can hardly be called a feast. More of a delicacy. But even that fails ++++++++++to describe the meager plates of meat set out on the long, dark oak.
The room glowed. From its corners, thorned branches
bloomed, and momentarily I was confused.
In my hand a clean fork, then my keys, then a snapped antenna
picked from the curb on a night-walk. ++++++++++All meal long, the brain tucked in its dome and the heart cubed,
presented on six white plates. The meat, almost raw, slid around,
and I grabbed one. I brought it to my mouth. Everything went metallic.
I ate and ate for I was starving; my hipbones tipped their empty bowls.
My hand pressed to my chest then curled into itself
++++++++++like the slowed shimmering legs
of a dying cockroach. But the heart, how delicate!
How marbled in the candlelight like a rotting honeycomb!
The head called for it as if it were a poem. ++++++++++The heart is filling, even when small.
Especially when. I finished and felt like the earth
resided in my stomach. Like if I moved it would come pouring out
in the form of an entire hive, in the height of spring when the field is set
++++++++++with hundreds of little feasts. Blossoms opened, glowing
like a body when the heart has been taken by another—licked until tender.
For our December Poetry We Admire, we’ve curated some of the best recently published poems out there around the theme of “Light.”
This is the time of year when the days keep getting shorter and darker until the solstice finally arrives and the light begins ever so slowly its return. Light, and the return of it, is symbolic in myriad religious and cultural celebrations during the season. In addition to the winter solstice, there is the star that guided the shepherds by night in Bethlehem to witness the birth of Christ and brightly colored Christmas lights on houses and in trees. There is the lighting of the Hanukkah menorah, and fireworks and diyas during Diwali, the Hindu Festival of Lights.
This month we feature light-bringing poems from Salamander, Ice Floe Press, Black Bough Poetry, Raw Art Review, The Shore, and Rattle.
I love how this poem captures the full scope of the season’s moods, starting with its romanticism and wonder, moving through loss, then surrender to the darkness and uncertainty, and finally the hope of new light. The whole poem and especially the line “I’m only a woman who con- / tinues to bury her dead” with the surprising line break in the middle of the word “continues” viscerally and rather brilliantly illustrates the particular surreal dissonance of grief when a loved one dies but the world and your life must continue, however broken. The speaker went to bed “feeling hope- / less & profoundly lonely” (another line break mid-word), but in the “morning’s early darkness” she woke to the soothing and “bewitching light” of the “fullest moon” poured into the “small bowls” of the room, and she “drank & drank.”
The Winter/Christmas issue of Black Bough Poetry is a goldmine of poems about light. I admire this sturdy micropoem with its creative use of hyphenation/compounding to describe the winter sky and how the East Star looms, a bright light always present but hidden beyond the horizon. The way Lewis ends the poem by describing the star as shining “ox-blood-bright” simultaneously brings to mind pagan ritual and the ox and lambs beside the Christ child in the crèche. This poem is so lovely and compact, yet somehow all-encompassing.
In her poem, “Ornaments,” Whitehead recalls a winter when “we’d been evicted and you were let go.” With no ornaments for the Christmas tree, the poem’s “you” sliced oranges and baked them into baubles to decorate the tree, along with “a gingerbread family with icing smiles.” I love how the narrator describes the way the gingerbread bodies were “strapped to the branches with satin ribbons” and looked like “people who’d lost their parachutes.” Perfect and profound.
Quinn’s poem is a beautiful collage of metaphor and memory, an expression of trans-generational grief, and a powerful meditation on darkness and light. After the Tree of Life Synagogue massacre which occurred in the speaker’s hometown, she “walked one thousand steps / to the local temple / for a yahrzeit candle” and prepared to make her Grandma Irene’s beef stock from “cow knuckles, oxtail, marrow bones.” Then she visited the art gallery where she “received /Anselm Keifer’s paintings / like prayers,” paintings fashioned “on coarse linen / each work a shroud for the dead.” The poem shows how the speaker chose to respond to tragedy and its “impossible weight.” She made her grandmother’s bone broth, created and received art, and lit candles in remembrance of the dead. And as she and her beloved dip their “pinky fingers in the melting wax,” outside the “stars shimmer like ghosts.”
Another poet to watch is Benjamin Cutler, who has multiple Pushcart Prize nominations this year. His first full-length poetry collection, THE GEESE WHO MIGHT BE GODS, is available now from Main Street Rag Publishing Company. In his poem, “An Invitation to Light,” Cutler asks, “What is distance but a failure of light?” He describes “the third and fourth folds /
of mountain: how they pale / like lips bruised blue with need / of breath.” The poem is replete with gorgeous imagery. The narrator intimately addresses the reader as “friend” and invites us to share in creating a stronger braid of light so that we might together extend its reach.
You should know that the circus is holographic now—
This poem is a moving and eloquent, imagery-laden exploration of how grief can sharpen you, how after a great loss the show must go on, but it will be different than before. The extended metaphor of the holographic circus is brilliantly handled and richly layered with images of light, grief, memory, loss, and longing. Merchant writes, “I’ve looked for you as leftover moon, on burnt toast, /in the wilting of leaves that hold a keyhole of light, / but mostly I pause for ravens that sling like a lasso / between the trees, anything that makes me feel alive.”
Sunday’s Poets Respond selection from Rattle has the speaker “walking the loop” of her neighborhood during Advent when she “can’t tell if the sun / is technically up or gone.” It’s the time of year where we are all waiting for the light, when even the “finches ditch what dazzles us / in favor of feathers grown solely / to keep them alive, a coat / the color of waiting, of slush,/
of sleeping and waking and pacing.” In her accompanying artist’s statement, I love how Murray says, “Light, like poetry, is something we can carry and wear like armor.”
As we wait for the light to return, let’s all try to remember “what is lit from within.”
Peace.
Community, Not Competition: A New Approach for Emerging Poets
In comparison to my peers and others in the community, my Asian parents are seen as more “liberal.” They split household chores equally between themselves, rejected traditional gender roles when my dad stayed at home while my mom went back to work after my brothers and I were born, and they weren’t phased when I came out to them (albeit confused with the terminology). Most importantly, my parents defied the stereotype when they didn’t push any of us toward being a doctor or lawyer.
But they did have one rule for us kids; one advice they often recited. “You can pursue whatever career you want in life,” they insisted, “As long as you are the best at it.” This has always stuck with me; their determination for my two brothers and I to be the best in our respective fields—the experts.
It seemed easy for both my brothers to find their calling. My older brother is financially savvy and took to coding naturally (and is making bank from it). My younger one is a mathematical genius, majoring in both math and physics in his undergraduate and now has a full-ride through grad school (he reads math textbooks for fun). But what I was best at was pretending to like the thing I was good at.
***
In my first two years of college, I studied architecture, which—any student doing it can attest—is an intense program with long hours in the studio, tight deadlines, and evidently requires sleep deprivation to pass. I’m not humble enough to downplay my design abilities. I was good; good at thinking outside the box, at pushing my conceptual ideas to fruition, and at sucking up to my professors and judges during critiques. I knew the language to bullshit my way to a passing grade and could produce high-quality drawings and models that stood out from the crowd. Oftentimes, I would find myself internally scoffing at my fellow classmates’ poor productions, all the while with a friendly smile pasted on my face. I held petty grudges, like when my final project was cheated out of display because a flawed polling system caused more votes to go to another student. It was a competitive mindset, no doubt about that. A toxic relationship with perfectionism and one-upmanship.
But despite all surface appearance to my parents and everyone else, architecture was never my end goal, the thing I wanted to be “best” at. For years, stretching back to elementary school, I have harbored the desire to be a writer. I would spend every free moment daydreaming up stories and keeping a running list of novel ideas. If I didn’t give myself an hour to plan out plots and characters before falling asleep, I would wake in a sour mood. But there was a deep-seated fear that accompanied me whenever I sat down to write. Part of the insecurity stemmed from being teased about my poor “English” skills. Grammar and spelling never came easy to me; sentences painfully extracted rather than flowed out naturally like it seemed to do for others.
So, out of fear of teasing and discouragement, my desire to pursue writing lay dormant for years, all throughout middle school, high school, and those first two years of college. All until one day, I couldn’t take it anymore. I was completely burnt out after a particularly straining semester of architecture, mentally and physically. I had pulled two all-nighters in a row to finish my final project, which I worked on up to the very last minute before I had to present at the critique. It did really well; the professors and guest architects at my presentation were impressed with the concept and design, and I received a good score for it. But after coming down from that high of a project well done, I sank into depression. I cut off all social connections and isolated myself from the outside world. The stress and exhaustion had finally caught up to me.
I struggled with my coursework the following semester. All the design spark dissipated when I thought about the mounting tasks facing me. I churned out mediocre work entirely devoid of the passion I once had. Inevitably, I broke and decided to stop. To stop studying architecture because I could not stand it any longer. I reached a breaking point in the spring of 2021 and decided to switch majors to something I have always wanted to study. So after a summer of doing absolutely nothing, I signed up for English and creative writing classes that fall.
Here’s the thing though; I didn’t tell my parents or anyone else. I kept up the illusion of being an ambitious architecture student; keeping a careful circle of safe topics to discuss with them and avoiding all mentions of what I was actually doing in my classes. It worked for a while. But the depression still lingered. Despite the fresh content, despite learning about something I had always been interested in, and despite putting more of myself out there—getting involved in student groups and events, seeking the queer community after a year of coming to terms with my sexuality—I still felt held back by my insecurity.
I was intimidated by paper deadlines, by spontaneous writing exercises in class, and when I had to share my writing in workshops with other students—all freshmen with a ninety-thousand-word novel they’re working on outside of class or who won this national writing competition when they were twelve. Everyone else around me seemed so unencumbered and confident, readily jumping to share their feminist take on The Great Gatsby in class discussion while I sat in the back silently regretting never taking AP Lit. In hindsight, that competitive mindset never left when I quit architecture. It followed and adapted to be a competition of my current abilities to the high standard I held them to.
The perfectionism also held me back from completing assignments on time and from ever turning in a full draft. I dropped half of my classes that first semester and halfway through my second in the spring of 2022, I couldn’t take it anymore—this cycle of always playing catch-up with work, and the sleepless nights worrying and doubting myself. So I dropped out of college. I came to a point where I was just trying to make it through the day, to survive this monotonous living, and accept that I’m not cut out to do this. This, being writing.
There were other contributing factors to my decision to leave college, but that was the main reason. I was working a terrible job at the time and continued to work there just so I had something to do when there wasn’t classwork to keep me busy. Eventually, I quit that too, and in that same summer, my parents discovered my secret switch to the English major and that I had dropped out. It blew up. I went from being seen as the creative, design-passionate, driven daughter to the family’s disappointment.
***
In most stories, during the all-time low point of a character’s arc, this should have been when I had an epiphany. Perhaps some realization that I can’t do this alone, or that I didn’t have to prove anything to anyone. But that never happened; or at least, I never uncovered any life-altering revelations at the time. I continued just trying to make it through each day and find some spark of joy again. In the following months, I tried everything, from starting an Etsy business reselling vintage decor to redecorating my room a billion times, attempting to dye my hair at home to getting over my fear of snakes. I did therapy, obviously, and while it did help, I didn’t make any world-shattering discovery about myself there either.
One crucial thing that did develop though was that I began to write poetry. Nothing big, nothing too complex, just a spilling of words into my notes app in late-night insomniac listlessness. It wasn’t the cure, it wasn’t an escape, but it became a mild balm to my creative itch. And then it grew to become something more when one of my works received recognition, when I started posting poems on Instagram, when—in an attempt to impress a girl I like—I purchased a poetry collection for over twenty dollars and attended a reading of her favorite poet.
As contradictory as it probably appears now, poetry wasn’t the great, shiny passion of my life, the volition I felt deep in my bones. It wasn’t something I fell in love with on sight, even if it was for many of you reading this. But through writing and reading poetry—inching closer to a community of writers who pour their hearts out into words and are brave enough to share them—I found something that thrilled me again, something that beckoned me closer, something that feels almost like acceptance.
I went back to college. Not because of my parents’ urging or because I felt ashamed of dropping out and all the societal associations that came with that, but because of my own determination to finish what I damned well started. By then, I no longer cared what my parents or what others thought of me in regards to what I wanted to do with my life. In my more pessimistic moods, I think the confidence I found came from spite; but when I’m more generous with myself, I would say it came from giving up on trying to be the best.
***
What my parents’ advice gave me is the liberty to choose my path in life and an ambitious spirit. For that, I am grateful. But the drawback to having a goal of being the best is that you isolate your progress from that of the community. What you contribute to the field of your choosing will always inherently be made with the intention of furthering your own status, your own placing on the mythical ladder of success.
This is something I’ve observed through my own experience with poetry. Competition is ingrained in the literary ecosystem. So much of being an emerging poet feels competitive, like you’re competing against other voices to be seen and read. Instapoets are competing against the algorithm, space is limited in literary magazines, and you may spend significant time and effort submitting to various places only to be met with rejection after rejection. Every poet aspires to share their work, and the ones that don’t likely idolize a life hidden away from the messy world in a quiet, wooded oasis—to be discovered after death and proclaimed a literary genius of their time. It also didn’t help that I saw my decision to switch from architecture to writing as a selfish act. What good can my poems and stories do for the world when, as an architect, I could physically build communities and make a tangible difference? Every writer must be, at least, a bit self-serving in order for their voice to be heard in the cacophony of aspiring literary geniuses.
But that doesn’t have to be all there is to being a poet. Since graduating college last spring (I did it!), I’ve had more time to get involved in the local literary scene. From taking classes at a writing center to volunteering at literary events; from attending poetry readings in bookstores to flying out to New Jersey for their Dodge Poetry Festival. My friends and I started a poetry club as well, and from spending time with them, I’ve learned to not take poetry too seriously. It’s so easy to get stuck in the habit of writing in one style or form, or reading from only a specific type of poet, that you can lose sight of everything poetry can be. The sense of play with language and narrative, how it can be set to a rhythm and made into a rap, and do you remember that time in second grade when we wrote poems in silly animal shapes?
Hanging out with writers and nonwriters alike has shown me the importance of enjoying what I produce and consume. Writing without care about the audience’s reception of my work. Allowing myself to put down a book when it’s no longer captivating. Coming together with friends to talk smack about an undeservedly popular poet or rave about our favorite poems on cats and tea. As long as you enjoy doing it, isn’t that enough? Is sprinting towards fame and recognition worth the risk of losing grip on your passion for the craft?
***
I recently attended an event at The Loft Literary Center, Minnesota’s mecca for writers. The event—which celebrated Mark Gustafson’s new book, Sowing Seeds—examined the origins of this literary center and how it emerged from a group of young writers in the 1970s. They were eager for a gathering space away from the traditional (and oftentimes stilting) academic setting, so they started a poetry club in the loft above their friend’s bookstore in Minneapolis. Over time, the group grew, and what started as religious recitations of Pablo Neruda’s poems turned into a place for sharing their works, turned into evening classes, turned into year-long writing programs and activities and, eventually, one of the largest independent literary centers in the country.
Sitting there, surrounded by primarily older folks, I was surprised by the comraderie among the crowd. Friends reconnecting after decades, hands raised to contribute another memory, and a woman who quietly stood up in the middle of the reading to cross the room and greet an old friend. The conversation never strayed to the present. They weren’t there to preach or give advice to the youth, or tell us what’s wrong with the world today. Instead, through their recollections of how they found each other—their shared anti-war sentiments and disdain for stuffy academic institutions—I saw a reflection of what I and many new writers face today. This older generation of writers spotted a hole in the literary world and created a community to fill it.
Community spaces for poets are out there, even more now than ever in our digital age. I would encourage you to seek them out. Yes, being a new poet and getting your name out there requires you to participate in competitive systems (and there are parts of being a writer that you just have to do yourself). But you can also achieve the same result and, oftentimes, even more with the support of other writers who are just as passionate as you; with those who are in the same boat and share the same insecurities.
As an editor, I want to help you understand the system if you’re new and help you figure out what you want to get out of it. Because there is a place for you in the literary landscape, even if it may not be here. The literary world has many amazing opportunities and avenues for you to explore. Getting published doesn’t have to be the end goal. Just like how poems aren’t restricted by grammar or structure, being a poet should allow you the fluidity to write without having to be concerned with whether the poem is “publishable.”
So much of being an emerging poet (and I would still consider myself as one) feels competitive, like you’re competing against other voices to be seen and read. But I believe there’s significantly more value in having a community-forward mindset when it comes to writing. Everyone is in their own lane but shares the same aspirations. It is through collective spaces like The Loft, or online forums, or (hopefully) this magazine that shows the benefits of writing as a community rather than solely in solitude. I find myself more inspired now when attending readings and lectures, jotting down bursts of poetic lines in the margins of my notebook. My writing routine begins with an hour of reading before I pick up the pen or take to the keyboard to write. After all, innovation doesn’t happen in a vacuum.
While my great epiphany never came when I probably needed it the most, I would say it has come now after the four years it took me to arrive at a place of self-acceptance. My epiphany is realizing that one writer writing alone is limited to a legacy, but many writers writing towards a shared vision—of what they want to see more, of what is missing from the literary landscape—can create a literary movement.
As cheesy as this will sound, I would alter my parent’s advice to be this: “You can pursue whatever career you want in life—as long as you never lose your passion for it.”
Every middle of the month: new deadlines, new contests, and new opportunities for your work to find its audience. Here is a roundup of ten submission opportunities with deadlines in December or January, including New American Press, Midway Journal, Humana Obscura, and more.
We strongly favor work with depth and unique insight that explores the human condition and leans toward unusual, possibly urgent, and slightly unhinged. Life is absurd, and we like being moved in unexpected ways by its absurdity.
Humor is all about, well, humor. We’re looking for terrible elevator pitches, delightful fangirl 4th-grade book reports, and hand-drawn pie charts.
Submit 1-3 poems in one file. Please do not include your name on the document—we prefer to read anonymous submissions.
We believe in poetry, in literature, and in the importance and magic of new writing. Poetry is one of the most ancient and revered forms of creative expression, stretching back to the dawn of literature. Poetry competitions represent a wonderful opportunity for writers to showcase new work, gain the recognition they deserve, advance their writing careers, and reach a wide audience.
The literary mission of The Letter Review includes fostering accessibility to the professional writing industry, and supporting writers at all stages in their efforts to be published, performed, and produced. Pursuant to this our Prize offers:
The top 2-4 winning entries of the Prize for Poetry are declared the Winners, and share equally in the Prize pool of $1000 USD.
To recognize the abilities of the writers who do not place as a Winner, 10-20 entries are Shortlisted.
Winning entries are published by The Letter Review online, and in our Winners Anthology.
All entries are considered for publication.
Winning entries are also frequently submitted to further prestigious anthologies such as the Pushcart Prize.
Winners and Shortlisted entries are celebrated on our mailing list, social media channels (FB 37,000 members), at our website (50,000 monthly visitors), and our Subreddit (11K).
Winners may request a professional recommendation / endorsement of their work in the form of a letter from our Judges which they may submit to agents, publishers etc.
Winners may also participate in our interview series, further raising their professional profile.
Action/Words Poetry Contest seeks submissions that call for, enact, or reflect upon connections between poetry and praxis. Each fall, the Midway team will select a verb to serve as the “action word” and theme for that year’s contest. This year, we have selected the verb “to split.” We welcome writers to submit poems that respond directly or indirectly to the various meanings of this term.
Judge: Ana Božičević
First Prize: $300 + publication in Midway Journal
Second Prize: $150 + publication in Midway Journal
Third Prize: $50 + publication in Midway Journal
Poetry: up to 3 poems per entry. Any style. No word limits. No more than one poem per page.
Bodega releases digital issues on the first Monday of every month, featuring poetry, prose, and occasional interviews by established and emerging writers. We’re here to give you a handful of essential pieces you can digest in one sitting.
Submit up to 3 previously unpublished poems in a single document (3 pages max).
Humana Obscura is an independent literary magazine that seeks to publish nature-focused poetry and art by new, emerging, and established writers and artists from around the world.
Humana Obscura is now accepting submissions of poetry and art for its new anthology! The theme of our first anthology is “blue,” and however you interpret it—as the sky, the ocean, the shade of a particular flower, or an emotion.
SUBMISSION GUIDELINES:
Poetry – Up to 5 poems (or up to 10 haiku, tanka, or other forms of micropoetry 5 lines or less). Please include all poems in one document.
In keeping with the anthology’s theme, a percentage of submission fees will be donated to Ocean Conservancy. Ocean Conservancy is a nonprofit environmental advocacy group based in Washington, D.C., United States. The organization seeks to promote healthy and diverse ocean ecosystems, prevent marine pollution, climate change and advocates against practices that threaten oceanic and human life.
Hawai`i Pacific Review is the online literary magazine of Hawai`i Pacific University. It features poetry and prose by authors from Hawai`i, the mainland, and around the world.
Hawai`i Pacific Review seeks poetry that speak with a powerful and unique voice. While we often feature work from and about Hawai`i and the Pacific, we are interested in high-quality literature from all regions and on all topics.
Submission Guidelines:
Submit each poem as a separate submission
No more than 3 poems at a time (Submit each poem as separate submissions)
Attach as a WORD document
Simultaneous submission are considered (please withdraw via submittable if accepted elsewhere)
Because we try to be readable on all sorts of screens and devices, we can’t do justice to poems with unorthodox spacing. For this reason, we strongly prefer poetry that sticks to the left margin.
The first OxMag Crystal Ox Poetry Contest was held in Winter 2022 and published as part of Issue 49. We’re continuing this tradition of celebrating poetry by opening the Crystal Ox Poetry Contest of Issue 53!
Please send us your best work (one poem only). If you send more than one poem, we will read only the first poem you send. Cover letters are not necessary, but a brief reader bio is required (~50 words).
Submissions will be open until January 10th or until we reach our submission cap, whichever comes first.
Awards will go to three winners (1st, 2nd, & 3rd place).
Molecule is an online journal publishing poetry, prose, plays, interviews, reviews, and visual art twice annually. All work should be 50 words or less (including titles, interview questions, etc).
Why 50 words?
Well, imagine the smallest visible particle of a molecule to be in the form of a cube. Then, there would be on the side of the cube, in a row, 50 such molecules. Or in the cube, 50 x 50 x 50 (Weismann, 1901).
Molecule accepts submissions of poetry in 50 words or less. Visual artwork of tiny things like tea bags and toothpicks, or tiny paintings, also wanted: no skyscrapers please!
We have a strict word count. Don’t try and trick us we have tiny minds. All submissions should be previously unpublished work.
The 2025 New American Poetry Prize is open for submissions. Deadline is January 15, 2025.
The winning manuscript will be published and its author will receive $1500, promotional support, and 25 author copies.
Manuscripts should be at least 48 pages, but there is no maximum length. All forms and styles of poetry are welcome.
Final judge this year is SARA ELIZA JOHNSON, whose first book, Bone Map (Milkweed, 2014), was selected for the 2013 National Poetry Series. Her second book of poetry, Vapor, was released by Milkweed in 2022. She has received fellowships from the National Endowment for the Arts, the Fine Arts Work Center in Provincetown, the Rona Jaffe Foundation, and the VCCA, among other honors, and is currently an associate professor at the University of Alaska, Fairbanks.
To start, the type of material we crave here is difficult. Difficult to comprehend, difficult to put on paper, and difficult to submit. This review was created first and foremost as a refuge for the work that feels hard as stone, that leaves us possessed.
Because this is the genre we cherish most, our promise to you is that we will treat your thoughts as we treat an old house: tenderly, with open ears and the knowledge that it will never be truly ours. Thank you for honoring us with your pieces. For trusting us to foster something resonant inside these walls.
We look forward to experiencing your work.
Warmest thanks,
Jessie & Elliott Kate
Guidelines
Poetry: Up to 3 pieces per period. No longer than 132 lines in length (a total three pages in our print issues). Submit all poetry in Times New Roman, 12pt font, single spaced. We accept .docx and .word files. Please include all submissions in ONE FILE.
We pride ourselves on publishing upcoming authors. Feel free to mention past experience within your author bio, but that was, well, past. We are interested in the now. Reinvent.
Every middle of the month: new deadlines, new contests, and new opportunities for your work to find its audience. Here is a roundup of ten submission opportunities with deadlines in October or November, including Black Lawrence Press, The Comstock Review, Beloit Poetry Journal, and more.
This fall, we’re focusing on presses that are publishing chapbooks. Palette Poetry will open for submissions of micro chapbooks (ten page collections) of poetry at the end of the year! In the meantime, register for our micro course with helpful advice and lessons on collecting your poetry.
This form is only meant for you if you have a collection of poems that you want to publish as a poetry book. The minimum number of pages a book must have is 40. This can include graphical representations too.
The Helena Whitehill Book Award is a prestigious national poetry prize for adult writers. Established in 2002, the Prize has drawn submissions from around the country that have been judged by renowned poets such as Martha Collins, Patricia Smith, and Tony Hoagland.
The Helena Whitehill Book Award includes a cash award of $1,000 in addition to publication by Tupelo Press, a book launch, national and international distribution by the University of Chicago Press, a one-week residence at Gentle House on the Olympic Peninsula, and unlike our other prizes, open to submissions of poetry, chapbook or full length, no page limit, and also open to creative non-fiction, no page limit. Manuscripts are judged anonymously and all finalists will be considered for publication. Please read the complete guidelines before submitting your manuscript.
Who May Submit
The Helena Whitehill Book Award is open to anyone writing in the English language, whether living in the United States or abroad. Translations are not eligible for this prize, nor are previously self-published books. Employees of Tupelo Press and authors with books previously published by Tupelo Press are not eligible. This contest is open to all poets, regardless of prior publication history.
Manuscript Requirements & Ethical Guidelines
Submit a previously unpublished, full or chapbook-length poetry manuscript, or creative non-fiction manuscript with a table of contents. There is no mandatory page count. All manuscripts will be read and considered with full respect, regardless of length, and no manuscript will be rejected simply because it’s shorter or longer.
We want all things spooky! Cozy horror included! We are looking for thrilling and unique writing that captures the spirit of horror. Don’t forget that the most important part of horror is the fun.
Pieces that depict gratuitous violence, excess gore, or hateful violence targeting gender, race, sexuality, and other protected classes will not be accepted.
Twice each year Black Lawrence Press will run the Black River Chapbook Competition for an unpublished chapbook of poems or prose between 16-36 pages in length. The contest is open to new, emerging, and established writers. The winner will receive book publication, a $500 cash award, and ten copies of the book. Prizes are awarded on publication.
The Fresh Voices Fellowship supports one emerging Black, Indigenous, Latinx, Asian, or other writer of color who does not have an MFA in creative writing nor an advanced English degree (MA, PhD), and is not currently enrolled in a degree-granting program.
One writer, in prose or poetry, will receive:
A $2000 stipend
Publication in a print issue of Epiphany
A one-year subscription to Epiphany
The opportunity to participate in the editorial and publication process of a small non-profit literary magazine, and to build close relationships with the editorial team during the course of a twelve-month fellowship
A Q&A to be published on Epiphany’s website
We encourage writers who work outside the traditional literary and academic systems to apply, and applicants must not have an advanced degree in English, creative writing, or other related fields, and must not be enrolled at the time of application in any degree-granting program. Applicants must also have not have published or be contracted to publish a book.
Final Judge: Abayomi Animashaun First Prize: $1000 plus publication and 50 author’s copies
Submit 25-34 pages of poetry, single-spaced. Single poems may be more than 1 page long. Consider the smaller chapbook page when calculating line lengths and page breaks. Maximum line length is generally about 70 characters.
Reading at one of our venues in Philadelphia (or virtual reading, if preferred)
Please submit about thirty-five pages of poetry. Individual poems may have been previously published, but the work as a whole must be new. Simultaneous submissions to other publishers or contests are permitted so long as you promptly notify Moonstone Press if the manuscript is accepted elsewhere.
The contest will be judged by the Editorial Committee at Moonstone Press and our final judge, Lynn Levin.
Are you ready to gather your poems into a collection? In this micro course, each day for 15 days, you will receive a new prompt to help you write, organize, or edit your in-progress poetry collection. Don’t worry if you don’t have a lot of poems to work with yet—at the end of the course, you will receive all of the prompts for future review, so you can continue to revise and collect your poetry.
Many brilliant presses are looking for full collections of poetry, chapbooks, and micro chapbooks (including Palette, later this year!), but gathering enough poems for a collection might seem a daunting task. Throughout the 15 days of the micro course, the editors at Palette will offer their advice on compiling an effective collection of poetry. At the end of the micro course, you’ll also receive a curated list of poetry collection submission opportunities!
You can look forward to micro lessons focused on setting your poetry goals, organizing your body of work, identifying your “twin” and “turning point” poems, finding the title of your collection, choosing the order of the poems, deciding on the length of the collection, and much more!
Your micro course lessons will be sent via email every weekday for three weeks, starting November 11 and ending November 29. Palette Poetry will open for micro chapbook (a ten-page collection of poetry) submissions on December 9, so we hope this micro course will help you prepare your poetry for submission!
We’re excited to help you collect your wonderful poetry!
Poems may be submitted by the poet, or by a parent/legal guardian, or a teacher. Teachers may select at most five students per year and submit on their behalf, with the assurance to us that you will be able to help us get a parent’s signed permission prior to publication. Please remember that we will be choosing our favorite 20 poems from thousands submitted—try not to get anyone’s hopes up prematurely.
The author of the poem must have been age 15 or younger when the poem was written, and 18 or younger when submitted. The poets may use their whole name, first name, or a pseudonym at their parents’ discretion. We will not publish any contact information.
Upon acceptance, a parent or legal guardian must sign a release allowing us to publish the poem. Contributors receive ten complimentary copies of the anthology as payment, which will also be shipped to every Rattle subscriber with our summer issue. Parents and family members may purchase additional copies at our cost to print/ship.
Beloit Poetry Journal invites submissions for The Chad Walsh Chapbook Series.
Open to any poet writing in English, regardless of publication history
$2500 prize, 50 author copies (perfect bound, full-color cover), and an in-depth editorial consultation
Winning chapbook distributed to every BPJ subscriber and sold separately (print run of approximately 1,500)
BPJ editors will read all submissions and select a manuscript for publication
Submissions open October 1–November 30, opening and closing at midnight Eastern Time
Results announced in late winter/spring
Selected manuscript published in spring/early summer
Guidelines
Submit (via Submittable) a manuscript of 20-35 pages of poetry (including the table of contents and acknowledgments page); each poem should begin on its own page.
Reading fee of $20 per entry. You may submit additional manuscripts by paying an additional reading fee for each. A limited number of fee-free entries are available to poets for whom the reading fee presents a hardship. (Email us at bpj@bpj.org for details.)
Reading fee: $20
“Maria’s Jawbone” and “Declaration from the Hopyard”
Maria’s first language was Spanish, a broken
caracol camisole pigeon toe tongue still wet
tumbling in the rusty maytag dryer, still wet
stumbling that púrpura oracion, still wet
crumbling when her meadow hip cracks corn
on the pavement, her language a corn crack
tumblestone, a periwinkle broomcorn smack’n
stumble, a suckle whisky “aye” instead of ouch,
her montaña language a whip of juju caramelo,
a smooth wispy “oye” instead of help.
No one prays for you more than me, a jaw
bone I cradle like laughter-long-lasting.
Tonight, I brush your teeth with miswak,
when I am hungry for monkeyflower,
when I am sleeping with peasant skin
when I am waking with a milk name,
when I am a name for comet moths that
line El Cometa like pans full of manteca
simmering with faces watermarked with cast
iron halos, simmering with fathers who will
return, but not morena daughters like Maria.
Maria was a moth ball still shot stumbling
when the cow cries, still shot stumbling
when the antlers shed, still shot stumbling
when I hold your dirt, a copper cone mountain
that shivered a headstone I sponge with manzanilla,
my fingers a criss cross bouquet undoing bullet points
in the hairline, undoing a stockinette stitch in the ribs,
undoing a father who furnishes an alter with a jawbone so shiny
it pools a catfish that becomes the light that sits beside me.
Declaration from the Hopyard
I.
We are punctured pine flowers pickled purple our leaves strewn in layers picked by staredowns
between soleil and lune, pointed with barrel shotgun
in the brush, dragged by coyote through el Rio Grande,
fingers stretched by prickly pears, smeared fingerprints
a pinhole kaleidoscope of fermented skies rolled tight
with moss and blood, but how can blood be a metaphor
for contamination?
II.
It began with Aztlan, the place of the Heron
became the place of whiteness, it began with silk
devils bleaching brown kernels and selling bottled ice
tea, Coatlicue Nahuatl for serpent skirt Guadalupe, a river
of wolves, the one who is one with the beasts, but Karla Latin
for strong one English for song, a bowl of posole singing a cow’s
tongue. As saint she performs limpias with an escoba of canela, pours
frankincense onto swollen beer belly, massages with index and pinky, licks
the head of cotton as nails pierce fat for sarcoma, removing the gallbladder
of salmon stones, each thunk as critiqued as queer theory.
III.
In the fields I paint the man’s fingers pink slice nerves down
ashy creases to queer becomes an act our sexual identities trans
gressed by old men politics we can’t even stand the devil’s dance
to win our souls jump the cable barb the wire down our waists
as we walk the hop lines cower from smoking trucks brown children
run along chemical trails caked hands eat roasted chiles from a glass jar
stretch aluminum tortillas in bucket palms kiss bandannas with beer sweat.
The bread, power, finger, field, jaw, life, sky, land,
tow, hem, irrigation, bee, buba, belt, and border lines.
One day we’ll say it ended with El Cometa, the jagged radical, with Atzlan’s blood.
“PHYLLODES REVERIES” by Rebecca Hawkes is the winner of the 2024 Sappho Prize for Women Poets, selected by Megan Fernandes. We’re honored to share this sensational poem with you.
“I am startled by the generous way the speaker views her own mortality, surgically cut open by herself in a dream, feeling the ‘lymphatic fruit’ and ‘lonesome egg’ of what ails the body. The body grows more than tumors, but is packed with dirt and seeds, volcano hands, deciduous hair. The poet makes death a rebirth and rebirth into something filmic, erotic, and verdant.” —Megan Fernandes, Guest Judge
———I.
In the dream the doctors let me
perform the surgery myself. I doubled
my chin, peered down at skin that opened
to the scalpel without bleeding. The picture
blurred. Bad watercolour. Ferny murk, unfurling.
Arteries illumed the ultrasound to feed
a tumour named for leaves. Lymphatic fruit.
What was it I lifted from myself? Smooth stone
pearl-firm, luminous like a pigeon’s lone-
some egg. I closed my fist around its warmth
and woke. Which experts now will tell me
whether the node hardened inside my breast
may hold some long-neglected itch
or else a new wet-feathered form of life?
The chipping of its beak
a measure of my heartbeat.
———II.
Nobody wants to be a nature poet.
I get it. Sometimes it can be hard to love
the grass. Pasture blades make my legs itch. Pollen
plugs the sinuses. My aging body is of little interest
to the ants. Woodpeckers ignore me in their diligence.
So much for all those years outdoors, ensorcelled
with my wand of herbicide. Heirloom toxins
spraying rainbows downwind through the meadows
of my days. My motorcycle’s thrum as much the music
as bees in the embattled thistledown, the wild
stonefruits erupting from mouthed cores
tossed to the underbrush. Below the overalls,
wrists daubed with nectar, petrol, poison. Lonely
with weeds, I rested in the shade of wilding pines
gathering dark needles in my boots. Waiting
on the biopsy, I set down roots from my bare feet.
And while I write, the smallest fly
parts fine lashes to taste the water from my eyes.
———III.
They still make scalpels from obsidian. Pray
for a steady handed volcano. Under black glass
I’ll peach-cleave, loose my stone. The budded plumule
hidden in the pit. This is the first year I’ve been born
in summer. I’d turn my dark hair red before
I let it fall. How else could I be this deciduous?
———IV.
Eventually when I die of whatever, everyone
I’ve liked will have to live double forever.
———V.
My love and I watch birds under the bridge
building their solstice nests from clay and spit.
We have invented a whole new way to kiss.
It is the same. It’s new because it’s now.
My singing mouth is packed with dirt
and seeds. I build a house of these and blow it down.
When the first heart began to beat, a new mother
landed inside me, a white crane on the bank of a river.
My body reached its logical conclusion, red blood
over white feathers.
When the second heart swelled
my breasts against my sweater, another mother
arrived bringing her blue ache
between my legs until
that heart silenced, the breasts
softened but still
the ache went on and on.
When the third heart never started, cold
and flinty as a box of matches (will there ever
be light here)
the third mother soaked the blood, not much, from the sheets.
2.
And if anything is more willful
than one angry mother
it’s a group of mothers—
everyone knows it’s a murder of crows but did you know
it’s an unkindness of ravens or a parliament of owls?
We call it a labor of moles, a cackle of hyenas,
a pandemonium of parrots
but how should we classify this collective of mothers,
this mob of rage and instinct that keeps this body
moving beyond the grieving
3.
of mothers with nothing
to mother?
4.
Places the blood has brought us: zzour own shower all evening watching the drain zza Planned Parenthood in Van Nuys zza bathroom at a midtown restaurant winding toilet paper around our palm zza gas station line zzhours past midnight deep in internet chat rooms zzan emergency room, locking eyes with the attending, trying zzto reach the mother beyond her mask, pleading zzdon’t let me lose this one
but that is the thing about mothers
they cannot mother everyone
5.
Repetition becomes the device
the other mothers my birthrights
and each new heartbeat’s wild
panicked furious hopeful tearful terrified
wondrous hysterical ponderous unraveling holy mother,
breasts full of milk, mouth full of lullabies,
stays,
because when a heart stops beating
what it beat for doesn’t disappear.
In If These Covers Could Talk, poets interview the visual artists whose works grace their book covers. The result is an engaging discussion of process, vision, and projects. This series is a celebration of collaboration—here, we champion the fruitful conversations taking place both on and behind the cover.
This month, poet Dimitri Reyes talked to artist Samuel Miranda about the cover of Papi Pichón (Get Fresh Books Publishing, 2023).
A Conversation Between Dimitri Reyes and Samuel Miranda
DR: Hermano, thank you— for your support, for your friendship, and for being a model on how to conduct myself as a creator, storyteller, and history preserver. I don’t know if you remember this, but our introduction to one another was during Poets for Puerto Rico DC, one of the many benefit events to support and aid in the recovery efforts after Hurricane Irma and María in 2017. It was at The American Poetry Museum where you are the current chair and curator, that I brought some hand instruments where we started playing together while we waited for the event to start. Heck, we weren’t even the musicians! But this was an example of art being for everyone. We started playing as perfect strangers and finished playing as a unified cohort. I notice your work centers around community, oral histories, and artivism. Can we talk about what influences you and what stories you’re looking to tell?
SM: What influences me most are the interactions I have with people I encounter, the stories they share with me over a meal, a glass of wine. When I first started writing, it was the stories of my students that really pushed my writing, the same students who made me write (because they would not write if I wasn’t) also became the subject matter of my poetry. As I began to develop as a writer I found that influences also came from other artists. I love collaborating. Throughout all of my body of work there is evidence of this, poems about Pepe Gonzalez, a bass player whose stories inhabit a large portion of my body of work, poems that he then brings his music to. This collaboration has improved the way I read poems to an audience, giving me a bass line that exists even when the bass player is absent. It has also improved the poems themselves. I often edit poems after having read them with Pepe.
Music in general has also been an influence. I am the child who grew up listening to Salsa, Hip Hop and Jibaro music, listening to my father sing off key songs over the phone to my grandparents in Puerto Rico, and hymns with guiros, congas, and guitars in church. All of these rhythms and the rhythms of the cities that raised me both as a child and then as an artist are in my writing. My Ricanness and the fact that I did not get exposed to a Puerto Rican writer until college also influenced me. Once exposed, I devoured everything I could find copying the style of the Nuyoricans in the writing I was doing initially. Then I found my own writing community in DC and this sense of needing to find my own voice.
Developing a rhythm with my writing that became my own voice was more important than trying to fall into a school of writing. I am not a Nuyorican writer even though New York and Puerto Rico are ever present in my work; the influence of their history, music, and language find their way in whether I am conscious of it or not. But what DC, the city where my writing was birthed, showed me is that my individual voice needed to be developed because there was so much more to who I was than just that. As another Boricua who came into this world of writing outside of the direct heat of the Nuyorican School of Poetry I wonder what other influences have helped you find the voice you feel is yours?
DR: Ooof, that’s a great question! Especially because I’d be one of the first people to say that when I stepped into the literary scene around 2015, it was the equivalent of me tripping on a crack and finding a $20 bill when I fell. Names like Algarín, De Burgos, Pietri, Perdomo, and Ayala meant nothing to me at the time. I think I caught Def Jam Poetry maybe once on a night where I was staying up too late and flipping through the cable box. I didn’t know they were coming from the Nuyorican or that this was the beginning of the BreakBeat school. And even though it was called Def Poetry Jam, to my 14 year old ears, it just felt like hip-hop to me.
But I was lucky because I had just got accepted to the Rutgers-Newark MFA program and I had the advantage of growing up in a vibrant arts community in Newark, NJ where I was exposed to street art, cyphers, public festivals, protests, and spoken word performances backed by musical accompaniment. As a writer, I was super green and didn’t know what I was doing beyond my written portfolio, so in my graduate classes, I was studying the required courseload while also spending time at local open mics to figure out “how” to art. Observing locals that were students of the Nuyorican Poets Cafe slam scene like Leah “Lyric” Jackson, Rob Hylton, and Porta Rock, local powerhouses like Sean Battle and Mia X, as well as elders in the community that had activist linkages to the Young Lords and the Panthers, I learned that you just had to be present and speak your truth.
These communities that held space allowed me to explore words in a way that told me that artistic disciplines don’t exist in a vacuum and they grow better while working off one another. Which by the way, seems to be your philosophy as someone who also works with visual art. I love the cover you made for Papi Pichón, as the way everything is stitched— including the name and title— looks like it’s about to fly off the page. We’ll talk about the cover in a second, and I have to start by saying that you are a gifted poet and storyteller. And I’m familiar with your weaving, wood carving, and charcoal work, but I’d like you to list every single artistic form you practice. And do you have a particular favorite?
SM: Wow, let’s see. I always tell folks I am a practitioner of 3 art forms, teaching being the first, poetry, and visual art. These are the areas I put time into, where I am always trying to improve my craft and where I am always experimenting and exploring in order to see what else can be done. Within visual work is where I am most diverse. I have explored woodcarving, painting, printmaking, screenprinting, embroidery, mixed media, drawing and most recently, filmmaking. I don’t know that I have a consistent favorite; I focus in on something and just go with it for a while, move on to something else and then revisit what I let go of when the subject matter calls for it. I think that really decides what media I am working in— the subject matter, and sometimes that means multiple media are used to develop an idea fully.
DR: I’m happy that you mentioned that teaching was an artform. It’s truly a craft to talk and connect with others in ways that show empathy and respect. When I was originally going to self publish it, you were one of my first readers when I felt like Papi Pichón was “done” and it was time to think of cover art. I really wanted someone else I trusted to find the essence of who they thought Papi Pichón was as a character, which I knew was a lot to ask. This titular figure was more of an intangible spirit than physical bird though it could often be seen among us, pecking for crusts of bread and stale french fries. This metaphor found it’s characters in the book being from two places at once to the point where this violent binary put it’s subjects in a state of being from neither here nor there. I wanted to make sure the artist could really understand where I was coming from. With that being said, what led you to the cover art we see today?
SM: I think there is something about the pigeon itself that speaks to how I see us as people. The pigeon is everywhere, and in the landscape of a city it can’t be ignored but still is often not seen because it is so present, and often we miss the beauty of it because of how it has been categorized— a pest, flying rat, a disturbance to the peace— so the colors in its neck and the beauty in those colors are left unnoticed. I chose to embroider the pigeon because it causes the image of the pigeon to push off of the flag which in many ways is what the character of Papi Pichón does for me: it pushes off of the page. And chose to show the pigeon in a side profile because it forces you to look into the eye and he looks back examining you like Papi Pichón examines the complexity of a culture, a community.
DR: Right! The beauty that’s within us! Though beautifully detailed, the pigeon exists in our society as an npc, a background character— but it exists! Always watching and always surviving just like us. In a way, I observe that this is how we also can often treat each other, too. In the hustle and bustle of our day-to-day, everyone that’s not in our personal circle just becomes a part of the background. And to no fault of our own as our capitalist, material, and technological driven society sets us up to navigate space like this, we miss a lot of moments for that personal connection.
SM: One of the things that really drew me to you and your work was this sense I got that community was extremely important. A lot of Papi Pichón, really for me, is about the character identifying who his community is, his role in it and in some cases becoming the one who creates it and establishes the rules. Like Papi Pichón it seems that you are constantly creating spaces for community. I wonder what you would define as your community and what you believe your role in this community is. What do you hope to help establish within this community and what are the rules imposed on this community by outside forces that you feel we need to be breaking?
DR: The community is what really helps get me cookin’ with gas! At least half of these poems in the book were written with the intention of being read aloud, sometimes in random places. There’s a love I have for sharing my work with people and I oftentimes want to help others feel those same feels. Currently, my community is anyone who wants to heal and not harm with their words, people who are pursuing their written/oratory abilities for the sake of their own improvement and interest, and those who want to grow with others in a safe and open space. This means that when I teach workshops or put up a tip video on Instagram or TikTok, I hope to be modeling art the way art was modeled for me when I first started becoming an active participant in the arts.
There’s a lot about the po biz that’s still shrouded in mystery— behind a curtain to the general public or if the information is out there, it’s evidently hard to find when interested and emerging writers don’t know where to look. With my role in the community as a working artist, arts administrator, and content creator, I want to give the public access to the same information I was struggling to get a hold of until I met the right people. Which goes back to the community learning from one another and building each other up.
I couldn’t have seen Papi Pichón to the finish line without watching and learning from folx like you. It can take several people to produce a great book, and it can take a community of friends, associates, and idols to foster a great story. In Papi Pichón, you are mentioned and quoted not just because of your dope artwork, but because you are among other Boricua giants like Raina J. León, Naomi Ayala, Giannina Braschi, Urayoán Noel, Martín Espada, Miguel Piñero, and Pedro Pietri that I turned to in order to better understand Diasporicanness across generations. I’m excited for you to tell us about your newest book, Protection from Erasure and I’m specifically interested in you mentioning the different POV’s illustrated in the collection.
SM: Wow, honored that you would list me alongside poets of that stature. Protection from Erasure is really about coming to terms with how easily our stories can be pushed aside, how our stories can be ignored or minimized and that the only protection we have against that is to tell our stories, the beautiful ones, the ugly ones, the ones we carry in our pockets, on the soles of our feet, in our scars. The different POVs in the book really come from listening, as a teacher I have learned that if you give a person enough space and make them feel comfortable enough they will share their stories and if you listen carefully and open yourself to those stories you will notice that their story is connected to yours. That their experience and yours carry parallels. I tell this story all the time, but when I was younger and I would tell my grandfather to tell me stories about his youth he would always answer with “for what, it does not matter.” And then when he died and we emptied his closets there was a lifetime of stories present in the photos, letters and documents. I think this book, like my others, is really a way to make sure that people see themselves and their stories and they never get to say to anyone who asks them to tell their story, “for what, it does not matter.”
DR: So let’s talk about the front matter of your book. What’s the story behind Protection from Erasure?
SM: The cover as with all the covers of my previous books uses my own work. I picked this piece because it is a self portrait of me as a 10 year old. It is a screen printed image that is then invaded by white paint. As a kid even through high school I often felt invisible whether through self erasure because of my quiet nature and the feeling that that was the best way to protect myself or erasure by others who could just walk by a quiet kid and not see him because he did not call attention to himself and in New York City anonymity was completely possible. You could disappear fully into the crowd if you were quiet enough. Both of these erasures were ones I wish I had been protected from, erasures that while they seemed to offer protection in the long run, did more harm than good. So it seemed fitting that this image of ten year old me should represent a work titled Protection from Erasure.
DR: Damn, that idea of erasure as a child really hits home. For me, growing up overweight and taller than a lot of my peers in middle school, I too had those feelings of invisibility in the way that I couldn’t be seen past my “bigness.” And I follow that thread slightly in the book, although not for long, as I started to develop more confidence and acceptance of myself as a teenager. But that didn’t mean I stopped participating in the act of erasure, it simply evolved and caused me to be simplified in different ways: a hulking and brutish threat vis a vis being husky. Many of these identifiers for the sake of protection continued into my mid to late 20’s until I finally broke my own 4th wall and realized I was beyond these identifiers of big and small, tough and weak. Beyond words and phrases. It’s easy to fall into “archetypes” within our work as well. When we’re categorized as a Latinx/Latine writer, what do you see yourself adding to American Letters, or better yet, Puerto Rican letters specifically?
SM: I wonder about the ways we are able to find an acceptance of self and I am glad you found your way to it. Not all of us do. There is this sense I think that in order to find acceptance of self acceptance by others is necessary. Which really translates into the literary and art world, and as you mentioned, oftentimes we need to fall into these archetypes because of that and accept these spaces as the ones we belong in.
And I think that’s why truthfully, what I am adding to American letters or even Puerto Rican letters, is not something I think about. I write ‘cause I feel the stories I hear, and the issues I experience or witness others experience are important to talk about and hope that as others read them conversation will spark. I hope that I am telling those stories honestly and addressing those issues ethically. But the purpose goes back to highlighting the idea that everybody has an important story to tell. When I write I hope that the people who influenced that particular piece of writing feel like they were heard and seen, that they feel that I saw the importance in their story. That’s the goal. Do I hope people read the work? Yes. But the goal is not legacy or adding to an existing canon.
DR: Sami, thanks so much for spending this time with me, Papa. And I appreciate getting to know a bit more about your work, philosophies, and how you came to art. I’m looking forward to catching up with you in DC some time in the near future!
Samuel “Sami” Miranda grew up in the South Bronx and resides in Washington, DC. He is a visual artist, poet, and teacher. He is the author of Protection from Erasure, published by Jaded Ibis Press, Departure, a chapbook published by Central Square Press, and We Is, published by Zozobra Publishing. He is currently working on collaborative projects with musicians, visual artists and filmmakers. Samuel’s artwork has been exhibited internationally in Puerto Rico and Madrid, as well as New York and Washington, DC. Most recently, Samuel’s artwork has been included in the Smithsonian’s new Molina Family Latino Gallery inaugural exhibition ¡Presente!. Films he co-directed and co-produced, a documentary short “Spanish Joe Remembers” and “Hiding Place” a poetry short have been included in festivals in Washington, DC, Milwaukee, Wisconsin and Berlin, Germany.
