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Showing posts with label RIP. Show all posts
Showing posts with label RIP. Show all posts

Victor Martínez (QEPD)

Francisco X. Alarcón: Today Mission District photographer Linda Wilson, long time staff member of El Tecolote, the bilingual newspaper of San Francisco, called me at home to let me know that my friend of more than 33 years, Chicano poet/author Victor Martinez had passed away. I am very saddened by the passing of this great poet, author of the celebrated novel Parrot in the Oven which was awarded the 1996 National Book Award for Young People's Literature among other prestigious literary awards.

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Poet Rane Arroyo’s death a ‘great tragedy and loss’

from the Toledo Free Press:

“He was an incredibly funny and warm person who was gifted as an artist. He had an ability to translate his experiences as a gay man and a Latino from Chicago, and the experiences with his family and with his partner. He was able to translate all of that into poetry that was accessible and that was in the grade of the great American and English poets...”

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RIP: Rane Arroyo

ALWAYS

We met in proud Utah and wore opaque
vodka on those vague Sundays for the
unfaithful on your dangling back porch
while dreaming of the very New York

where we entangled for the last time.
Te quiero, you said there, my ears as
paths. You then vanished with a macho
because I had a lover, because we’d

never ride across Russia together in
that frozen train, because listening
to A Chorus Line all those weekends
didn’t teach us the foreign language

of our bodies, because of your career
as a model after years as a military
mannequin, because we never expected
adios to be our actual parting last word.

Because, because, and because. You
turned around to stare at me and I waved
back: I love you too. What an education:
poetry always demands all my ghosts.

Rane Arroyo

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miguel murphy remembers the poet ai

Several years later she and I danced together at AWP in Palm Springs. She loved Moby. She loved wearing her black leather pants and blood-colored jacket.

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Rigoberto González remembers the poet Ai

I have a votive candle next to my bed. The only time I take a match to the wick is when I feel a particularly devastating poet loss. Just a few weeks ago, it held a flame in honor of Lucille Clifton. Just a few days ago, a flame for Ai.

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from the NYT: Lucille Clifton, Poet Who Explored Intricacies of Black Lives, Dies at 73

Lucille Clifton, a distinguished American poet whose work trained lenses wide and narrow on the experience of being black and female in the 20th century, exploring vast subjects like the indignities of history and intimate ones like the indignities of the body, died on Saturday in Baltimore. She was 73 and lived in Columbia, Md.

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Carmen Tafolla on Angela De Hoyos


"At every single Chicano literary event, reading her work with flair and flourish, applauding others, animando, taking a young poet aside to say, ‘I'd like to publish a book of your work,’ taking a cultural arts org onto her shoulders to say ‘Sí, se puede. What do you need? I'll help.’ Energy, creativity, and compassion. She published award-winners in distinguished contests in Rome and London, or on the cheap newsprint 25 cent a copy SA-based Chicano magazine called Caracol. She wrote a poem for us when we lost our first baby; she wrote a poem for organizer Willie Velásquez when he passed away. She attended every single one of the theater productions at the Guadalupe for years on end. She edited with Bryce and Mary Milligan two major Latina anthologies. She was everywhere, everywhere."

more here

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