PRAISE FOR PORT OF LEAVING
Port of Leaving explores what is lost in the difficult edges between continents and generations. Reaching back from the United States to Portugal, the poet repeatedly encounters the tragedies and injustices that have wounded and silenced historians, family. His gift to his readers in this honest and generous book is to show us, viscerally, how poetry itself can create those lost connections and help to heal those long-remembered wounds.
Annie Finch, author, The Poetry Witch Little Book of Spells
Americans are notorious for having short memories. That is why it was the American, William Faulkner, who had to say, “The past isn’t dead; the past isn’t even past.” But memory is a double-edged sword. It can give continuity and context but it can also keep us making the same mistakes over and over again; it can hold us back from necessary change. This dilemma is so perfectly portrayed in Robert Christiano’s full-length poetry collection, Port of Leaving.
Anne Becker, Poet Laureate Emerita of Takoma Park, Maryland
Port of Leaving by Roberto Christiano is a compelling journey of self-examination that opens out to the world we live in. It is a song in the fado tradition—a tradition that Christiano willingly shares.
Karren Alenier, Poet and Critic, review in The Dressing
Port of Leaving explores what is lost in the difficult edges between continents and generations. Reaching back from the United States to Portugal, the poet repeatedly encounters the tragedies and injustices that have wounded and silenced historians, family. His gift to his readers in this honest and generous book is to show us, viscerally, how poetry itself can create those lost connections and help to heal those long-remembered wounds.
Annie Finch, author, The Poetry Witch Little Book of Spells
Americans are notorious for having short memories. That is why it was the American, William Faulkner, who had to say, “The past isn’t dead; the past isn’t even past.” But memory is a double-edged sword. It can give continuity and context but it can also keep us making the same mistakes over and over again; it can hold us back from necessary change. This dilemma is so perfectly portrayed in Robert Christiano’s full-length poetry collection, Port of Leaving.
Anne Becker, Poet Laureate Emerita of Takoma Park, Maryland
Port of Leaving by Roberto Christiano is a compelling journey of self-examination that opens out to the world we live in. It is a song in the fado tradition—a tradition that Christiano willingly shares.
Karren Alenier, Poet and Critic, review in The Dressing
Two Poems from Port of Leaving
My Father Is A Bricklayer
Driving through Georgetown
on a congested Friday afternoon,
I find myself stopped
behind a truckload of bricks
when my father comes to me--
red brown in his Portuguese skin.
"I'm a bricklayer by trade,"
he often says,
and his hands show it--
all calloused like tree bark.
I can drive through my hometown
and show you the homes
he built with those hands and arms
and a back that bent
as he spread the mortar.
"I built my own house,"
he says, and he did--
built it with swelter
and sinewy muscle,
built it so well
that it would take
a doomsday earthquake
to crack it down.
My father is a bricklayer.
He is a house built
with an invincible frame--
filled with bricks and mortar.
So as I drive down M street
and turn right up Wisconsin,
scuttling to another appointment
in another office,
I look in the rear view window
and adjust the earring in my ear.
I'm a different man than Father,
but I can't pass a truck of brick,
or a brick sidewalk, or a brick anything,
without thinking how much I am like him.
The Past Is Never Dead
March returns like memory
and memory aches to be framed
in a melting rivulet of beauty.
But memorials are for the dead
and the dead leave nothing unsaid.
They talk through whispers,
through shrouds and shrugs,
through minds and messages,
through words, words, words.
The snow on the asphalt has melted.
What’s left is black with grime and dirt and stone.
The revenants return with the pelting rain.
The revenants return again and again.
Let us take out our teacups and sit in the Florida room.
I’ll pour the tea, my friend, and dispel the Virginia gloom.
Let us switch and talk of Trump and Salazar.
Let us tie our ties and swing on a swing.
The Potomac River is alive with budding cherry trees.
Psychic Bob, the medium on YouTube,
draws the curtains closed with a hush,
shuts his eyes, communes with the nether world,
flutters his lids, instinctively grabs the bag
of runes and throws them over a black cloth.
“The way is blocked. The road is covered.
Derecho, tornado, or winter storm.
There is no way out except through the cemetery.”
“Father, what happened to the Jews?”
On Nine-eleven the sky was blue.
And then there are the other martyrs:
the young gay man strung up like Christ,
the Portuguese shoeshine boy drowned,
the Capital guards hunted and downed,
the cigarette seller shot, the Mexican bound,
that woman from the mosque defaced.
Hush! Good Friday happens every week.
“Father, what happened to the Jews?”
And my father, red brown in his Portuguese skin,
tired from laying brick in the sun,
rubs his worn out hands and says,
“Portugal was under Salazar
and there was nothing we could do,
and all I wanted was to find America.
It’s what we all wanted—to be free.”
March is the mysterious month.
Mostly dead and fully alive.
Each day unpredictable as ice.
My Father Is A Bricklayer
Driving through Georgetown
on a congested Friday afternoon,
I find myself stopped
behind a truckload of bricks
when my father comes to me--
red brown in his Portuguese skin.
"I'm a bricklayer by trade,"
he often says,
and his hands show it--
all calloused like tree bark.
I can drive through my hometown
and show you the homes
he built with those hands and arms
and a back that bent
as he spread the mortar.
"I built my own house,"
he says, and he did--
built it with swelter
and sinewy muscle,
built it so well
that it would take
a doomsday earthquake
to crack it down.
My father is a bricklayer.
He is a house built
with an invincible frame--
filled with bricks and mortar.
So as I drive down M street
and turn right up Wisconsin,
scuttling to another appointment
in another office,
I look in the rear view window
and adjust the earring in my ear.
I'm a different man than Father,
but I can't pass a truck of brick,
or a brick sidewalk, or a brick anything,
without thinking how much I am like him.
The Past Is Never Dead
March returns like memory
and memory aches to be framed
in a melting rivulet of beauty.
But memorials are for the dead
and the dead leave nothing unsaid.
They talk through whispers,
through shrouds and shrugs,
through minds and messages,
through words, words, words.
The snow on the asphalt has melted.
What’s left is black with grime and dirt and stone.
The revenants return with the pelting rain.
The revenants return again and again.
Let us take out our teacups and sit in the Florida room.
I’ll pour the tea, my friend, and dispel the Virginia gloom.
Let us switch and talk of Trump and Salazar.
Let us tie our ties and swing on a swing.
The Potomac River is alive with budding cherry trees.
Psychic Bob, the medium on YouTube,
draws the curtains closed with a hush,
shuts his eyes, communes with the nether world,
flutters his lids, instinctively grabs the bag
of runes and throws them over a black cloth.
“The way is blocked. The road is covered.
Derecho, tornado, or winter storm.
There is no way out except through the cemetery.”
“Father, what happened to the Jews?”
On Nine-eleven the sky was blue.
And then there are the other martyrs:
the young gay man strung up like Christ,
the Portuguese shoeshine boy drowned,
the Capital guards hunted and downed,
the cigarette seller shot, the Mexican bound,
that woman from the mosque defaced.
Hush! Good Friday happens every week.
“Father, what happened to the Jews?”
And my father, red brown in his Portuguese skin,
tired from laying brick in the sun,
rubs his worn out hands and says,
“Portugal was under Salazar
and there was nothing we could do,
and all I wanted was to find America.
It’s what we all wanted—to be free.”
March is the mysterious month.
Mostly dead and fully alive.
Each day unpredictable as ice.
CURRENT
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My Poem in Mobius, The Journal of Social Change
I have a poem in Mobius, The Journal of Social Change. This Is The Dress is an ode to Lawrence "Latisha" King, the 15-year-year junior high student who in 2008 was killed in school for asking another male student to be his valentine. Here is the Mobius issue: tinyurl.com/3rrzkyce |
FORTHCOMING
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I also have several poems in the next issue of Beltway Poetry where the theme will be Remembrance. Beltway has published my work before. Several years ago they did an issue on the theme of Conserving Home. Since I've spent so much time in DC, I consider it my home as well as Northern Virginia. Walking The River conveys much of my love for the area. You can read those poems here: tinyurl.com/57wze85a |
RECENT
Eleven Ways Of Looking At An Inauguration
in The New Verse News
Link to poem: tinyurl.com/2zeruxma
My poem was featured in The New Verse News, a zine dedicated to political poetry. I wrote the poem in response to the presidential inauguration. I think the poem speaks for itself and for much of America as well.
It begins with the Emily Dickinson quote:
I am out with lanterns looking for myself.
in The New Verse News
Link to poem: tinyurl.com/2zeruxma
My poem was featured in The New Verse News, a zine dedicated to political poetry. I wrote the poem in response to the presidential inauguration. I think the poem speaks for itself and for much of America as well.
It begins with the Emily Dickinson quote:
I am out with lanterns looking for myself.
Orbis International
Featured Writer
I was the featured writer in last year's summer issue of Orbis, #212, published in England. Orbis has previously published two British Poet Laureates--Simon Armitage and Carol Ann Duffy. I am honored to brush elbows with them. I hope to have more work published in England. There are five of my poems in the issue. I am pleased that they chose Jogging My 101 Year Old Mother's Memory, as I lost Mom last year, and the poem is a tribute to her sense of humor and sharpness.
Featured Writer
I was the featured writer in last year's summer issue of Orbis, #212, published in England. Orbis has previously published two British Poet Laureates--Simon Armitage and Carol Ann Duffy. I am honored to brush elbows with them. I hope to have more work published in England. There are five of my poems in the issue. I am pleased that they chose Jogging My 101 Year Old Mother's Memory, as I lost Mom last year, and the poem is a tribute to her sense of humor and sharpness.
Rattle (The Ghazal Issue)
I responded to the call to contribute a ghazal for the ghazal issue of Rattle, one of the most respected poetry magazines in the poetry verse. My poem, Dishes, was born out of an attempt to reckon with the Uvalde school shooting. I remember seeing the photos of the children on TV. One little girl was in a communion dress. It broke my heart.
I am drawn to poems in form as they seem the perfect vehicle for dealing with highly emotional topics. The ghazal is a poem of Arabic origin dating back to the 7th century and was often sung. The poem is composed in couplets and the word that ends each stanza must be the same. In the last stanza the poet is encouraged to use his name.
Link to poem: https://tinyurl.com/2s43rdre
I responded to the call to contribute a ghazal for the ghazal issue of Rattle, one of the most respected poetry magazines in the poetry verse. My poem, Dishes, was born out of an attempt to reckon with the Uvalde school shooting. I remember seeing the photos of the children on TV. One little girl was in a communion dress. It broke my heart.
I am drawn to poems in form as they seem the perfect vehicle for dealing with highly emotional topics. The ghazal is a poem of Arabic origin dating back to the 7th century and was often sung. The poem is composed in couplets and the word that ends each stanza must be the same. In the last stanza the poet is encouraged to use his name.
Link to poem: https://tinyurl.com/2s43rdre
THE NOT TOO DISTANT PAST
The audacious poetry zine, Limp Wrist, has released their villanelle issue.. I have a nickname for this form. Villanelle--The Form From Hell. They are très difficult to write. They must rhyme, have two repeating lines, and preferably be in meter. The editor, Beth Gylys, said mine, Telenovelas are Hell, was perfect. It's not--I find meter a difficult lion to tame but of course I appreciate the flattery. I wrote it when I took a class on villanelles at Politics and Prose taught by Annie Finch. Check it out. www.limpwristmagazine.com/lw4toc
The Amethyst Review
New Writing Engaging With The Sacred
The Way To Holy Cross: tinyurl.com/e6mc65bm
The Cardinal: tinyurl.com/mtvscrfz
This online zine, which explores the intersection of literature and the divine, accepted two of my poems. The Cardinal appeared last spring, The Way to Holy Cross last fall. This is particularly marvelous as both poems were passed over for publication many many times. The spring poem I revised for ten years, The fall poem I revised for twenty. Each rejection offered a space for reevaluation.
New Writing Engaging With The Sacred
The Way To Holy Cross: tinyurl.com/e6mc65bm
The Cardinal: tinyurl.com/mtvscrfz
This online zine, which explores the intersection of literature and the divine, accepted two of my poems. The Cardinal appeared last spring, The Way to Holy Cross last fall. This is particularly marvelous as both poems were passed over for publication many many times. The spring poem I revised for ten years, The fall poem I revised for twenty. Each rejection offered a space for reevaluation.
And The Stars Were Shining
My personal essay, And The Stars Were Shining, originally published in Delmarva Review, has been republished in three local news journals--The Talbot Spy, The Chestertown Spy, and The Annapolis Spy. I was asked to write a brief introduction to the piece. Here's an excerpt:
Because I am fortunate enough to have my 96-year-old mother with me, I find that I have a viable passport into another time, another place, another country, a viable portal to Italy in the first half of the twentieth century. There are stories in my family that are too good not to tell—passionate tales both ordinary and extraordinary. From such a true vein was this essay written.
My personal essay, And The Stars Were Shining, originally published in Delmarva Review, has been republished in three local news journals--The Talbot Spy, The Chestertown Spy, and The Annapolis Spy. I was asked to write a brief introduction to the piece. Here's an excerpt:
Because I am fortunate enough to have my 96-year-old mother with me, I find that I have a viable passport into another time, another place, another country, a viable portal to Italy in the first half of the twentieth century. There are stories in my family that are too good not to tell—passionate tales both ordinary and extraordinary. From such a true vein was this essay written.
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My Fib
My poem, the irrational, based on the Fibonacci Sequence is included in the poetry zine--Intersections--Poetry With Mathematics. The sequence, originally set forth in 1202 by the Italian mathematician, Leonardo de Pisa, also known as Fibonacci, is a number pattern often seen in nature, or as popularly believed, in the multiplication of rabbits. The poem was originally published in the fib review which only publishes poems using the Fibonacci Sequence. the irrational: tinyurl.com/y422z6t7 the fib review: tinyurl.com/y7gzqbms |
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I am somewhat surprised by this turn of events as my math level is around 8th grade. Even adding a tip to a check is hard for me. (Yes, I now have the app for that.)
The poem contains a Hamlet reference. It is a play I know well. I played Guildenstern in the Washington Shakespeare's Company production. The phrase in my poem, heaven and earth, echoes Hamlet's soliloquy where he says, heaven and earth, must I remember. After encountering his father's ghost, Hamlet is caught between the "real" world and the spiritual world. You could say it's Elizabethan existentialism.
The poem contains a Hamlet reference. It is a play I know well. I played Guildenstern in the Washington Shakespeare's Company production. The phrase in my poem, heaven and earth, echoes Hamlet's soliloquy where he says, heaven and earth, must I remember. After encountering his father's ghost, Hamlet is caught between the "real" world and the spiritual world. You could say it's Elizabethan existentialism.
The Northern Virginia Review
My story--Cape Code Evening, 1939--was in the 2019 issue of The Northern Virginia Review. The story was based on the painting of the same name by Edward Hopper. After spending hours with the painting this story emerged.
I am a regular fiction contributor to TNVR. The Northern Virginia Review Blog is here: tinyurl.com/y27n442q
My story--Cape Code Evening, 1939--was in the 2019 issue of The Northern Virginia Review. The story was based on the painting of the same name by Edward Hopper. After spending hours with the painting this story emerged.
I am a regular fiction contributor to TNVR. The Northern Virginia Review Blog is here: tinyurl.com/y27n442q
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Cape Cod Evening, 1939
published in The Northern Virginia Review
Excerpt:
“Roy, I’m going to visit my sister right after dinner. Don’t worry, I’ll clean the kitchen. Now there’s no use arguing. We’ve been through this I don’t know how many times. I promised Katie I’d visit for a year and today I’m going.”
Roy clapped his hands for their collie, Lady. A whippoorwill, startled by the clap, redoubled her flight and Lady followed.
“You can pout all you like. I’m going to walk down to the Talbot’s and Frank is driving me to the station.”
Roy’s eyes followed the dog.
“What’s the matter, cat got your tongue? You’re not stopping me this time.”
“Look at our girl go. Lady’s got her little bird.”
Edna sighed in exasperation. “Well, I’ll be back in a week. You won’t die in a week. Even if you think you will. You can always ask your nephew to help sow the remaining field. Jake’s a good boy. You’ll manage. You’re not helpless.”
She leaned against the house and peeled a slice of decaying white paint away from the window.
Lady returned panting, a feather hung loosely from the corner of her mouth.
“Good girl, Lady, good girl.”
Roy smacked the collie on her rump and looked at Edna.
published in The Northern Virginia Review
Excerpt:
“Roy, I’m going to visit my sister right after dinner. Don’t worry, I’ll clean the kitchen. Now there’s no use arguing. We’ve been through this I don’t know how many times. I promised Katie I’d visit for a year and today I’m going.”
Roy clapped his hands for their collie, Lady. A whippoorwill, startled by the clap, redoubled her flight and Lady followed.
“You can pout all you like. I’m going to walk down to the Talbot’s and Frank is driving me to the station.”
Roy’s eyes followed the dog.
“What’s the matter, cat got your tongue? You’re not stopping me this time.”
“Look at our girl go. Lady’s got her little bird.”
Edna sighed in exasperation. “Well, I’ll be back in a week. You won’t die in a week. Even if you think you will. You can always ask your nephew to help sow the remaining field. Jake’s a good boy. You’ll manage. You’re not helpless.”
She leaned against the house and peeled a slice of decaying white paint away from the window.
Lady returned panting, a feather hung loosely from the corner of her mouth.
“Good girl, Lady, good girl.”
Roy smacked the collie on her rump and looked at Edna.
PUSHCART NOMINEE (from Prairie Schooner)
Why I Sang at Dinner
I was not permitted a word at dinner
because you were too hot from laying
brick in the sun to bear the voices
of children, and mother too tired
to oppose you. My sister and brother,
five and six years older, had graduated
in allowance to one sentence
and on your good days two.
Sometimes I ventured a phrase
but you pushed me down quick.
“You no speak. You have no responsibility.”
The r in responsibility you would hit
with a rough Portuguese trill.
Your own father used to beat you
with a rope until you bled.
You vowed never to repeat this.
You had no need.
Still, I wanted to loosen the knot
between your brows and find
the soft place within you.
I watched how playing your accordion
for hours into the night soothed you.
Above the keys in gleaming silver
cursive was written Excelsior.
Since the accordion weighed too much
to pick up I began to sing--
often in the middle of dinner.
Slenderly, I quavered out tunes
you liked from Lawrence Welk.
Sometimes I just sang excelsior.
No one said anything.
How could they?
I continued without looking up.
You neither stopped me nor softened.
One evening when I was thirteen I gave up.
My new male voice was starting to break in
and I couldn’t care anymore.
For a discussion of this poem by the prominent blogger Lisa Romeo go here: tinyurl.com/3v7yk3f6
Why I Sang at Dinner
I was not permitted a word at dinner
because you were too hot from laying
brick in the sun to bear the voices
of children, and mother too tired
to oppose you. My sister and brother,
five and six years older, had graduated
in allowance to one sentence
and on your good days two.
Sometimes I ventured a phrase
but you pushed me down quick.
“You no speak. You have no responsibility.”
The r in responsibility you would hit
with a rough Portuguese trill.
Your own father used to beat you
with a rope until you bled.
You vowed never to repeat this.
You had no need.
Still, I wanted to loosen the knot
between your brows and find
the soft place within you.
I watched how playing your accordion
for hours into the night soothed you.
Above the keys in gleaming silver
cursive was written Excelsior.
Since the accordion weighed too much
to pick up I began to sing--
often in the middle of dinner.
Slenderly, I quavered out tunes
you liked from Lawrence Welk.
Sometimes I just sang excelsior.
No one said anything.
How could they?
I continued without looking up.
You neither stopped me nor softened.
One evening when I was thirteen I gave up.
My new male voice was starting to break in
and I couldn’t care anymore.
For a discussion of this poem by the prominent blogger Lisa Romeo go here: tinyurl.com/3v7yk3f6
The Ekphrastic Review
https://tinyurl.com/y8ju36t4
My poem, Saint Joseph and the Boy Jesus, is in 2018 edition of The Ekphrastic Review. Ekphrastic art is art that is inspired by other art--usually poetry inspired by paintings. For the last two years I have been attending the Writing Salons hosted by The National Gallery of Art in DC, where we use paintings as prompts for our writing. This poem appears in an earlier version in my chapbook, Port of Leaving, and is based on the painting of same name by the Baroque Portuguese painter, Josefa de Obidos. Although I saw a couple of her paintings when visiting Obidos, where she spent most of her life, I did not encounter this particular painting until I saw a retrospective of her work at the Museum of Women in the Arts in DC.
https://tinyurl.com/y8ju36t4
My poem, Saint Joseph and the Boy Jesus, is in 2018 edition of The Ekphrastic Review. Ekphrastic art is art that is inspired by other art--usually poetry inspired by paintings. For the last two years I have been attending the Writing Salons hosted by The National Gallery of Art in DC, where we use paintings as prompts for our writing. This poem appears in an earlier version in my chapbook, Port of Leaving, and is based on the painting of same name by the Baroque Portuguese painter, Josefa de Obidos. Although I saw a couple of her paintings when visiting Obidos, where she spent most of her life, I did not encounter this particular painting until I saw a retrospective of her work at the Museum of Women in the Arts in DC.
Published in Poetry Quarterly
Song of the Slaves*
Come bring your slaves, your fine black slaves,
for it’s Christmas time and Christ is near.
If you can’t buy them a trinket of gold
then at least let them look at the baby Jesus.
Come Miguel and Moses, Luis and Sheba,
Come and behold the Christmas cradle
where baby Jesus lies sleeping with sheep.
You know what it’s like to sleep in a stable.
The good father grins and greets them.
It’s Christmas time and it’s good to act
like a Christian at least once a year.
Besides, Jesus is sleeping in the cradle.
Miguel says, you go first. Moses says, you go.
Luis says, I’m not worthy, but Sheba says, I’ll go.
For Jesus is sleeping on Christmas day
and anyone can come and see a baby sleeping.
The father says, come near, come near.
Today anyone can pray to Jesus even
if he’s a baby in a cradle. Anyone
can make a Christmas wish on Jesus.
You speak, says Miguel. No you, says Moses,
Luis says, I can’t speak. I’ll speak, says Sheba,
What is your Christmas wish, asks the good father.
Our Christmas wish, says Sheba, is to be free.
*loosely based on a 17th century Portuguese madrigal
Come bring your slaves, your fine black slaves,
for it’s Christmas time and Christ is near.
If you can’t buy them a trinket of gold
then at least let them look at the baby Jesus.
Come Miguel and Moses, Luis and Sheba,
Come and behold the Christmas cradle
where baby Jesus lies sleeping with sheep.
You know what it’s like to sleep in a stable.
The good father grins and greets them.
It’s Christmas time and it’s good to act
like a Christian at least once a year.
Besides, Jesus is sleeping in the cradle.
Miguel says, you go first. Moses says, you go.
Luis says, I’m not worthy, but Sheba says, I’ll go.
For Jesus is sleeping on Christmas day
and anyone can come and see a baby sleeping.
The father says, come near, come near.
Today anyone can pray to Jesus even
if he’s a baby in a cradle. Anyone
can make a Christmas wish on Jesus.
You speak, says Miguel. No you, says Moses,
Luis says, I can’t speak. I’ll speak, says Sheba,
What is your Christmas wish, asks the good father.
Our Christmas wish, says Sheba, is to be free.
*loosely based on a 17th century Portuguese madrigal
Gavea-Brown Book of Portuguese-American Poetry
I have been anthologized. Gavea-Brown, a publisher out of Brown University, has chosen my Pushcart nominated poem, Why I Sang At Dinner, along with four others, for this anthology.
http://tinyurl.com/kcjfo4y
back cover:
“…Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses yearning to breathe
free, the wretched refuse of your teeming shore.”
These words, engraved on a bronze plaque and mounted in the Statue of Liberty in 1903, have become emblematic of the American experience. They are the words of Emma Lazarus, a poet who like the twenty-three other poets represented in this anthology, could acknowledge, and at times perhaps even embrace, Portuguese roots while forging an indisputably American identity.
Portuguese-American poets are a varied group – in theme and style as well as in geographic distribution. What they have in common, in addition to the ancestral link, is that they are American poets. Their work falls within the traditions of the best of both worlds.
I have been anthologized. Gavea-Brown, a publisher out of Brown University, has chosen my Pushcart nominated poem, Why I Sang At Dinner, along with four others, for this anthology.
http://tinyurl.com/kcjfo4y
back cover:
“…Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses yearning to breathe
free, the wretched refuse of your teeming shore.”
These words, engraved on a bronze plaque and mounted in the Statue of Liberty in 1903, have become emblematic of the American experience. They are the words of Emma Lazarus, a poet who like the twenty-three other poets represented in this anthology, could acknowledge, and at times perhaps even embrace, Portuguese roots while forging an indisputably American identity.
Portuguese-American poets are a varied group – in theme and style as well as in geographic distribution. What they have in common, in addition to the ancestral link, is that they are American poets. Their work falls within the traditions of the best of both worlds.
Silk Road, A Literary Crossroads
The 2017 winter issue of Silk Road Review includes my translation of the sixth century, Arabic poem, The Muallaqa, by Imru Al-Quays. The poem is entitled Stop and Let Us Weep, and is the fruit of a pre-Islamic poetry translation workshop I took with the preeminent translator Kareem James Abu-Zeid. This is my first translation to be published although I have so many translations of Sappho that I hope to bring forth in a book someday.
The 2017 winter issue of Silk Road Review includes my translation of the sixth century, Arabic poem, The Muallaqa, by Imru Al-Quays. The poem is entitled Stop and Let Us Weep, and is the fruit of a pre-Islamic poetry translation workshop I took with the preeminent translator Kareem James Abu-Zeid. This is my first translation to be published although I have so many translations of Sappho that I hope to bring forth in a book someday.
Lightning Strikes Twice
Double Winner of The Writer's Center Seasonal Awards
Twice in a row, I have won the Writer's Center seasonal writing award. The first time the contest theme was Halloween, and the second time was the winter holidays. My poem, Uncle Robbie at the Thanksgiving Table, is based on the musings of an uncle of mine who often appears in my poems.
Uncle Robbie at The Thanksgiving Table
It has taken a great deal of effort
to get my aunts and uncles
and first cousins in one place,
and now—at the dinner table,
it has taken even more effort
to get them to be quiet for grace.
I hold my aging aunt’s wrinkled hand
and my new niece’s unwrinkled one.
I quickly get in the prayer
before there’s an interruption,
and then afterwards--
there’s this silence--
an acknowledgement that we
are indeed family, that we
are actually related, and perhaps
even the pretense that we are one,
and if not one, at least united.
Then Uncle Robbie speaks:
“You know, yesterday, I reached
into the pocket of my jacket,
my blue one, not my grey one,
you know my grey one that I got
in the Lisbon airport in ’95,
and I found my schedule
for physical therapy. I had already
missed an appointment. I called
the office and asked them
if I had to pay for the appointment,
and they said I did, and a late charge
as well. Well, I said, how much
is the late charge, that’s what I want
to know. How much do you think
it was?”
There is no answer.
The buzz of talk has resumed
as the clatter of plates
and silverware fill the room.
Uncle Robbie drops physical
therapy and begins to expound
of the merits of the expensive
new bus station in East Hartford,
“A complete waste. It could
be spent on the homeless shelter.
But does anyone care,
does any care, I ask you?”
He says this with such force
that he blows out the candle
in front of him. I strike a match
and relight it and move the candle
away from him. He continues.
