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Award Winning Poetry - 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 Previous Next

ABOUT M.B. McLatchey is an American poet and writer with a lifelong passion for literature, philosophy, and ancient and modern languages. She is a Professor of Humanities at Embry-Riddle Aeronautical University in Daytona Beach, Florida, U.S. Ambassador to the HundrED global foundation, Chancellor for the Florida State Poets Association, former Poet Laureate of Florida's Volusia County (2015-2025), Arts & Wellness Ambassador for the Atlantic Center for the Arts, and poetry reader for the Miami based journal SWWIM . She has received numerous awards, including the 2011 American Poet Prize by The American Poetry Journal, the 2012 Robert Frost Award, and was recently nominated for the 2020 Pushcart Prize as well as Best of the Net award. In 2015, she was a Poet Laureate nominee for the State of Florida. Promoted as offering "One of the best poetry courses in Florida! ", she is featured in the July 2017 issue of the Association of Writers & Writing Programs (AWP) . M.B. is a graduate of Harvard University with over 35 years of college teaching. The list of institutions she has taught at include the University of Central Florida, Rollins College, Valencia College, Harvard University, and Embry-Riddle Aeronautical University. She has also worked as a speechwriter for a state senator, as a reporter for a daily newspaper, as a magazine editor for a major publisher, as a reader and book reviewer for poetry journals, and as a Board of Trustees member for Goddard college in Vermont. She has authored many literary reviews, compiled text books for Humanities courses, conducted poetry and writing workshops throughout the United States, helped mentor young poets, judged numerous poetry contests, and is a frequent contributor to books on writing, poetry, and teaching. Her debut poetry collection The Lame God was awarded First Place in the 16th Annual May Swenson Poetry Award by Utah State University Press in 2013. She was awarded the 2014 FLP Chapbook Prize by Finishing Line Press for her book Advantages of Believing . Her book, Beginner's Mind , published in 2021 by Regal House Publishing, was awarded the Penelope Niven Creative Nonfiction Award as well as the Readers' Favorite Five-Star Award . Her newest book, Smiling at the Executioner, whose title poem was nominated for the Pushcart Prize, was released in November 2023 by Kelsay Books. M.B. has received numerous academic teaching awards including Harvard University's coveted Danforth Prize, the Harvard/Radcliffe Prize for Literary Scholarship, and the Brown University Elmer Smith First Place Award for excellence in teaching. Her most recent poetry awards include the Annie Finch Prize for Poetry, the Robert Frost award, the Spoon River Poetry Review’s Editors’ Prize, the Penelope Niven Creative Nonfiction Award, the Vachel Lindsay Poetry Award, the Folio Editor's Prize, as well as a Best of the Net nomination. My Links: My Facebook Site My Author's Guild Site My Amazon Author Site My HundrED Ambassador Site My Linkedin Site My Teaching Philosophy What Others are Saying: Of Poets & Poetry - Interview AWP - In the Spotlight How I Write - Interview Florida State Poets Association Poetry Workshop Reviews Seamus Heaney Edward Field NPR's Tom Williams Florida Book Review Brad Crenshaw Kickstand Poetry - Interview New South: Georgia Spoon River Poetry Review Robert Frost Foundation Atlantic Center for Arts - Interview Sky Island Journal Review Salem College The Author's Guild - Interview Beginner's Mind From Shipyard to Harvard Yard: Embracing Endless Possibilities by M. B. McLatchey Winner of the Penelope Niven Creative Nonfiction Award Readers' Favorite ® 2021 Award - 5 Stars A "fourth grade teacher that many readers will wish they’d had"! - Kirkus Review More Info

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Award Winning Poetry - 1978 From the book "Advantages of Believing" Beginner's Mind We have been together in Buddha’s gentle rain for days. Our robes are soaked through. I try not to long for things as your palm unwinds under my chin. You speak to me in the simplest language, Have a cup of tea. I sense your compassion but my ears are filled with water and the incense unnerves me. You cup my ears and whisper, Rozan is famous for its misty, rainy days, and, The sky is always the sky. I believe you, though I am not surprised. Perhaps the exchange should not be this intimate. The shadows near my eyes and across your shaved head make us tired and ordinary. You are an old man with dry lips. Perhaps your middle sags as you smooth my hair, my hair that was just so. Copyright © 1978 M. B. McLatchey. All rights reserved. Williams College Archives, 1978 Published in the author's book Advantages of Believing , 2015. Previous Next

Amber Alert Winner of the 2013 New South Writing Contest “Amber Alert" is a poem that is so compressed it fools us into thinking it's only going to be about a road and a deer. The clean lines hold so much more – movement, murder, youth and sensual beauty stolen, worlds of boys and girls in collision, the hunter, the hunted, rituals, and poetry inside poetry – a "hunter's nectar." In the end, the poem offers a saving grace – “her heart.” --Judge, Marilyn Kallet 2013 New South Writing Contest new south : Georgia State University's Journal of Art & Literature

Award Winning Poetry - 1974 Winner of the Emerson College Original Poetry Award On Rewinding I have been told that by wish and will I fell from His sheep- wool pocket into one dame's arms; and that was birth. I have been told that angels bowl; heaven opens up when the tenth pin rolls. I have been told of cloud-grazing mares— and twice it has rained cats and dogs. I have been told that Saint Peter saw a vision. I have been told that truth may be measured by the shade of one's tongue or the length of one's nose—and twice I have doubted my countenance. I have been told when 'neath the cornered quilt that the sand- man would alight and wave his sack of sleeping dust over my last Hail Mary. I have been told that woman is infamy; man sin. And I am the issue of both. I have been told to accept His rites and wrath. Yet, I have heard over grace and gossip. from bible and book, of womb-wrenching pain, of breached and blue-born, of original sin; and that was birth. I have heard of atmospheric pressure and tropical cyclones; and that was Hurricane Ann. I have heard that fishermen like their wine and all have visions. I have heard that the truth made Socrates stutter. I have heard that some men never sleep. I have heard that opposites attract (and gather ye rosebuds while ye may) I have heard that doubt is the stepping stone to knowledge, and knowledge is the end of man. I have heard too little of too much. And still as green as County Cork, I have but fingered man's seven selves. Copyright © 2017 M. B. McLatchey. All rights reserved. Published in the Spring 1975 issue of The Emerson Review . M.B., Weymouth North High School, Massachusetts, October, 1974 Contest judge - Charles Simic . Previous Next

Index Previous Next Invocation Before a Day of Teaching Janus, god of thresholds, passageways, watch over me today. Grant them your two masks: one looking back – a green confidence, salad days; the other forward – a god- scripted series of demons to slay. Let the enemy on this warring field, (this chalky classroom space) hear this, my summoning, a call before the siege: We are not here (this hushed November day) to take guild-crafted friezes, temples, city walls; not to make bards sing. Only to pass through an open gate; fling, like a skipping stone across a mirror-glass lake, sediment from this edge toward a distant base; relish the rhythmic hop across; watch and reflect on the ripples it makes. . Copyright © 2024 M. B. McLatchey. All rights reserved. Published in Crab Orchard Review . Fall 2024.

Award Winning Poetry - 2012 Rita Dove Poetry Award - Semi Finalist At the Grieving Parents Meeting In the parish hall of Saint Anthony’s Catholic Church, pictures of murdered children in our hands, we huddle in a sphere of folding chairs and a flickering fluorescent light. Some lean near the coffee and coffee cake that, each week, has the same floury smell of sympathy and each week, the same sour taste. By the tissues, a painted soapstone statuette – our patron saint. O, the watches and keys and gloves that appeared at your feet! A ruse that my mother relied on to make me believe that our smallest petitions are heard, that events, with the proper appeals, can be reversed, that almost anything lost can be retrieved. As a girl I chanted your name while I followed the trail: pockets, under the bed, under the sofa cushions, pockets again. Something's lost and can't be found. Please, St. Anthony, look around. When it didn’t turn up, I brought you coiled vines – like the petals I bring to my daughter’s room as if to stir up stale air – and the search would resume. Look at the priestess of talismans I have become: her saint card from First Communion in my purse; lodestones for paperweights at work. For good luck, a horseshoe-shaped necklace under my shirt: the crescent shape of the sacred moon goddess in Peru or the bow of the Blessed Mother’s cradling arm, arch like the threshold of her sacred vulva, twine like the helix of lovers. Look at the virtuoso that was finally birthed, who would use this ring of linked hands not for fellowship or grace, not to make my peace on earth, not to lay my gifts at your feet and give up the search, but to summon the face she petitioned and conjure a curse. Copyright © 2011 M. B. McLatchey. All rights reserved. Published in River Styx 87, Spring 2012. Previous Next

Index Previous Next Balcony House Mesa Verde We huddle beneath a sandstone roof afraid of dream-like depths. All around: a cave metropolis. Two hundred homes piled story upon story, rise to a mezzanine of slick adobe tiles. Impregnable Balcony House. Its builders crossed a narrow ledge, then threaded a small entry that tests our king-size son and draws us to the same high wall the same sheer cliff that others slipped – or leaped from – seven hundred feet, seven centuries ago. They bartered goods, but had a taste for gambling. As here, a charming reconstruction: talus of tiny arrowheads, string of indigenous berries draped, with surprising grace, by an open pit. Exchanges we recognize: ritual gifts for the chance of a woman's forgiveness – and not – as our guide would have it – for the chance of crops. Seasonal beads for an earlier season's omissions. Shimmering talus, like the memory of a kiss. Plucked berries for a city whose heights must have made them light-headed, somehow unable to turn the earth back to life. A stirring pool of cold, clear water is all we hear today. Or perhaps, not water, but the buried tones of chanting priests in kivas underground. How could they not have heard the pools receding? How did they miss the cracking clay below? Perhaps it was our same habit of being: an ever-promising season – men trotting up toe-holds cut in stone to tend crops on a lush green mesa: a vigilance they must have thought unrivalled, while their babies swung from the ends of roof poles below, to a rhythm sung from above – quietly taking in the canyon’s toll on love. . Copyright © 2001 M. B. McLatchey. All rights reserved. Published in Tampa Review , Fall 2023.

Selected Poems of Maria Teresa Horta Translated by: M.B. McLatchey and Edite Cunhã Published in Metamorphoses , 2019 Prev 8 Next FROM MUTINY TO MUTINY From mutiny to mutiny I give myself up to poetry overcoming the hardships of insidious darkness the vertigo of longing in the manacles of passion the loss to my pulse in that singular gift of shock and tumult DE MOTIM EM MOTIM De motim em motim entrego-me à poesia a vencer a escuridade as agruras da insídia a vertigem da saudade na paixão de algemar o perdimento ao meu pulso nessa dádiva singular de sobressalto e tumulto Copyright © 2019 M. B. McLatchey & Edite Cunha, with permission. All rights reserved. Published in Metamorphoses , Fall 2019. Copyright © 2017 Maria Teresa Horta, from her collection Poesis . Dom Quixote Publisher, Lisbon. Back to List