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And then we began eating corn starch, chalk chewed wet into sirup. We pilfered Argo boxes stored away to stiffen my white dress shirt, and my cousin…
Forrest Hamer is an American poet, psychologist, and psychoanalyst. He is the author of three poetry collections, most recently Rift (Four Way Books, 2007). His first collection, Call & Response, (Alice James Books) won the Beatrice Hawley Award, and his second, Middle Ear (Roundhouse Press), received the Northern California Book Award. He has received fellowships from the Bread Loaf Writers’ Conference and the California Arts Council, and he has taught at the Callaloo Creative Writing Workshops. His poetry has been anthologized in Poet’s Choice: Poems for Everyday Life, The Geography of Home: California’s Poetry of Place, The Ringing Ear: Black Poets Lean South, Blues Poems, Word of Mouth: An Anthology of Gay American Poetry, and three editions of The Best American Poetry; and has appeared in many magazines and literary journals including The American Poetry Review, Beloit Poetry Journal, Kenyon Review, Callaloo, Ploughshares, Shenandoah, TriQuarterly, and ZYZZYVA. He was educated at Yale University and the University of California - Berkeley. He lives in Oakland, California.)
Forrest Hamer şiirleri
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It would be unfortunate if the idea of multiple selves obscured the fact the self is still responsible for the terror it makes in the mind.…
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To make it back home across town, we had to learn to walk only through black neighborhoods. Think about this as the map…
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And the old men, supervising grown grandsons, nephews, any man a boy given this chance of making a new sidewalk outside the apartment building where some of them live, three old me…
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This air is flooded with her. I am a boy again, and my mother and I lie on wet grass, laughing. She startles, turns to marigolds at my side, saying beautiful, and I can see the red…
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After I stumbled through the gauntlet, after they had hit me As hard as they could, Some there only because there was someone else To be brought in, I joined them…
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It was 1963 or 4, summer, and my father was driving our family from Ft. Hood to North Carolina in our 56 Buick. We'd been hearing about Klan attacks, and we knew…