Her nonfiction study of Latina coming of age rituals in In 1995 she received the Jessica Nobel-Maxwell Poetry Prize from theĪmerican Poetry Review. More impressive, the awards come to her work, no matter the genre she publishes. In addition to her books serving as texts in One Read programs or in school curriculums, Alvarez has been awarded many honors, including an NEA fellowship and a Josephine Miles/PEN award. Details on these, including the specifics of translations, speaking engagements, journal publications, awards and many other activities are updated regularly on her website, To date, she has brought out six novels, seven books for young readers (from picture books to young adult fiction), two works of nonfiction, and three full-length books of poetry. ( Que escribo lo que siento de verdad.) ( The WomanĪ prolific author, Alvarez has published considerably more since trading her tenured professorship for the position Writer-in-Residence at Middlebury College. I'm writing down the truth of what I feel. She writes for the most part in English, but her formative years until the age of ten were spent in the Dominican Republic, so Spanish holds for her the deep emotional tie of the mother tongue, or as she puts it in "In English," "It's puzzling then that I write in English,/as if I have to step back from myself/to be able to say what I'm feeling." She concludes, I dug it real, real strong.Ulia Alvarez, as a bilingual writer, brings what we might call a built-in counterpoint to the tradition of English poetry. I needed that wisdom, to know that I wasn't following in vain. And inside this poem-under and over the words-there is wisdom: "We arrive where we were promised." The poet did not disappoint me, as I followed the journey. Along the way, the poet layers lyric subjectivity with imagery that is at once new, but somehow, familiar to someplace previously unknown inside me. "On Sundays" is a poem that literally takes me on a journey with the speaker, past landscape and memory and confusion into revelation. Knows that I'm there, giving a chance to the poem, even if I don't know where I am going-even if I don't want to know where I am going. I want to know that the poet, while writing for him- or herself, also writes for me. Sure, I lap up the language-gobble it up-but just as I admit that I have a weakness for beauty, I also have a weakness for understanding-or at least, for a poet's empathy with the reader. But language alone cannot carry a poem for me. I need the startling weft of words moving under and over each other in a poem. I admit that I am a sucker for a poem that exhibits beauty and luminosity. The language of a poem is what draws me in. Reprinted by permission of Stuart Bernstein Representation for Artists, New York, NY. What we longed for in ourselves, each other.Ĭopyright © 2015 by Julia Alvarez. In the distance, spired with whitecaps, belled Instead I practiced patience in the face ofĪnd it lay before us: vast and blue, roaring The skill of choosing predictable outcomes. Or sprinkled with confetti colors, honing Ice cream under sliding glass doors, deliberations With its candycane-striped awning, its blastįirst hand, the cartons of imported ices, Which might be why I chose it every time Or coming after us, as we raced up the beach, Opening for boats, toys, kids-spitting them backĪs driftwood, shell shards, tiny skeletons The way the sea was hungry, its ragged mouths We meant to get to, what we hungered for, Our chins and swimsuits-as if to teach us The corner, for cement-errands he omitted Required a stop at the almacén, just around To pick-just the right size, the right shape, The trunk with river stones that took hours Whom we belonged to, the choice disguised
0 Comments
Leave a Reply. |
Details
AuthorWrite something about yourself. No need to be fancy, just an overview. ArchivesCategories |