Public Poetry - Featured Poets

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Public Poetry Summer Series 2017

Saturday, July 1, 2017 | 2 PM​
Smith Neighborhood Library | 3624 Scott St., 77004

Konnor Broussard

A name scattered in the / garden resembles a Pollock piece, and the miasma seeping from the / ground strewn persimmons tells me that now is not a time for / weeping, nor a time for tracing the stratosphere’s dissolution through / the Atlantic into my now quaking palms.


Corinna Delgado

I stopped speaking about my truth / because insufficient checks, sagging breasts, and little / to no rest - / couldn’t attest to my survival / the everyday trial / didn’t sound so much like a war cry / as it did a slow sigh / at the alarm clocks warning.

From Oh When the Saints

Priscilla Frake

They say he’s a few neutrons short / of a stable nucleus. He’s going to / build a wall to stop gravity waves. / Half of his own electrons / didn’t vote for him; his Higgs / will never find its Bosun.

From Particle Politics, 2016

Mónica Teresa Oritz

Without you, / the house is empty / I have no one to eat, / and so – your ghost / picks at my scabs / instead / / Beheading me / will not decapitate / my words. I will keep / speaking even without / a body / / Walking on caliche / consider the outcome / of my loneliness. 

From verses on a caliche road

Saturday, August 5, 2017 | 2 PM
Smith Neighborhood Library | 3624 Scott St., 77004

Chris Diaz

A man begins to morph / into a bomb I can’t defuse. / Sounds more BANG! than brother; / sees me more foe than family, / I am on my back when he points / that weapon of a tongue at me / And the rounds / that leave his mouth / are / “I / WILL / E N D / YOU”

From On Hanging Up the Uniform

Haven Gomez

I might be the hand you held, but only that hand. / I might even be the tissue you used to wipe your running nose. / / I’m the socks you put on your right foot. / I’m the jeans you pull on that are a size too small.

From Ars Poetica

M Miranda Maloney

When the raptor disappears amidst rising clouds. / of sand and cataracts sweep the last of / / dung beetles, no mounds of brush to hold / the rain cheerfully back / / what do we do? / When all is dust and concrete, what will be left / / to astonish?

From Beautiful

Amanda Ortiz

An orange leaf lay over every finger bowl— / The white blossoms still attached, / / And someone had the bright idea / To drop in a spiral of orange peel as well. / / So if they didn’t want me to drink it / why is it finished like a cocktail?

From The French are Lax

Saturday, September 2, 2017 | 2 PM
Smith Neighborhood Library | 3624 Scott St., 77004

Nick Lantz

What to do with the sickly eagles, brooding / in their brownstones and double-wides? / They learned compassion from the fox / that flees the henhouse with bloody lips, / so how can they be expected to feel / what the fish feels when it’s swept / from the river in their bright claws?


Rebecca Oxley

A heron gray / On a concrete / Bank / Under heavy / Clouds / Pulls itself / Together, wings / Tucked in / Tightly / Like a child’s / Secret, / Folding its neck / Into a / Compressed / S, / Nictitating eyes / Blinking / In the wind / And rain.

From Polyptych

Robin Reagler

I know, while peeling the clementines / for them, that they are ripe. The way fingernails / grow secretly or not at all. The way / she says the word terraces and it sounds / like terrorist. The way smoke travels / lazily from one mouth to another.

From The Way

Cait Weiss

Or more specifically its monster / in our swimming /pool: in a valley /girl’s mind. Girls, mind / the valley, / the dark water… Jurassic / trees’ sweep / late at night… / We say nothing’s dead that couldn’t once / be living. Every single fossil out there / once managed to survive.

From To the Loch Ness


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