ANDREW RIUTTA [19.193]

Andrew Riutta

Nació y se crió en Michigan, EE.UU. Desde hace veinte años, ha vivido en el Traverse Región Grand, en el campo en Michigan con su esposa Lori y su hija Issabella. Su primer libro de poemas, The Pie in Pieces: Thirty-Three Songs from the Midwest, fue publicado por River Man. En 2007 gano una mención en el concurso de poesía de Michigan Liberal Arts. En el 2008 ganó el Premio Memorial William J. Shaw para poesía. 

 

Books:Cigarette Butts and Lilacs (Modern English Tanka Press, 2008), The Pie in Pieces: Thirty-three Songs from the Midwest (River Man Publishing, 2006)

Anthologies:This I Believe: On Fatherhood (Wiley, 2011), Take Five: Best Contemporary Tanka (Modern English Tanka Press, 2009), Beyond Forgetting (Kent State University Press, 2008), Dust of Summers (Red Moon Press, 2008), A New Resonance (Red Moon Press, 2007), Taboo Haiku (Avisson Press, 2006), In the Arms of Words (Sherman Asher Publishing, 2005)

Journals:Blood Lotus, Dunes Review, Eclectica, Frogpond, Red River Review, Ribbons: Tanka Society of America Journal, Smokebox

Prizes:2008 Recipient of the William J. Shaw Memorial Prize for Poetry

Lilas blancas: Tres haikúes y una tanka

lilas blancas

sobre un alféizar mojado,

madre en pañales

viento de otoño,

madre clava los ojos

donde no puedo ver

flujo de polen,

recorrido de mi madre

a otra habitación

ha perdido todo

lo que alguna vez preservó la luz del sol;

y sin embargo…

de vez en cuando echa una mirada

fuera de la ventana de la cocina

Traductor: Armando Ibarra

http://www.revistadepoesiaclave.com/

Andrew Riutta was born and raised in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan. For twenty years, he has lived in the Grand Traverse Region. He is the recipient of the 2008 William J. Shaw Memorial Prize for Poetry, and in 2006 he won "honorable mention" in the Michigan Liberal Arts poetry contest. This past spring, his first full-length poetry collection, Cigarette Butts and Lilacs, was published by Modern English Tanka Press. He and his daughter, Issabella, enjoy walking in cemeteries and eating pancakes

her third eye

her brown eye . . .

some days

it’s impossible to tell

one from the other

In the fender

of this shiny antique car

I can see myself

looking over my shoulder

at what's behind me.

I wanted to be a stone in the field, 

simply that, 

and then I wanted to be the grass around it, 

and then the cattle grazing 

under the too blue sky,

and then the blue, 

which has of itself 

no substance,

and yet goes on and on and on.

A Primer on Parallel Lives, Copper Canyon Press, 2007

It has less rust

and fewer dents

than our only vehicle,

that Pabst Blue Ribbon can

you found in the woods

 

Thirteen hours

of flipping burgers.

At home I find

my lawn chair’s cup holder, 

full of snow

$795.00

due by tomorrow.

Everywhere, 

all at once,

the wind

turning over

the same compost pile,

day after day,

again and again,

until I smell like the earth

Virginia Wolfe

put stones in her pockets

and sank into a river.

For months now,

I have kept my hands in mine.

 

Modern English Tanka, 2008

I’m sure this old rope’s 

still strong enough for a noose . . .

and yet its frayed ends 

lift in the wind

like bird plumage

 

 

Perhaps with some luck

and that angel

made from coat hangers, 

we’ll live to tell

of just how we survived

Cigarette Butts and Lilacs

Lung Cancer

 

Like always, the janitor sits for his break 

with a cup of coffee, and I sit across from him. 

I light a cigarette. It's Sunday morning, 

and the two street sweepers outside 

might as well be racing each other. 

They can't keep up. 

The janitor pours half and half into his cup 

but doesn't stir it. It floats on top, 

spiraling like a galaxy. I drink mine black. 

He takes a sip and stretches. 

He hasn't shaved in days. Neither have I. 

He reaches into the pocket of his faded blue t-shirt. 

Out of habit, I slide my Bic across the table. 

He picks it up and spins the wheel, 

making a few sparks but no flame. 

He slides it back and then pulls out an inhaler. 

I want to apologize, but don't because I know he understands. 

We stare out the window for a minute in silence,

and then he tells me the fox got his chickens again.

 

(Dunes Review, 2008---winner of the William J. Shaw memorial prize for poetry)

apple blossoms

my grandfather snaps

his suspenders

Moonset, 2007

midday heat

the carpenter's tool belt

full of plums

Roadrunner, 2006; Red Moon Anthology, 2006; Reeds, 2007.

in my coat pocket

through births and deaths

the same empty matchbook

A New Resonance 5, 2007

Picnic at School Lake

You say you want to dance, but we are already dancing.

The sky is a mortar, and we are being ground to the pixels

in a photograph of the wind.

After I'm through with you, I'll swallow one more pain pill—

a small resin Buddha the color of cheap wine—

and learn to relax.

I'll ask you to get down on your hands and knees and be a park bench.

I'll plant flowers.

I'll sit.

My cigarette smoke will rise into a mushroom cloud.

It will be the last war.

 

Recalling Puberty with my Sister

The day after the candy store closed,

the liquor store opened. 

You called it a hope chest,

and we sat on the curb that whole afternoon

just looking in.

 

.