Long river, long, long,
green, green, green,
the different shades of green
splattered by the red and black
of a few sargento birds.
Suddenly a blue envelopes you,
a transparent blue,
and soon an explosion of colors and chaos:
reds, yellows, exploding blue
and Bluefields is there.
Moving, singing to you,
surrounding you
in a magic
that no other blue could have.
Translated from the Spanish by Charles Tarzian.
María Gallo is the head of the Painting and Art Office of the People’s Cultural Houses at the National Directorate in Managua.
Staging historical justice in Hernán Ronsino’s Glaxo
“A writer worried about reception is cooking a dead book. A writer’s job is to produce the best possible book in absolute freedom, so the category ‘acceptable’ does not play in the process at all.”
From the train I could look out onto the infinite blue of the sea. I was still exhausted, wakeful from the overnight transatlantic flight to Rome, but looking out at the sea, that Mediterranean sea that was so infinite and so blue, made me forget it all, even myself. I don’t know why.
Originally published in
Cindy Sherman, Dario Fo, Bruce Weber, Lisa Fonssagrives-Penn, and Raymond Voinquel.
Let me tell you first about what it was like being a Black woman poet in the ‘60s, from jump. It meant being invisible. It meant being really invisible. It meant being doubly invisible as a Black feminist woman and it meant being triply indivisible as a Black lesbian and feminist.
Audre Lorde
