"Martín Espada ....forges a new poetic language."―Dennis Loy Johnson, Pittsburgh Tribune In his sixth collection, American Book Award winner Martín Espada has created a poetic mural. There are conquerors, slaves, and rebels from Caribbean history; the "Mayan astronomer" calmly smoking a cigarette in the middle of a New York tenement fire; a nun staging a White House vigil to protest her torture; a man on death row mourning the loss of his books; and even Carmen Miranda.
Sandra Cisneros says: “Martín Espada is the Pablo Neruda of North American authors.” Espada was born in Brooklyn, New York in 1957. He has published thirteen books in all as a poet, essayist, editor and translator. His eighth collection of poems, The Republic of Poetry, was published by Norton in October, 2006. Of this new collection, Samuel Hazo writes: "Espada unites in these poems the fierce allegiances of Latin American poetry to freedom and glory with the democratic tradition of Whitman, and the result is a poetry of fire and passionate intelligence." His last book, Alabanza: New and Selected Poems, 1982-2002 (Norton, 2003), received the Paterson Award for Sustained Literary Achievement and was named an American Library Association Notable Book of the Year. An earlier collection, Imagine the Angels of Bread (Norton, 1996), won an American Book Award and was a finalist for the National Book Critics Circle Award. Other books of poetry include A Mayan Astronomer in Hell’s Kitchen (Norton, 2000), City of Coughing and Dead Radiators (Norton, 1993), and Rebellion is the Circle of a Lover’s Hands (Curbstone, 1990). He has received numerous awards and fellowships, including the Robert Creeley Award, the Antonia Pantoja Award, an Independent Publisher Book Award, a Gustavus Myers Outstanding Book Award, the Charity Randall Citation, the Paterson Poetry Prize, the PEN/Revson Fellowship and two NEA Fellowships. He recently received a 2006 John Simon Guggenheim Memorial Foundation Fellowship. His poems have appeared in The New Yorker, The New York Times Book Review, Harper’s, The Nation, and The Best American Poetry. He has also published a collection of essays, Zapata’s Disciple (South End, 1998); edited two anthologies, Poetry Like Bread: Poets of the Political Imagination from Curbstone Press (Curbstone, 1994) and El Coro: A Chorus of Latino and Latina Poetry (University of Massachusetts, 1997); and released an audiobook of poetry on CD, called Now the Dead will Dance the Mambo (Leapfrog, 2004). Much of his poetry arises from his Puerto Rican heritage and his work experiences, ranging from bouncer to tenant lawyer. Espada is a professor in the Department of English at the University of Massachusetts-Amherst, where he teaches creative writing and the work of Pablo Neruda.
I had not read a book of poetry by Espada for more than a decade, but my library had this one out for National Poetry Month and so I took it home and was reminded how much I like his work. The title of the book is an indication of his humor and imagination and and lyricism and politics, actually--he's decidedly a Latino writer writing from that perspective, he's angry about poverty and racism and violence. He is intensely lyrical and angry. Sometimes these modes alternate. Many people think that political poetry's just not possible, is typically bad, but Espada is terrific. Remember Neruda: "Look at the blood on the streets!" Espada is one of the sons of Neruda, one who does him proud, I am sure.
A collection of accessible poems about the Puerto-Rican experience in the USA, specifically New York City, in the mid- to late 1990s. There is both humor and pathos. Specific Hispanic figures, like Carmen Miranda, are evoked.
How have I missed this poet over all these years. This is one of his older collections, from 2000, but it just absolutely ripples with strength and humor and truth. Of Puerto Rican descent, most of these poems are set in Puerto Rico, and many look at tough subjects using gorgeous language, but also using humor and levity in the perfect way, sometimes starting the poem with a light tone, and then slamming you with a turn, or often after a devastating poem, Espada followed it up with a short poem that would make me just guffaw, keeping the book in perfect balance. I simply MUST go see him read his poetry.
Overall, I’m blown away. Espada’s stamina, for one, in consistently and continually creating solid images out of beautifully chosen words is just insane. The man is a wordsmith like no other. Take for instance, the first poem of this collection. With “My Name is Espada,” our poet takes virtually every digression possible within the context of the word “espada” (while yet never seeming to actually diverge from the point) to give the audience the fullest extent of historical and hereditary knowledge… and he still maintains voice, humor, and emotion. “Ode to Your Earrings” does something very similar by taking a mundane object and “poetizing” it beautifully and lengthily, while not going too far outside the bound of reason; he keeps it tight, regardless of the length.
The names of his poems and his humor also leave an impression. When you have a poem titled “I Apologize for Giving You Poison Ivy by Smacking You in the Eye with the Crayfish at the End of My Fishing Line,” and “The Community College Revises Its Curriculum in Response to Changing Demographics,” you know you’ve got a winner. When the title of the poem is longer than the poem itself like “What Francisco Luis Espada Learned at Age Five, Standing on the Dock,” and yet still the piece has dramatic humor and emotional impact, there is definitely something talented at the other end.
Finally, his ability to vary his forms, from short to long work, from narrative to verse, from humorous to insightful, shows his complete mastery and meta-awareness of what he does. This is definitely the coolest poetry I’ve read so far.
if the nameless prostitute becomes an unraveling turban of steam, if the judges’ robes become clouds of ink swirling like octopus deception, if the shroud becomes your Amish quilt, if your dreadlocks are snipped during autopsy, then drift above the ruined RCA factory that once birthed radios to the tomb of Walt Whitman, where the granite door is open and fugitive slaves may rest.