Public Poetry - Featured Poets

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Public Poetry Spring Series 2018

April 7, May 5, June 2, 2018
Ring Neighborhood Library
Meet our featured poets!


Saturday, April 7, 2018 | 2 PM
Location: Ring Neighborhood Library


Anna Marie Morris
Aluminum cans work as currency on the street—leaving them is a gift and finding them is a prize because the recycling center will give you just enough cash for one meal if you bring a grocery cart full of them.

From: The French Are Lax



Norma Paskusz
I am an orphan ghost / Having no ancestors whose fleshy footprints / Can be traced to gougings in the fossil floor / Of dense rainforests; / No Caribbean connections on sandy shores / Of azure seas; / No trail along high mountain paths / Studded with forever firs.

From: DEAD END



Reyes Ramires
Get Celli. Tell her to gather enough change / to buy some apples. Make sure they are green. / I want the sourness to overwhelm mi lengua / like the weight of el sol on naked naked skin.

From: ‘Hijo, please



Sandi Stromberg
Please excuse my mother lamentations /vicissitudes martyrdom I came without // operating instructions. My birth drained her /last thousand dollars, the war just over. // And my father duty lethargy / denial born to ramble, dreams trapped // in black-and-white TV. His life focused /on flittering images, days of uninspired teaching.

From: There Are Reasons after Nick Flynn


Saturday, May 5, 2018 | 2 PM
Location: Ring Neighborhood Library


Robin Davidson
Mother was an absence. The invisible // walls of a house. An empty amphitheater strung with / rhinestones shining like stars.// Mother. An elusive sparkling. / Giacometti divides the Palace with a pane of glass, // a transparent skin, a membrane, what we see but cannot touch.

From: The Palace at 4:00am



Katherine Hoerth
In Texas towns the tongues of men all taste /the same, like sour whiskey, dust between /the teeth. I think of this as neon lights /flicker above, my elbows on the bar. /A man sits down beside me, smells of sweat

From: The Bull Rider



Daniel Peña
It was dinner time / When her FEMA forms needed filling /And so we didn’t eat /But spoke in Spanish /That sounded like my mother’s /Who could never pronounce “treadmill” in English / Or my ‘buelito’s, who taught us /To love Mexico in Texas.

From: Documents



Paige Quiñones
I will never know my abuela, /but I know her eyes. / She dug her mother’s shoes out / from graying snowbanks, pulled // that black-shawled woman from glass. / Fingers, stained with banana leaves, blistered under hard twine.

From: La Operación


Saturday, June 2, 2018 | 2 PM
Location: Ring Neighborhood Library


Cindy Huyser 
At seventeen degrees, the oil will spill / as slow as cold molasses. Both back tanks / gauge out at eighteen feet. We climb to fill / the donkey boiler, boots on wobbling planks, / then trudge out to the pump house. Down its stairs.

From: Burning Number Five: Power Plant Poems



Bucky Rea 
…It was a new green summer / and feral hogs were in the news. I was naked under my clothes / a hornsjab away from goring, spearless / and the night gave no protection. The hang of dark / was shrouded five inches beyond my pale fingers’ reach

From: Camp Out



Niko Smith
The official state flower of Texas is the Bluebonnet /The unofficial state flower is a bullet hole / Scarlet liquid on pavement grows like wildflowers / In the streets of Dallas, San Antonio, Houston, / Galveston

From: Bluebonnets



Ebony 
My name is not convenient / / it is the forgotten child stolen from historical value / A burden to the grief that haunts you / Before my name could be full and brave / it was lynched and barbequed skeptical / my name has been raped branded and whipped

From: Young, Gifted & Black

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