My grandfather had a mythological stature in my life. Born to an illiterate farming family in rural China, he left home to join the People’s Liberation Army, where he learned how to write. He published several novels and essays, now lost. Through my life, he was a silent man with an intense aura, and I recall him always being in a separate room or sitting apart at family gatherings. I trace my own writing to him. He passed away in 2020, after which I wrote a long piece about him and my grandmother.
Cleo Qian on [My grandfather walked in the snow] |
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"Where Poetry is Vibrantly Alive"
"We’re all here for The Poetry Project’s 49th Annual New Year’s Day Marathon, the first in-person edition since 2020. From 2 p.m. to 1 a.m., poets, novelists, singers, pianists, dancers, performance artists and others take over the sanctuary’s stage, in three-minute increments, in front of a steady crowd."
via THE WASHINGTON POST |
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What Sparks Poetry:
Layla Benitez-James on Two Poems by Beatriz Miralles de Imperial
"Bea has been described as 'a poet of silence, of everything unsaid which is suggested through language,' and translating these poems opened my eyes to the immense possibilities of brevity, inspiring me to begin a book-length project in small bursts. How Dark My Skin Is Left by Her Shadow taught me the strength of distillation, how intensity rises, and pressure builds when a substance is compressed." |
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