrylic on 1970s El Salvador legal paper. you can count on it: La Mano by Alexandra Lytton Regalado For the more than 60,000 children from Central America who cross the border unaccompanied. With lines from Maya Angelou and Richard Wilbur Arcing above our apartment building, above the rousing city and green skirts of the San Salvador volcano, a flock of wild parakeets comes to roost outside our window; my nine-month son rests his head on my chest and all I want is to draw the curtains, but he’s coughed all night and now his breathing is slow, near sleep, though his eyes snap open with each squawk. I imagine the parakeets preening their emerald feathers, joyful in their ceremony of clacks and trills. They are not musing the capriciousness of nature as I am; they don’t know five thirty am, only that the sun has tinged the mountainsides gold and that this alcove echoes their welcome beautifully. The wild parakeets tap at the windowpane and my son stirs, raises his sleep-etched face to mine. Together we slip past the curtain and discover seven green parakeets, perhaps a little smaller, their feathers scruffier than I had envisioned. Two squabble over a prime niche and the stronger one comes towards the glass, wings unfurled, fat tongue thrusting from his open beak. I want to unlatch the window and sprinkle seed, lure them to perch on our shoulders and arms, anything to make them stay longer. Instead, my son, rooted in the things unknown but longed for still— greets them with the slap of an open palm to the windowpane, and in a clapping of wings they leap from the narrow corridor at once, a raucus fleeing, with headlong and unanimous consent, a disappearing stain, a distant murmuration swallowed from sight. Alexandra Lytton Regalado’s poems and short stories have appeared in Gulf Coast, Narrative, Notre Dame Review, OCHO, Puerto del Sol and elsewhere. She is the winner of the St. Lawrence Book Prize and the Coniston Poetry Prize. Her poetry collection, Matria, (Black Lawrence Press) is forthcoming in 2017. "La Mano" was first published in Green Mountains Review. Learn more about Alexandra here. ______________________ “Because We Come from Everything: Poetry & Migration” is the first public offering of the newly formed Poetry Coalition—twenty-two organizations dedicated to working together to promote the value poets bring to our culture and communities, as well as the important contributions poetry makes in the lives of people of all ages and backgrounds. Coalition member Letras Latinas at Notre Dame’s Institute for Latino Studies has partnered with the Best American Poetry blog to present ten poems in March that engage with this year’s theme, which borrows a line from U.S. Poet Laureate Juan Felipe Herrera’s poem, “Borderbus.” The poems in this project were curated by Francisco Aragón & Emma Trelles. Continue reading
Posted 6 days ago at The Best American Poetry
painting by Hugo Palma-Ibarra Upon Returning From To the North, by León Salvatierra (translation by Javier O. Huerta) When I fled Nicaragua was alone. The young ones had departed or had disappeared, the young ones. Women elders had left, children and songs. The wind and the aurora It was nineteen eighty eight when I fled Nicaragua Was Alone Remained the park benches (Maybe one person walked by there) I was fifteen when I fled Nicaragua There was no more talk of Rigoberto. Bullets fell on his chest like pearls. Cesar and his two brothers were lost Carlos remained in the mountain Streets also disappeared My house was abandoned My father was no longer there My mother My brothers (alone) The mango and almond trees had fled Ants walked towards the shadow I walked in the shadow My neighbors—the ones in the big house— purchased a dream They fled to the United States Managua—Miami: direct flight I fled as MOJADO spent nights wet flying over rivers over fields and roads I went flying passed across Guatemala, Mexico, and finally entered the United States of America America was not the name of my beloved America was my paralytic dream America was not my home Provider of people and articulations Buses . . . Cars . . . Trailers Brutal Force Men White or Caucasian Black African American Native . . . Asian . . . Latino . . . All colors Beneath its face was hiding verb and shame America was not alone Those were dark years the sun set daily over my face until one day she could no longer hide me and allowed me to return Stamped a seal on my heart and gave me flight In nineteen ninety nine A man will enter an Other Nicaragua In nineteen ninety nine Nicaragua continues to be alone At home surrounded by friends and memory The mango and almond trees did not return The ants remained in the shadow my mother my brothers . . . In nineteen ninety nine I, too, was alone in Nicaragua Al regreso by León Salvatierra Cuando yo me fui de Nicaragua estaba sola. Los jóvenes se habían corrido O habían desaparecido los jóvenes. Las mujeres los ancianos se habían ido, los niños y las canciones. El viento y la aurora Fue en mil novecientos ochenta y ocho cuando me fui Nicaragua Estaba Sola Quedaron las bancas en el parque (Tal vez una persona caminaba por ahí) Yo tenía quince años cuando me fui de Nicaragua No se escuchó más el hablar de Rigoberto. Las balas cayeron en su pecho como perlas. César y sus dos hermanos se perdieron Carlos quedó en la montaña Las calles también desaparecieron Mi casa estaba sola Mi padre ya no estaba Mi madre Mis hermanos (solos) El palo de mango y el almendro se fueron Las hormigas caminaron a la sombra Yo caminé en la sombra Mis vecinos—los de la casa grande— iban comprando un sueño Se fueron a Los Estados... Continue reading
Posted Mar 21, 2017 at The Best American Poetry
illustration by Danielle Chenette El Villain by Maria Melendez Kelson "I fled the West Coast to escape them, but I still see illegals Everywhere,” whines a letter-writer in our rural Utah paper, Applauding a local ICE raid. “How does it feel to be a problem?” Everyone (no one) wanted to ask Du Bois, circulating his elegant Diction and mixed-race face among Atlanta glitterati, turn Of the century, when the White Sixth Sense was “I can smell Negroes and Jews.” The question ices my hair and eyelashes, All Raza one family of suspects in this age of round-ups; am I To breathe in prejudice, breathe out light? How does it feel To be a problem? Some well-meaning White ones want a Christ of Me, sacred heart on display. “Where are your documents Naming this pain?” They hope for a nibble of rage. I see Lourdes, Seven years old and sin documentos, embrace my daughter hello, Good-bye, every day on their school’s front steps, the two of them Giddy with girl pacts. When Lourdes solves subtraction problems, Safe at her dim kitchen table, how does her mother, Elva, feel, As her daughter works a language that will never add up to home? Down the street, I see Rodolfo from El Salvador, legal refugee, dance The glee of a Jazz victory in front of his big screen. Ask him how Pupusas feel in his mouth, corn-dough communion with patria. His wife, Inez, is fourth-generation Mexican American from Salt Lake City. Fuck these pedigrees. How does it feel For Rodolfo, Inez, Lourdes, me, to be seen as not-quite-right, Not quite US, not from around here, are ya? I will not say. I will not display our stigmata. We shouldn’t need papers to cross from familia to politics. Ask the seer-of-illegals, the maid of ethnic cleansing, How it feels to hold a broken feather duster. Maria Melendez Kelson’s poetry collections (How Long She’ll Last in This World and Flexible Bones) have been finalists for the PEN Center USA Literary Award and the International Latino Book Award. Her poetry, feature articles, and fiction appear in Poetry magazine, Ms. magazine, Flash Fiction Magazine, and elsewhere. Her mystery novel-in-progress won the Eleanor Taylor Bland Award for crime fiction writers of color from Sisters in Crime. She has taught writing and literature at Saint Mary's College in Indiana, Utah State University, and Pueblo Community College in southern Colorado, where she is currently a faculty member in English. Find her on Twitter: @mkelsonauthor. “Because We Come from Everything: Poetry & Migration” is the first public offering of the newly formed Poetry Coalition—twenty-two organizations dedicated to working together to promote the value poets bring to our culture and communities, as well as the important contributions poetry makes in the lives of people of all ages and backgrounds. Coalition member Letras Latinas at Notre Dame’s Institute for Latino Studies has partnered with the Best American Poetry blog to present ten poems in March that engage with this year’s theme, which borrows a... Continue reading
Posted Mar 19, 2017 at The Best American Poetry
"Car at Night," acrylic on canvas, by Jan-Willem Boer The Promised Land by Blas Falconer They disassembled the bed, emptied drawers, and left what they found no longer necessary or too heavy, or held a memory they’d rather not carry: the small deaths, for example, buried in the yard. Driving away, they didn’t stop to look, not once, at the city, blinking in the night. Tired after all these years and hungry for what they couldn’t name, they passed the houses, glancing at each other, now, with new tenderness. Gone was the barn with its rotting roof. Gone the broken lock. Gone the overgrowth, the rusted carport, the little ways one person can diminish another. They’d been warned of earthquakes and traffic, but wouldn’t the light be different there? In the picture, blinds hung lopsided, and a tree stood in the window. There were oranges among the leaves, some of them bright, large, and ready to eat. Blas Falconer is the author of two poetry collections, The Foundling Wheel and A Question of Gravity and Light. His awards include an NEA Fellowship, the Maureen Egen Writers Exchange award, and a Tennessee Individual Artist Grant. A poetry editor at the Los Angeles Review, he teaches in the MFA program at San Diego State University and in the low-residency MFA at Murray State University. His third full-length poetry collection, Forgive the Body This Failure (Four Way Books), is forthcoming in 2018. “Because We Come from Everything: Poetry & Migration” is the first public offering of the newly formed Poetry Coalition—twenty-two organizations dedicated to working together to promote the value poets bring to our culture and communities, as well as the important contributions poetry makes in the lives of people of all ages and backgrounds. Coalition member Letras Latinas at Notre Dame’s Institute for Latino Studies has partnered with the Best American Poetry blog to present ten poems in March that engage with this year’s theme, which borrows a line from U.S. Poet Laureate Juan Felipe Herrera’s poem, “Borderbus.” The poems in this project were curated by Francisco Aragón & Emma Trelles. Continue reading
Posted Mar 16, 2017 at The Best American Poetry
"Exilio: Olga, La Habana," 1967, José A. Figueroa A Short History of Goodbye by Silvia Curbelo The grass tells nothing. The sky sits in its simple cage of days. No sound like the past blowing through. Only the wind knows what’s at stake here, moving into the scenery, running at the mouth. Hush, say the daylilies shaking their heads a bit. Silence is its own music, soft as dirt. No one notices the orphan drift of clouds, the wingtip scar of the horizon balanced between nowhere and this. Hush, whisper the azaleas. But nothing’s as wordless as a young girl standing on the lawn waving her handkerchief. Silvia Curbelo was born in Matanzas, Cuba, and emigrated to the U.S. as a child. She is the author of two full-length poetry collections, Falling Landscape and The Secret History of Water, both from Anhinga Press, and two chapbooks, Ambush, winner of the Main Street Rag chapbook contest, and The Geography of Leaving (Silverfish Review Press). She is the recipient of a National Endowment for the Arts Fellowship, three Florida Division of Cultural Affairs Grants, and two Cintas Foundation Fellowships, all for poetry, as well as the Jessica Noble Maxwell Poetry Prize from American Poetry Review, and the James Wright Poetry Prize from Mid-American Review. Her poems have been published widely in literary journals and more than two dozen anthologies, including The Body Electric (W.W. Norton), Touching the Fire: 15 Poets of the New Latino Renaissance (Anchor/Doubleday), and the Norton Anthology of Latino Literature. Spanish translations of her poems are featured in the anthology Usos de la Imaginación (Editorial de la Univ. Nacional), Mar de Plata, Argentina. Silvia lives in Tampa, Florida. “Because We Come from Everything: Poetry & Migration” is the first public offering of the newly formed Poetry Coalition—twenty-two organizations dedicated to working together to promote the value poets bring to our culture and communities, as well as the important contributions poetry makes in the lives of people of all ages and backgrounds. Coalition member Letras Latinas at Notre Dame’s Institute for Latino Studies has partnered with the Best American Poetry blog to present ten poems in March that engage with this year’s theme, which borrows a line from U.S. Poet Laureate Juan Felipe Herrera’s poem, “Borderbus.” The poems in this project were curated by Francisco Aragón & Emma Trelles. Continue reading
Posted Mar 12, 2017 at The Best American Poetry
duration by Steven Alvarez ray of sun shines directly into her hands & to my lens drops of rain stick mudslides radio sd winding roads through rolling mountains & yes her hands green algae in fish tank behind her neon cactus paddles outside window beyond table textured oil images on pastel walls rich in lime & lemon hues she picked up her nachos purchased by yrs truly from some corporate chain w/ fresco something in its name & this might have been the last smile I remember from her her eyes closed her wheelchair right up to that oak table one hand at her mouth with a tortilla chip covered in scallions & sour cream her left hand in her lap soft diagonals of jutting light & her in her room grimaced less light but bar of light to her hands & to my lens & I think maybe that light her father who died two months prior or maybe her mother or maybe our grandfather or maybe her grandmother or maybe my grandmother & then down my gaze to her chair’s wheels’ shadows surrounded darkness & skeletons of spokes casting something mysterious & shine to my lens yes shine her darkness for she disappeared to death in this shot spoken softly away in three ways wheels intersecting tears statues shed tears hard ones torn faces & holes fill all abjections torn rusted broken tears shed & hard shadows & outside bluest sky after hardest rain see rain fell mostly hard & from inside heard as hard noted as rough & outside banners waved frayed edges of woven spirits strung together this garden of light & fire this day emerged & she worsened w my father in her room as I wandered this garden of light for photos & to understand something abt death in this universe & fat pomegranates reflected white sun & drops of rain ran down fat globs of light dripped down to earth & in each drop suspended at its apex before falling I thought that’s duration right there & over yonder fountains splashed water shining sun for my delight as I thought again yet back to Gloria worsening inside & oranges for Gloria to eat I gathered gracefully offered to which she gracefully responded no gracias primo mio Santa Barbara, California: 13 January 2010 Steven Alvarez is the author of the novels in verse The Pocho Codex (2011) and The Xicano Genome (2013), both published by Editorial Paroxismo. He has also authored two chapbooks, Six Poems from the Codex Mojaodicus (2014, winner of the Seven Kitchens Press Rane Arroyo Poetry Prize) and Un/documented, Kentucky (2016, winner of the Rusty Toque Chapbook Prize). His work has appeared in the Best Experimental Writing (BAX), Berkeley Poetry Review, The Drunken Boat, Fence, Huizache, and Waxwing. “Because We Come from Everything: Poetry & Migration” is the first public offering of the newly formed Poetry Coalition—twenty-two organizations dedicated to working together to promote the value poets bring to our culture... Continue reading
Posted Mar 8, 2017 at The Best American Poetry
On the Coast in Pedasi by Brenda Cárdenas Beached boats litter coves, sails sprawled like abandoned skirts of lovers asleep on the sand. The empty zocalo simmers— a secret waiting to be whispered, Café Tiesto’s shutters and doors anchored open to release its brick oven heat. Through a streaked windshield, you watch a woman sweep the dusty veranda, wipe tables spruced with buds drooping into an afternoon still as a breath held. If you exhale now, a tornado of bees will careen around the corner, swarm the plaza, blackening its sky. The woman will drift inside, gently latch shutters as the funnel cloud drones through town, busy with the work of finding home. Once the horizon has swallowed all of them, you will part your lips, release the locks, exit cover. Watch your step. Every migration bears its fallen, those that drop to the dirt. Across the plaza, the woman will push the door open hum as she sweeps. Brenda Cárdenas is the author of Boomerang (Bilingual Press, 2009) and the chapbooks Bread of the Earth/The Last Colors with Roberto Harrison (2011) and From the Tongues of Brick and Stone (2005), as well as a co-editor of Resist Much/Obey Little: Inaugural Poems to the Resistance (Spuvten Duyvil Press, 2017) and Between the Heart and the Land: Latina Poets in the Midwest (2001). Her poems and essays have appeared or are forthcoming in POETRY, Latina/o Poetics: The Art of Poetry, The Golden Shovel Anthology, City Creatures: Animal Encounters in the Chicago Wilderness, Angels of the Americlypse: New Latin@ Writing, The Quarry: A Social Justice Poetry Database, The Wind Shifts: New Latino Poetry, Pilgrimage, RATTLE, and others. Cárdenas served as the Milwaukee Poet Laureate from 2010-2012, and in 2014, the Library of Congress recorded a reading of her work for their Spotlight on U. S. Hispanic Writers. She is an Associate Professor of English at the University of Wisconsin-Milwaukee. "On the Coast of Pedasi" was previously published in Verse Wisconsin. Issue 109. Summer, 2012 and in Cave Canem Anthology XIII: Poems 2010-2011, Aquarius Press/Willow Books, 2015. “Because We Come from Everything: Poetry & Migration” is the first public offering of the newly formed Poetry Coalition—twenty-two organizations dedicated to working together to promote the value poets bring to our culture and communities, as well as the important contributions poetry makes in the lives of people of all ages and backgrounds. Coalition member Letras Latinas at Notre Dame’s Institute for Latino Studies has partnered with the Best American Poetry blog to present ten poems in March that engage with this year’s theme, which borrows a line from U.S. Poet Laureate Juan Felipe Herrera’s poem, “Borderbus.” The poems in this project were curated by Francisco Aragón & Emma Trelles. Continue reading
Posted Mar 4, 2017 at The Best American Poetry
francisco mariposa, by maya gonzalez Walking (Tenochtitlan, DF) with Francisco X. Alarcón, 1978 by Juan Felipe Herrera Coyolxauki Escavations downtown Mexico DF here archeologists bend down below us hard hats women and men whispering swishing brushes uncovering her stone armature body book revolution sister. We walk on tiny quadrants of consciousness protein stone disk criss-crossed by knowing and unknowing we move on this is how two spirit wanderers walk to La Torre Metropolitana swashbucklers in mega--- DF Elias Nandino in a tan suit El Doctor they call him El Doctor poeta de canciones de amor oscuro y popular like Pedro Infante in a fancy scarf and wide pants he looks on with chavos from Bellas Artes slamming together the next issue of Tierra Adentro Let’s do an issue Pancho says 47 stories up above Tenochtitlan outside we meet up with Arturo Villafuerte in his overalls I tell him to read with some congas and a string bass get some soul into it he nods órale who knows where we go next so we go who knows where we go and Arturo hands us his new chapbook – As de corazones rotos and says he has a column in El Excelsior so we should send him some pieces no problem la hacemos in the middle of this Onda we run into Ernesto Trejo huffing it down San Juan de Letrán with his mini-series of poetry chapbooks – we hang for a while in the middle of the last qtr. of the century where I saw Macario a few blocks from here in the early 60’s searching for a hut to be able to bite into an existential turkey leg this is the life on the street poeta a poeta we walk on tacos y cervezas blood chorizos caldos fried fish heads we head to Gustavo Saenz’s canton in his mini Omni car bubbled up to La Colonia Roma a light plate of burritas – what on earth is a “burrita” I ask jamón con queso on a white flour tortilla like a quesadilla Gustavo says in his neat bluish coat -- Francisco makes a deal let’s Publish a Chicana and Chicano edition of El Suplemento Literario that we’ll edit for El Excelsior – What do you think Juan Felipe la hacemos I say. we walk on we move we rap we eat late near Las Catacumbas bar we check out a teatro popular – “La Traigo Dormida” a card board comedy about how a husband hypnotizes his wife we leave we hustle to another day with Editorial Katún here’s a book on the life of Agustin Lara I think I’ll get it for Alejandro Murguía he has a thing about Lara serrucho face his dark melancholy jagged wooly skin his metaphysical attempt to stitch everything that has been cut open back together again- that cannot be stitched back together again like we are Azteca Humpty Dumpties in the Promised Land Francisco I say wait a minute - stop why don’t you... Continue reading
Posted Feb 28, 2017 at The Best American Poetry
How I Became a Poet by David Dominguez the Horses’ Heads/ Were toward Eternity– “Because I Could not Stop For Death,” Emily Dickinson In spring, my mother cranked open the window and the master bedroom, struck by sunlight, filled with the smell of lilacs and Mexican orange that brushed the pane, and the bees swarmed the blossoms and filled my ears with a workman’s buzz, a buzz I never feared, for our cupboard glowed with mason jars and red clover honey. And from the shadows of the ant-infested apricot and the garden we planted on Good Friday, black-throated hummingbirds emerged and hovered in jasmine tangled between fence slats. I remember summer, the branch-webbed sky, squirrels, blue jays, and dive-bombing mockers who strafed my head when I gathered vegetables because I wanted salt, lemon, and sliced cucumber. One twilight, I found a black and yellow monarch fanning its antennae, head, thorax, and abdomen; I pierced its wings with a stick, held it like a lantern against a bone-white moon, realizing its milkweed dusted veins and my veins carried blood to our bodies’ edges . . . and so knelt on my scabbed knee and buried it. In autumn, doves roosted in the rain gutter, moaned at the moon-lit dawn as if their longing might nudge the earth around the sun and bring back spring, which I found hidden in patches of Bermuda as my fingers raked through snails, twigs, and leaves in search of pecans that brightened my heart when I munched on them and watched Dad scan the sky so I could see whirling rings of rock and dust: anything is possible, he said, as I looked through the eyepiece. Most of all, I remember how in winter my mother felt exhausted by the responsibilities of daughterhood— Lo siento, Mamá, el doctor dice que tienes cancer; or of motherhood—where’s Ranger, Mom?. . . Son, I let the doctor put him to sleep because he broke his back; or of wifehood—I just got home from work, Dear, and I cut my finger peeling potatoes, and it’s still bleeding. She leaned against the counter, stared at the yard, mourned the giant sun flowers propped against the fence, and said, Come rest with me for a while, Mijo. I sat Indian style on their bed as she unfolded the afghan, reached to her nightstand drawer, and took out Poems by Emily Dickinson wrapped in a white dust jacket. Her fingertips glided over the gardenia spread across the cover and the words Dad had written on the first page, To my wife with love, from your husband on Mother’s Day; I’d fall asleep and see horses’ ears twitch and press towards eternity, hooves clopping through fog caught between pines— and then, my first words emerged and perched themselves on power lines and trilled against the galactic sky. David Dominguez holds a BA in comparative literature from the University of California at Irvine and an MFA in creative writing from the University of Arizona. He... Continue reading
Posted Dec 10, 2016 at The Best American Poetry
illustration by Isabela Ramos sermon by Rachel McKibbens Each time I see a woman walking in a grocery store or sitting on a bench in a park or a funeral parlor, I want very much to taste the woman, lick every blessed inch of her from the bottom of her calloused heel to the top of her glorious head. If she is wearing an eye patch, I want to lift its smooth and sleeping lid, whisper something sweet beneath it, push my tongue around its spoon-like edge. If the woman is older, I want to taste the history carved into her flesh, learn each translucent hair of every fragile limb. If she is missing a breast, I want to taste the bright and rugged scar of it, press its ghost-soft nipple against the bridge of my mouth. If she is a mother, I want to soothe her many hands, trace each silver bolt of childbirth etched along her torso, taste the salted hole of her, this sacred, this blood hot church. Rachel McKibbens is a Chicana poet and two-time New York Foundation for the Arts poetry fellow. She is the author of three books of poetry: Pink Elephant (Small Doggies) Into the Dark & Emptying Field (Small Doggies) and blud, forthcoming on Copper Canyon Press. In 2012, McKibbens founded The Pink Door Women’s Writing Retreat, an annual writing retreat in the US open exclusively to women of color. Continue reading
Posted Dec 9, 2016 at The Best American Poetry
Eating Corn by Rita Maria Martinez I watch as you dip the knife in the tub of Country Crock and slather the cob, witness the methodical dismemberment, how you eat one kernel, one row at a time, from left to right like a typewriter. The plate before you an immaculate kingdom, mine littered with fallen kernels, autumn’s escapees exiled from sudden death. I bite into my cob carelessly, juice streaming down the sides of my mouth and feel reckless and in love with the world for now, the way you must’ve felt as a boy when converting Jeffrey’s sandlot to a mud pit, when you kneeled, haphazardly scooped piles of mud with an army of Tonka trucks, your legs and hands coated with the dark richness, a pleasure so sweet and transient because Jeff’s mom hosed you down, the sound of water spiraling from the spigot prayerful in the afternoon heat, nothing to show for your toil but sopping calves and shins, hands and fingernails clean, yet anticipating the evening’s battle when you’d reign victorious over shredded husks on your plate, your hands anointed with butter. Rita Maria Martinez loves all things Jane Eyre. Published by Aldrich Press, Martinez’s first full-length poetry collection, The Jane and Bertha in Me, celebrates Charlotte Brontë’s classic novel—as well as the bicentenary of Brontë’s birth. Martinez’s poetry also appears in the textbook Three Genres: The Writing of Fiction / Literary Nonfiction, Poetry and Drama; and in the anthology Burnt Sugar, Caña Quemada: Contemporary Cuban Poetry in English and Spanish. Martinez has been a featured author at the Miami Book Fair in Florida; at the Palabra Pura reading series in Chicago; and at the Poetry at the Dali series in St. Petersburg, Florida. Martinez is a guest contributor for the Poets & Artists blog. Visit her website here. Continue reading
Posted Dec 8, 2016 at The Best American Poetry
Glasgow ruins, by A Tangled Mind in Motion FALL FEELING (from Las nubes by Luis Cernuda), translated by Ruben Quesada Upon the old ruins it rains, The autumn still green, Odorless, dreams blossom, And the body gives in. I’m raptured in the fountains, Along the valley there are sheer figures, And amid the vast pale air, brilliant Blue wings. Beyond the fresh babbling is the sacred Halo of death. Nothing is gained nor lost. My memory grows dark. Everything is true, except hate, as harsh As the gray clouds Passing vainly above this treasure, Furiously made dim. SENTIMIENTO DE OTOÑO by Luis Cernuda Llueve el otoño aún verde como entonces Sobre los viejos mármoles, Con aroma vacío, abriendo sueños, y el cuerpo se abandona. Hay formas transparentes por el valle; Embeleso en las fuentes, y entre el vasto aire pálido ya brillan Unas celestes alas. Tras de las voces frescas queda el halo Virginal de la muerte. Nada pesa ganado ni perdido. Lánguido va el recuerdo. Todo es verdad, menos el odio, yerto Como ese gris celaje Pasando vanamente sobre el oro, Hecho sombra iracunda. Ruben Quesada is the essays editor at The Rumpus, senior editor at Queen Mob’s Teahouse, and digital content editor at CantoMundo and the Latino Caucus. He is also the editor of a forthcoming volume of essays on Latino poetics from University of New Mexico Press, the author of the poetry collection Next Extinct Mammal (Greenhouse Review Press) and translator of the early 20th century Spanish poet Luis Cernuda, Exiled from the Throne of Night (Aureole Press). His poetry, prose, and short films have been featured at The American Poetry Review, Ploughshares, Stand, The California Journal of Poetics, the Art Institute of Chicago, and the Poetry Foundation. He’s held fellowships and residencies at the Lambda Literary Writers Retreat, Napa Valley Writers’ Conference, Vermont Studio Center, Squaw Valley Community of Writers, and CantoMundo. Ruben is invested in the creation of community infrastructure and the promotion of Latino writers at all stages of their career. Continue reading
Posted Dec 3, 2016 at The Best American Poetry
HOMOTEXTUALITY by Carolilna Ebeid Owing to the general scarcity of books in the post-Soviet city, this particular population of library dwellers, which included the intellectuals, playwrights, poets, homosexuals, would pass the same borrowed copy of the novel among them, the hardback becoming a familiar / familial object, they would mark words with imperative asterisks, underscore whole paragraphs, each reader insinuating himself & herself in the coordinates of here & here in faintest graphite, creasing the corners of pages where one, anyone of them, should return. Carolina Ebeid is a the author of You Ask Me to Talk About the Interior (Noemi Press, Fall 2016). She is a student in the PhD program in creative writing at the University of Denver, and holds an MFA from the Michener Center for Writers. She has won fellowships and prizes from CantoMundo, Bread Loaf Writer’s Conference, the Stadler Center for Poetry, and the National Endowment for the Arts. Her work appears widely in journals such as The Kenyon Review, Gulf Coast, Colorado Review, and more recent work appears in Linebreak, Bennington Review, jubilat, and in the inaugural Ruth Stone House Reader. "Homotextuality" first appeared in The Acentos Review. Continue reading
Posted Nov 28, 2016 at The Best American Poetry
GIRLFRIEND from Odalisque In Pieces by Carmen Giménez-Smith Versified, we took pills and ideals. The backlit of the hills' blue against the sky plus the creamy soignée element flared around us. Under dutiful watch, almighty christ. So some day I was walking with Dawn. The drills gone for Sunday. My duress was valentiney, not the deliverable package. Torrential downplay of the giggling kind. I am sad to see you go. Then the humpbacked lady with her such trying walked past. We walked too, but not the limping kind. Not the body failure way. Limbed as fish or tree. Wired for longitude. We were just loving the grand early-ness of walk. Some do. Some do. Coincidence then with such a bomb shudder. Such like in none to see. The better part of it in the neck and gut. The ground was as still as always but the shift made us look, for heaven came to earth to dimple our reverie. For that when two girls crossed came one, old. For that peculiar nod knowing where we were. Such fatuous noise we were, but also necessary. Killing time with cigarettes. Filling in the blade okay. Then was it. Carmen Giménez Smith is the author of a memoir and four poetry collections— including Milk and Filth, finalist for the 2013 NBCC award in poetry. She co-edited Angels of the Americlypse: New Latin@ Writing, published by Counterpath Press. A CantoMundo Fellow, she teaches in the creative writing programs at New Mexico State University while serving as the publisher of Noemi Press. Continue reading
Posted Nov 9, 2016 at The Best American Poetry
Birds in Field – Mound Bayou, by Brandon Thibodeaux from A HUNDRED LITTLE MOUTHS by Valerie Martinez --1-- from up above: lewh, whist, stlew, ist, histle, and so it is with breath and sound, puckered mouth, little o—aperture—through which travels noise, pitched. harsh or sonorous. un-, in-, -telligible. a small piercing. sweet. behind which the body leans forward: heel, arch, ball, knee, pelvis, torso, neck. as if. upon. a precipice. --2-- And the girl goes, meandering, through a field defined by fences. Link, slatted wood. Limned by four back yards. Beyond which the houses contract, holding breath. Early morning. Quiet. So she closes her eyes and hums, telling the windows open, open, let the air-song out. --7-- And the girl’s foot in the dirt, making its circles and shallow diggings. So that the field is pockmarked here and there, between tufts of wild grass and weedlings. Bird’s eye view: a field poked and dotted. This creature making her marks. --9-- reverberating: calls of the red-winged blackbird: throaty check, high-slurred terrr-eeee whistle. male song, with display of his red shoulder patches: scratchy oak-a-lee or ooPREEEEEom. female: chit chit chit chit cheer or teer teer teerr. --10-- And what is happening in the houses— the man rinsing dishes, another moving quickly from room to room, glancing briefly out the back window. Sight traveling down, skimming along the backyard rock and dirt, climbing up and onto the fence, peering curiously into the field. Toe-dragging, walking end to end times two, then corner to corner. The girl in headphones: agitated, focused, curious, pumped. --11-- “A diary fills its pages With one eye on the clock How long? How long Have we got?” --22-- And each afternoon, sprung, the way the girls synchronize their headphones, listen to the same song, part at the entrance to the field— fist bump and nod. The way she alone walks in, measures in strides, north to south, west to east, cater-corner. Counting her steps. Knowing the field expands and contracts, a living thing. On bad days, suffocation. On good, the field’s borders reach west, all the way to the Pacific, east to the Black Kettle grasslands. The land. She. A lung. --48-- And the way the girl straddles the field, takes up its four corners, ties it like a balloon. she: bird-of-the-world. lifting. --49-- Here where the earth, air, word, body-wave, bird-song are gathered--nest. Constant murmuration— liquid, liquid ink. What she has learned to learn by leaning—here at the precipice. Where the sound is sound’s absence, absence a radical noise, noise of all things radiating north and south and west and east on the wave of her voice. --50-- through the air and up. whoosh. here we are. Valerie Martínez is an award-winning poet, educator, activist, and collaborative artist. Her book-length poem, Each and Her (winner of the 2012 Arizona Book Award), was nominated for the Pulitzer Prize, the National Book Critics Circle Award, the PEN Open Book Award, the William Carlos William Award, and the Ron Ridenhour Prize.... Continue reading
Posted Oct 23, 2016 at The Best American Poetry
Unknown Distances, inkjet print on canvas, 2012, iliana emilia garcia “UNKNOWN DISTANCES” by Francisco Aragon Not this deserted stretch of beach this morning fog… And that slick border of sand would make a slapping sound were I to run barefoot along the very edge (the foam on my left receding) as I did after school those years four of them, striding to the Cliff House and back: practice. Not this shoreline—a kind of liquid lace gathering at the corners of your mouth that Sunday you ran with me: the starter’s pistol, mile 1, mile 5, veering off at mile 10… —The San Francisco Marathon I finished at fifteen. Not this ocean’s palette—muted, barely green: a fringe of froth along the top dissolving into sky, half this canvas white —a kind of absence. But rather: this human invention —two of them— of weathered wood, tightly woven for sitting. And if you were seated on the right, in the distance and I in the one on the left in the foreground, we’d be facing each other We might even speak Photo by Mike Cook In 1998, after a ten-year residence in Spain, Francisco Aragón began a period of activity that included his own literary output, editing, translating, and curating. In 2003 he joined the Institute for Latino Studies (ILS) at the University of Notre Dame, where he founded Letras Latinas, the ILS’ literary initiative. In 2010, he was awarded the Outstanding Latino/a Cultural Arts, Literary Arts and Publications Award by the American Association of Hispanics in Higher Education, and in 2015 a VIDO Award by VIDA, Women in the Literary Arts. A CantoMundo Fellow and member of the Macondo Writers’ Workshop, Aragón is the author of Puerta del Sol (2005) and Glow of Our Sweat (2010) as well as editor of The Wind Shifts: New Latino Poetry (2007), these latter two winners of International Latino Book Awards. He teaches a course on Latino/a poetry at Notre Dame in the fall and directs Letras Latinas in Washington DC in the spring and summer. For more: . "Unknown Distances" first appeared in Nepantla and was written as part of PINTURA:PALABRA, a project in ekphrasis. Continue reading
Posted Oct 17, 2016 at The Best American Poetry
Guadalupe, acrylic on wood, by Sylvia Ji she broods in her pen: LA GALLINA by Alexandra Lytton Regalado October cuts furrows of cloud in the Salvadoran sky as papier mache skeletons dance on our mantle, mariachi band of the dead in a glittering box, and a votive of la Virgen de Guadalupe draped in her green cloak next to the American pumpkin we’ve yet to carve. On this Day of the Dead, my children return from a piñata with two baby chicks dyed lime green and tangerine—a strange fad in party favors in El Salvador. The children squeal, watching the chicks rush about, like wind-up toys their beaks open and shut on crumbs of bread, gullets twitch as they swallow water, and tuck their heads into a wing—a bare bulb for mother’s warmth. The next day, we return from ballet class to find one pitched across the newsprint with legs rigid as a cartoon’s. And when the kids ask for a burial ceremony, already the other chick is staggering, asleep at the wheel and suddenly peeping. My daughter strokes the chick’s walnut head and says, Ok, Mami, I’ll go play while you wait for it to die. So I sit at the kitchen table, the limp bird hammocked in my hand—and with each breath I think—this is it, this is the last, and no, another breath—just as the children at bedtime lean into me with plumes of sweet breath, their limbs jerk as they approach the edge—as I hope this is—that they will abandon themselves to sleep, but again they turn and grip me tighter. Outside these four walls is my hot bath, the soup in the pot, a chapter, my other life. So I wish for the bird’s last breath—how like matchsticks are his bones. Now there is no return to the dancing skeletons in their glittering box—this is where I am supposed to dim the lights, and yet I have to describe how my daughter broke a branch of purple bougainvillea, point out that my son scooped up the dead bird and pitched him into the hole in the earth as one would toss a paper cup into a wastebasket, that it was 8pm on a school night and they stood like statues as they clutched my hands and whimpered Angel de la Guardia, the only prayer they know by heart. It ends like this: my children came alive again when it was time to pat down the shoveled dirt—but the next day they did not paint the stones to mark the graves as they had promised. Co-founder of Kalina press, Alexandra Lytton Regalado is the author, editor, or translator of ten Central American-themed books. Her poems and short stories have appeared in cream city review, Gulf Coast, Narrative, NANO Fiction, Notre Dame Review, OCHO, Puerto del Sol and elsewhere. Her full-length collection of poems, Matria, (Black Lawrence Press) is forthcoming in 2017. She is the winner of the St. Lawrence Book Prize, the Coniston Poetry Prize, and... Continue reading
Posted Oct 13, 2016 at The Best American Poetry
LYCANTHROPES IN LOVE by Steven Cordova The first man is in a chair, his barber behind him shaving the hairs off the back of his neck. There's another, a second man: He's in the very next chair, also having his neck, the upper regions of his back, shaved. He is bigger, less effete than the first & no doubt that is why, across the shop's full-length mirrors, the second man is shooting the first a look full of the hostility two lycanthropes feel, one for the other, when first they sniff each other out. Still, in hairy, recurring dreams they're bound to find themselves, just the two of them in a dark wood where they will once more expose their fangs to each other, & then, their puny arms having become legs, clawed & roughly padded, their bodies having become far more the same than different, they will run, they will run & run & they will not stop running until their tongues hang down. And they will do it again—they will run & run & run—the very next time the moon grows full. Steven Cordova is the author of Long Distance (Bilingual Review Press, 2010), and his poems have appeared in many journals & anthologies, including Bellevue University Press, Callaloo, and Northwest Review. He lives in Brooklyn, New York. "Lycanthropes in Love" was first published in The Good Men Project. Continue reading
Posted Oct 9, 2016 at The Best American Poetry
The eighth season of the Mission Poetry Series opens with a reading on Saturday, September 17, at 1 p.m. at Antioch University Santa Barbara. “The Ringing and the Bell: Three Poets in Autumn” features three award-winning California poets: Mary Brown, William Archila, and Catherine Abbey Hodges. The title of the event is taken from a poem by Barry Spacks, a beloved Santa Barbara poet who is widely admired and who served as the city’s inaugural poet laureate from 2005 to 2007. The reading will be held at Antioch University Santa Barbara • 602 Anacapa Street • Santa Barbara, CA• and is free and open to the public. The event offers complimentary broadsides, refreshments, and poets’ books for sale. The Mission Poetry Series is hosted by program director Emma Trelles and production coordinator Mark Zolezzi. Continue reading
Posted Sep 13, 2016 at The Best American Poetry
The sixth season of the Mission Poetry Series wraps up on Saturday, April 18, at 1 p.m. at Antioch University Santa Barbara. “People, Earth, Sky, Stars: Two Poets in Spring” features nationally-acclaimed poet Denise Duhamel and San Francisco poet and activist Paul Fericano, one of the original founders of the series. The title of the reading is taken from a poem by Frank O’Hara, a New York School poet and an aesthetic mentor to both readers. The reading will be held at Antioch University Santa Barbara, 602 Anacapa Street, Santa Barbara, CA, and is free and open to the public. The reading will also offer complimentary broadsides, refreshments, and poets’ books for sale by Chaucer’s Bookstore. The Mission Poetry Series and its program director Emma Trelles is also excited to welcome long-time Santa Barbara resident and author Melinda Palacio as a curator. Continue reading
Posted Apr 17, 2015 at The Best American Poetry
Le sombre Malembo, Dieu du carrefour, 1943, by Wifredo Lam 1. After an entire lifetime in South Florida, I now live 3,000 miles away on the central coast of California, in a small city ringed by mountains and bordered by a Pacific which appears paler and vaster than the Caribbean-Atlantic I have always known. This is where I hear that the Cuban embargo is unraveling, the news a fragment floating from my car radio right before I turn off the ignition to trundle groceries from the trunk to our garden apartment. The U.S. will further ease travel restrictions to the island, open an embassy, lift some trade and banking sanctions. It is as if a mythic bird has winged overhead and I’ve only caught a glimpse of a few bright feathers. My first thought is what was that? It doesn’t really register. 2. I get busy putting away eggs and carrots grown at nearby farms. But the news keeps simmering somewhere inside me, a place as intrinsic to me as my ardor for lists or the invisible work of my lungs. It is the tiny island of Cubania I have carried within me since I was a child, born in the U.S. and trying to belong in Miami, a city that, in the 70s, still viewed my Cuban family and so many other recent immigrants as outsiders, no matter how quickly we learned English and how hard we worked. 3. As a young girl, I saw Fidel Castro as the camouflaged villain standing between the rotary phone in our kitchen and my family in Havana, whom we could only talk to briefly and on rare occasion. I’d shout in Spanish over the crackle of lines and wonder what their faces looked like. We didn’t have any pictures of them. When I eavesdropped on talk of Castro’s demise, a long-cherished topic in Miami, I imagined a scene much like the one in the The Wizard of Oz, where an oppressor is felled with one crashing stroke. Everyone is giddy and sings in three-part harmonies. A land returns to color, and instead of shoes, two black boots would curl and crumble to dust. 4. I think about this part of my childhood when I think of Cubans on the true island-nation, who, like we once did, have begun their own migration from perceived outcasts to rightful neighbors, with whom we share bloodlines and friendships and a percussive, slangy Spanish. I'm not talking about those who created a palm-fringed prison of the body and its free will. I mean the everyday Cubans who have kept on keeping on. Their relentless optimism and resourcefulness are at the core of Cubanía, something that is also seen in the micro, self-written psalm of my people: Todo se resuelve. Everything will work out. 5. In my imagined island of Cubanía, there is a little boat anchored near the shore and a blue-striped cabana on the beach. It contains a crazy-quilt of culture: *café con leche, large, and... Continue reading
Posted Dec 24, 2014 at The Best American Poetry
Death of Rubén Salazar (1986), by Frank Romero. In Miami the ocean behaves like a painting, diversity like an artist’s brushstrokes on a canvas, the immigrant like a dreamer. Swaying like a northerly, “Our America: The Latino Presence in American Art”— a powerful art exhibit curated by E. Carmen Ramos and a permanent collection of the Smithsonian American Art Museum — made the second stop on its national tour in the temperate landscape of South Florida. From May 9th until May 11th, nine poets from Miami, Tampa, and El Salvador — Elisa Albo, Adrian Castro, Silvia Curbelo, Mia Leonin, Rita Maria Martinez, Caridad Moro-McCormick, Alexandra Lytton Regalado, and yours truly — convened at Florida International University’s Frost Art Museum to respond to the exhibit’sdiverse collection of works. Under the guidance of Francisco Aragón and Emma Trelles, we engaged in a phenomenal workshop entitled, “PINTURA:PALABRA, a project in ekphrasis”—the brainchild of Letras Latinas, the literary initiative of the Institute for Latino Studies at the University of Notre Dame. Luis Jiménez’s Man on Fire I felt at home around these brilliant writers whose work I had previously read but who now sat next to me, taking down notes and preparing to give me feedback on my ekphrastic pieces. With these poets, I knelt on the floor to engage with a sculpture, or I hopped imperceptibly to establish a relationship of movement with a large painting. I also laid flat on the floor to re-appreciate certain lines and photographed myself against any piece that could reflect me. Throughout, I maintained mental discussions with a sculpture (Luis Jiménez’s Man on Fire) and with how I could offer it a poem. "How do you want me to read your nakedness?" I asked. "How can I be your medium?" Each time I received a different answer. Through rich exchanges with my fellow poets, I found out some of them had received a newfound creative jolt from the exhibit and this project. We were provided with context and outside materials to help us consider, for example, each work as a cultural artifact or a visual text. My creative productivity increased since I, too, found myself a part of an inclusive community of Latino writers — a community seldom seen while I was growing up in Allapattah, Florida, but which is currently burgeoning in Miami through a wide range of projects and festivals, such as the O, Miami poetry festival. Spending time with the exhibit itself, the poetry we were assigned to read, the theoretical essays we analyzed, and what we ultimately produced allowed us to discuss ekphrastic poetry as an exchange that occurs in translation, the body, sensuality, gender, borderlands, Spanglish, diaspora, and family. Lotería-Tabla Llena (1972), by Carmen Lomas Garza Trelles found ways to engage us with the artwork and with the work of other poets who have embarked on similar journeys. She gave us an outstanding bibliography to understand what we were there to produce. Suddenly, we developed the perspicacity to unravel multifarious tensions between... Continue reading
Posted Jun 15, 2014 at The Best American Poetry
In the quest for a happier, better informed NaPoMo, The Tropical Roundup has returned. This is essentially where I post random or thematically or geographically linked tidbits from Poetry Land. Or culled from news, music, art, gossip, and other realms. Or simply netted from my aquarium brain. "Take almost any path you please, and ten to one it carries you down in a dale, and leaves you there by a pool in the stream. There is magic in it." **The Mission Poetry Series wraps up its 5th season this Saturday, April 5th, at 1 p.m. with a new partnership with Antioch University Santa Barbara and with "April Voices: Three Poets for the Spring of It," featuring Teddy Macker, Phil Taggart, and Friday Lubina. Offering two readings each year in September and April, the series was founded in 2009 by poet and author Paul Fericano, (who also writes a regular column for The Santa Barbara Independent), and Susan Blomstad, a religious sister in the Order of St. Francis and the former director of the Mission Renewal Center in Santa Barbara. ** In other Santa Barbara poetry news: Inaugural poet (and all-around nice guy) Richard Blanco popped into The Book Den recently to say hello and sign his inspiring new book: For All of Us, One Today: An Inaugural Poet's Journey. The Book Den is one of California's oldest bookstores and stocks a bounty of new, used, and out-of-print books. Shop indie, folks. It tastes good. ** Over on Barbara Jane Reyes' Poeta y Diwata blog, the Oakland-based poet serves up yet another thoughtful post in which she considers the evolution of her latest poetry project ("And the word was a woman....") along with the complexities of allusion, form, and language. Here's an excerpt: "...we stretch from our initial frames into others’ frames. We build from our foundations and into the cultures that surround us, and which we now inhabit. As a poet frequently referenced for my code switching/operating in multiple registers, this is a no brainer; there’s a language that’s introduced itself into my repertoire. As poets, we sponge up languages, from everywhere." Read the full post here. **And, from the unconfirmed, but no-less enticing, rumor bog: The winner of the 2014 Andrés Montoya Poetry Prize hails from California! A full announcement with the poet's name and details is slated for April 14 at the University of Notre Dame reading featuring 2012 winner Laurie Anne Guerrero (A Tongue in the Mouth of the Dying) and prize judge and poet Francisco X. Alarcón. The Letras Latinas blog will post all the good news later that evening.The Andrés Montoya Poetry Prize supports the publication of a first book by a Latino/a poet in the United States, in collaboration with University of Notre Dame Press. Continue reading
Posted Apr 2, 2014 at The Best American Poetry
Coming Fall of 2015 from Sibling Rivalry Press -- The Collected & New Collaborative Work of Denise Duhamel & Maureen Seaton. Excitement! And here are more 2015 titles from SRP, via cue cards & poet extraordinaire Ocean Vuong. --et Continue reading
Posted Jan 28, 2014 at The Best American Poetry