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Lino Anunciacion’s The Way We Move Through Water is layered and balanced with a dark beauty that readers will be haunted by long after putting this book down. This debut poetry collection is a faulty navigation system that guides you through the unforgiving griefwater. These poems use serene, yet haunting imagery to tackle the legacy of our pasts and the lineages we owe our lives to. He uses his experiences in loss and trauma as a black boy in America to show how long this journey towards liberation and livelihood can be. He doesn’t want you to forget the names of the things we’ve lost, the progress left to be made. Still, even though there is so much work to be done, Lino reminds us t...
Lyrical and dark, Lauren Sanderson’s Some of the Children Were Listening begins with witness. With a voice uncommonly young and impossibly certain, these poems climb out of bed and sit on the stairs, eavesdropping on a world that wasn’t meant for them. In quick turns and tight threads comes the violence of nature, the nature of violence. Sanderson moves fluidly across the personal and the universal, venturing into a world beyond witness; where the trees fall when the girls scream and everyone’s daughter is a king.
Bill Moran's collection, Oh God Get Out Get Out, goes through us like ugly medicine. It wades through his anxietywater— the grief, trauma, mental illness, money, addiction, deceased friends, and long EMS shifts— all pooled inside the depressed deathmetal kid, his thirsty mouth held open and up to heaven, wanting to die. It walks him and his audience through the haunted house that we are, the one we hate living in. It doesn't look away from the dark. It kindly refuses an early exit. It keeps the death off by leaning into it. Hems it in like a band shirt, animal coat, tv show, or god we can wear when our own bodies are worn out. It eats its way out of Moran and his audience, the same way he will leave this world: wet with its Ugly, wearing the Ugly like a deathmetal shirt, carrying armfuls of Ugly out with him. You'll hate the taste, but he swears you can drink this like medicine. When you want to disappear, it is light you can douse yourself in. When you want to get the hell out, it will clean house. It really hopes you'll stay.
In Brandon Melendez’s debut poetry collection, Gold That Frames the Mirror, nothing sung can truly be lost. Orbiting a daisy-chain of fascinations that range from heritage & family to grief, music, & mental illness, these poems want to know what “home” means, even when the answers can seem too blood-bright to bear staring at. Yet do not mistake Melendez for a poet of an uncomplicated sadness: even when he writes of deep loss, there is the possibility of wonder & joy. Drawing from a wellspring of profound bewilderment present in his images as well as how language assumes—or is assumed by—form, Melendez knows poetry, like home, is something we carry with us in our bodies. Every certa...
Caitlin Scarano's debut poetry collection, Do Not Bring Him Water, begins, 'as a child you don't ask yourself why you're hiding, / you just hide.' These poems bear witness to domestic trauma and the many forms it can take. In this collection, women escape knots of fishing wire, secret rooms behind radiator grates, hammers to the skull, vegetable gardens, howling houses, chains and chairs. Scarano orchestrates a strange, lyrical world where the lines between human/animal, male/female, past/future, guilt/innocence, and waking/dreaming blur with both visceral pleasure and danger. We are led through this world by a speaker who is attempting to both acknowledge and disrupt a history of violence and silence. Yes, perhaps 'no one is made / for anyone,' but love can still engender from loss.
Megan Falley’s much-anticipated fourth collection of poetry shocks you with its honesty: whether through exacting wit or lush lyrical imagery. It is clear that the author is madly in love, not only with her partner for whom she writes both idiosyncratic and sultry poems for, but in love with language, in love with queerness, in love with the therapeutic process of bankrupting the politics of shame. These poems tackle gun violence, toxic masculinity, LGBTQ* struggles, suicidality, and the oppression of women’s bodies, while maintaining a vivid wildness that the tongue aches to speak aloud. Known best for breathtaking last lines and truths that will bowl you over, Drive Here and Devastate Me will “relinquish you from the possibility of meeting who you could have been, and regretting who you became.”
In Janae Johnson's debut poetry collection, the concept of being tenderheaded is less about Black hair; more how we are taught to disguise pain through suppression of macro and micro traumas. What began as a book of poetry about women's basketball transformed into a coming-of-age story centering Black queer masculinity, emotional restoration and belonging. From lyrically experimental to personified prose, each poem encourages humor to rise after an eight hour hair appointment and the ultimate decision to wear a ponytail.
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A fines de los noventas, Chaska, hermosa y corajuda ñusta del Cusco, lucha contra el más conspicuo depredador de los magnífi cos tesoros arqueológicos incaicos, arriesgando su dignidad y su propia vida. Ungida princesa del secretamente supérstite reino de los Incas, deberá convertirse en el origen de la futura liberación de su pueblo, misión que asume con estoicismo provocando gran decepción en Willka, el amor de su vida, con quien sueña compartir aquel destino mesiánico, sin imaginar los peligros a los que los expondrá. Paralelamente, el catedrático Miguel Abanto y la museóloga Regina Olarte, su mejor ex alumna, mientras recorren los vaivenes de su desesperanzado romance, interactúan con los personajes centrales del relato y contribuyen a una culminación que oscila entre lo trágico y lo sublime.