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Published Poetry Translations: Title Portuguese Journal Author 1 LITTLE BY LITTLE A POUCO E POUCO Ezra Maria Teresa Horta 2 THE LEAVES AS FOLHAS Ezra Maria Teresa Horta 3 THE HAND AND THE WRITING A MÃO E A ESCRITA Ezra Maria Teresa Horta 4 POEM POEMA Springhouse Maria Teresa Horta 5 FROM THE BEGINNING AB INITIO Springhouse Maria Teresa Horta 6 ANTICIPATION ESPERA Springhouse Maria Teresa Horta 7 IDEALIZATION IDEALIZAÇÃO Springhouse Maria Teresa Horta 8 FROM MUTINY TO MUTINY DE MOTIM EM MOTIM Metamorphoses Maria Teresa Horta 9 DELIRIUMS DELÍRIOS Metamorphoses Maria Teresa Horta 10 FURTIVE STEPS TRAÇOS FURTIVOS Metamorphoses Maria Teresa Horta 11 POEM AFTER POEM POEMA A POEMA Metamorphoses Maria Teresa Horta 12 FROM LIBERTY TO LIBERTY DE LIBERDADE EM LIBERDADE Inventory Maria Teresa Horta 13 GREED AVIDEZ Inventory Maria Teresa Horta 14 MY SUSTENANCE MEU ALIMENTO Inventory Maria Teresa Horta 16 THE CONDITION OF THE VERSES DA CONDIÇÃO DOS VERSOS Alchemy Maria Teresa Horta 17 VERSES VERSOS SWWIM Maria Teresa Horta

Index Previous Next Washday After Grandma Moses So hard to know the subject: a meadow, dead center of oils in green? Or left of it, this hyperactive wash scene: milky-white shirts scattered on the green's mossy edge. Rows of blanched sheets fluttering from taut lines that hem the green, that keep the women with their laundry always receding. And opposite the sheets, a picket fence that seems to frame the spongy grades of green and lime and ask us to reflect on - what? Something the women and the others have quietly agreed to turn away from. Look how they crowd their way into the margins. Here, a harvest story: flecks of red gathered into baskets. Words being said between the harvesters. Words so compelling that one of them stands upright to view the other. Is he facing the painting's question? Or does he only seem to look at him because they share this tiny patch of goldenrod and green and picket fences? Easy to grant: this kind of ground that parcels out our senses. And far, far off from center, a first or last encounter: a woman stops as she exits a dark, cool shed - stops, not to adjust to the day's stark light but to feel the gaze of a man more painted than she, to feel the thrust of sepia: his suit, dabbed on like that line of aging wood outside the shed; like the sepia dresses of the women nearby; like the silo, sepia and Indian red, that hedge her in. Roads leading in, but not to the center of life. Only the large white house, the same starched white as the sheets the women hang. Windows with shades half-drawn so evenly that they have clearly been painted on. A front door shut so tight that it disappears, at times, as white will against white. The chimney (and so, the hearth) an afterthought in browns and burgundy. Is this the cache of colors then that comes with knowing one's lot? The end of looking east or west? The fertile ground fenced off? . Copyright © 2006 M. B. McLatchey All rights reserved. Published in Ekphrasis , Fall/Winter 2006.

Index Previous Next Winner of the 2005 Annie Finch Prize On Recognizing Saints As if to find new icons for her life or as if - piece by piece - to dismantle mine she scans our purchases too consciously. Flips through a magazine I'm embarrassed to be buying. Studies its regimen for shapely thighs, asks me - because she's heard - if drinking wine is good for nursing. The shift from idle chitchat to appeal. Camille, her nametag says. Camille of olive skin and violet nails with long metallic tips, who flashes her lover's sucking marks like her stigmata. Camille who isn't showing yet - but like Crivelli's virgin martyr Catherine, peers sidelong at me and leans decoratively against her register as Catherine did against her studded wheel. So clearly Catherine that I want to look away - or kneel. And yet, Crivelli would have framed her differently: a martyr tucked away with other martyrs in a predella of muted colors, quiet suffering. None of this heart-to-heart - this girlfriend talk that brings to mind a string of small petitions and makes me say my part. . Copyright © 2004 M. B. McLatchey All rights reserved. Winner of the Annie Finch Prize, 2005. Judge: Margot Schlipp Published in The National Poetry Review , Fall/Winter 2005.

Selected Poems of Maria Teresa Horta Translated by: M.B. McLatchey and Edite Cunhã Published in Springhouse , Fall 2019 Prev 4 Next POEM This is my epic wrought in poetry wounds and words without gods without battles without heroes or tears without bronze armaments Poem to poem to poem passion after radiance after grace in its truest form POEMA Esta é a minha epopeia feita de poesia perdimentos e palavras sem deuses sem batalhas sem heróis nem lágrimas sem o bronze das armas Poema a poema a poema paixão após fulgor após beleza na sua dimensão mais ávida Copyright © 2019 M. B. McLatchey & Edite Cunha, with permission. All rights reserved. Published in Springhouse , Fall 2019. Copyright © 2017 Maria Teresa Horta, from her collection Poesis . Dom Quixote Publisher, Lisbon. Back to List

Index Previous Next On Folding a Fitted Sheet One eye looks within, the other eye looks without. ― Henri Cartier-Bresson The art, it seems, is in the ease of mirroring what is measured: at once attending to, surrendering to a set of numbers, a fixed but – when you release too tight a grip – supple and scented plane. Tuck the puckered edges back. Give it a thwack. Let it balloon – a goddess-smelted bloom of what remains after ablution: smoke-colored shadows, the stir of a post-coital myrrh. Hold as one holds a picture you would hang or, as in Prokofiev’s ballet: arms bent and raised, palms open-faced. Fold it until the edges meet – repeat, repeat. Walk it upstairs with the reverence you’d have for carrying your country’s flag. . Copyright © 2018 M. B. McLatchey. All rights reserved. Published in Harpur Palate of Binghamton University, Fall 2018, Vol. 18.1.

Index Previous Next 2008 Muriel Craft Bailey Memorial Award - Special Merit The Rescue People use the word 'closure.' It's not about closure, it's more about justice. ― John Walsh, father to Adam Walsh. Today in the news: Miraculous Rescue An uncle drags a shark to shore to save his near-dead nephew. A bull of a shark, the arm that it tore from the boy when he waved for help fueled the beast's palate; its tail in the uncle's grip, a blur of blood claret and kelp; the husks from his palms, a grim and edible kale. I want a shark that I can wrestle and make it spit you out. To make it yearn for its strength, to thrash about as I nestle its nose in my grip. I want to turn you loose from a palpable place: a well, a shed, a jaw. I want the monster to face me and beg for the law. . Copyright © 2007 M. B. McLatchey. All rights reserved. Muriel Craft Bailey Memorial Award - Special Merit. Published in The Comstock Review , January 2008.

Index Previous Next 2012 Erskine J. Poetry Prize - Finalist Catharsis A portly man on TV says he’s eating jelly donuts since his doctor recommended more fruit. My head tucked beneath your chin, I feel you grin. A welcome joke – what Aristotle called a cleansing: the comedy channel in bed. A piecemeal purging meant to clear our minds, a chance to graft, like patchwork, the wreckage of our lives onto a campy figure, cheer for him; love him for dancing when the gods single him out, pile on their twisted trials. As if – for a few moments – we are watching someone else’s life unfold. Pizza and beer, you my armchair, tucked in our sheets. As if – for a few moments – we have climbed up from some well to lounge on sun-baked stone, take in the Dionysian Mysteries: lore of the vine – seasons, grapes, wine. Nothing ever truly dying. And us, tender initiates, laughing so hard we’re crying. . Copyright © 2011 M. B. McLatchey. All rights reserved. Finalist for the 11th Annual Erskine J. Poetry Prize . Published in the 2012 Spring issue of S martish Pace .

Index Previous Next War in Eurasia We shall squeeze you empty, and then we shall fill you with ourselves. - Orwell, 1984 We sleep like guard dogs, one eye open, groomed to unlock from one another’s folds. Older, a cooler grey than our adult years. Your breast, like a forbidden prayer or scent or thought, presses against my arm. The war in Eurasia rages on. The dull flicker of the TV; the news anchor’s lips tattooed a deep party red mouthing vowels: A and E, and O – not I or U. Everything in black and white, or streams of sepia. We hardly remember the difference between the news and truer truths; the sum of two plus two. Harvest seasons pass. Dictionaries yield a sulphury marsh gas. Winters sprout days of halcyon, golden wheat. We yearn for myths that lean on goddesses of crops, a mother’s loss and rage, a revenge drought. Love is the warrior’s call. We knew it in the womb, first breath, when we were made to choose: a dying art, or this waking death. . Copyright © 2022 M. B. McLatchey. All rights reserved. Published in Sequestrum , Issue 32, June 2022.

Index Previous Next Prometheus's Regret I will always place the mission first. I will never accept defeat. I will never quit. I will never leave a fallen comrade. ― Soldier’s Creed The Hand A harder man was what I meant to make, my print an atlas stitched to a boy’s soft side. His mind changed from the heat inside my palm – awakened to a god who trades in brother love and psalms. The Head So neatly planned, but look how you have lost him. See how our quiet Titan lifts the sky? Never an ending or starting. Always the twilight of shoulders changed into mountain ranges; always the life force tested and departing. The Heart Raiment of gold, a bronze shield, all the rivers on earth, I would give back. How to weigh the gains against the losses? The anthem instead of the man; a mother’s birth-breaths; the ground still soft where he took his first steps. . Copyright © 2019 M. B. McLatchey. All rights reserved. Published in The Halcyone Literary Review , December 2019.

Index Previous Next 2012 Robert Frost Award - First Runner Up The Arrangement I. Because we were getting old enough our instructor took us to look at (not to touch) some pictures grown men drew. We tripped like new recruits through orderly rooms. Some were sternly directed to carry their shoes as we made our hushed advance. In the dim hall we could hear a classmate whimpering as she would whenever she felt too far from home. Her tears a kind of prelude to the work itself: Flowers in a Vase - more paint than flowers whose stems arched away, whose poppies bleated and sprayed yellow tears on our starched uniforms, on the perfect walls. All the way home, the yellow hung on our clothes. The bus took us sluggishly along, and we felt the road under its beefy wheels change to a luminous river of paint and the trees gave up their souls in Autumn's clay glow. II. I knew what it meant but not really. So I took the stairs two by two for you, like any other day. In my pocket, paintings on postcards, a stick of gum. In the kitchen below, Dad had grown small beside the cakes the ladies brought. He would not eat, he would not speak to relatives in the hall, and the relatives awkwardly leaning on end-tables like faded photos of themselves. Mother was proud to find me at my prayers and honoring the adults who were clearly "spent". When she pressed her head to mine, I felt her hair like fingers on my brow: a gesture she'd learned from you, mother to mother, and was teaching me now. And, this was "hard" and "each of us will have his own lament." It took all I had to steady my temple to hers - to keep my sorrow apart - as we planned the next few hours: where the aunts would sleep and who would order the flowers. . Copyright © 2006 M. B. McLatchey All rights reserved. 2012 Robert Frost Award - First Runner Up, Robert Frost Foundation . Judge's Review

Index Previous Next Before the Common Era Before the Common Era Before Epictetus, the Aztecs, Machiavelli; before Berkeley, Spinoza, Calvin, Hegel and Heidegger; before the Bavarian Illuminati; before Marie Antionette; before Schelling; before Hayek, Derrida, and Bukowski; before the laws of timeless nature; Kerouac. Before Nirvana analysis and conceptual tunneling; before subtle physics; before alternative systems; before god, I remember we planted some seeds in a narrow back lot, a trellis with open ties for the sprouts like bait and lure in sod tiles. And we waited for spring like we waited for our first child: a new world of water and marrow. And we knelt near the terraces, brushing the earth. And the air’s soft tongue kept us close and at our tasks, not missing things unsaid, anthems unsung. . Copyright © 2019 M. B. McLatchey. All rights reserved. Published in Quadrant , January 2021

Index Previous Next A Glass of Absinthe After Degas At first we pass them, unstudied as a snapshot where marginal subjects have slipped in. A disenchanted pair off-center and off-level, lean like bags of flour into the singular pitch of a cafe's genial keel; no ballast here except for the pool of milky licorice - a teetering glass of absinthe. So startling to see how everything was made to dovetail; how the zigzag of empty tables between us and the luckless couple traces a brooding loneliness, a composition so boldly calculated that we can hardly face its draughtsmanship. Powdered pigments molded into figures whose back sides blaze in mirrors propped behind them like butterflies caught in an ashen rain. The proprietor had thought the glass might brighten the place. But, there is no changing history or the reflections of our lives. . Upcoming in The Banyan Review, Fall 2023.