Selected Poems of Maria Teresa Horta Translated by: M.B. McLatchey and Edite Cunhã Published in Metamorphoses, 2019 Prev 10 Next FURTIVE STEPS I feel its traces furtive in the hollow of my hand gaining sudden strangeness luminosities, ravings of my lost senses arresting my heart descending to the bottom by the arm’s attrition until it reaches the slim wrist It is poetry arriving taking form and voice saying what I do not say TRAÇOS FURTIVOS Sinto-lhe os traços furtivos no côncavo da minha mão ganhando estranhezas súbitas agudezas, desvarios dos meus sentidos perdidos a prender-me o coração a descer até ao fundo pela rasura do braço até chegar ao desvão na delgadeza do pulso É a poesia que chega tomando forma e ruído a falar o que eu não digo 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

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The Lame God by M. B. McLatchey Winner of the 2013 May Swenson Poetry Award University Press of Colorado & Utah State University Press It is a hard fact that, to the artist, everything is material. We grit our teeth and use even the most personal catastrophes—our own and those of others—to make art. This is what the Classical authors did, and this is what M. B. McLatchey has done with her great subject in this book. The effect is powerful, and ultimately, The Lame God proves that if our traumatic experiences don’t destroy us, they can produce masterful works, in which human nature rises to its heights. — From the foreword by Edward Field, American poet and essayist, and judge for the 2013 May Swenson Award What Others are Saying: Video of Reading at BYU on Nov. 1, 2013 Foreword to The Lame God by Edward Field The Florida Book Review Brad Crenshaw Review National Public Radio - An Interview w/ UPR's Tom Williams Interview by Kickstand Poetry Book Reviews: In The Brothers Karamazov, Ivan demands to know why, “if everyone must suffer . . . pray tell me what children have to do with it? McLatchey, like Ivan, asks her gods to explain themselves in this startling collection of poems, searing in their union of feeling and form. These poems tore me up, and they will you, too, but never does McLatchey sentimentalize. Instead, here are lines informed by an intelligence rarely heard today as the voice of a grieving parent crying out to the gods finds its echo, but little solace, in the immortals of classical myth. A painfully beautiful debut collection!! — Bruce Guernsey, former editor of The Spoon River Poetry Review and author of From Rain: Poems, 1970-2010 This book is crushing and brilliantly written. If ever there were a time for McLatchey’s deeply moving and compassionate poems, it is now with the crazed, unchecked violence against our children. Our Western myths of tragedy and religious martyrdom pale against such inexplicable preying on children and devastating tragedy. There are no elegies here, only a powerful intellect at work and a truly gifted poet’s heartbreaking songs to our lost children. — Jeffrey Greene, author of Beautiful Monsters Like the mockingbird's cry of loss in Whitman's "Out of the Cradle," a haunted music echoes throughout this wrenching sequence. Whether invoking myth or late night TV, the horrific scenario of a child's abduction and murder and the aftermath – experienced through a family's, especially a mother's eyes -- is never less than convincingly presented. With considerable technical flair, M.B. McLatchey in The Lame God reminds us of what poetry can be, at its best: a supreme act of imagination and empathy. — Peter Schmitt, author of Renewing the Vows In magisterial cadences, this powerful poetic sequence gives voice to the unspeakable and transposes profound grief into immortal song. McLatchey's poems are talismans and spells--not against loss but against forgetting. — Philip Brady, author of Fathom and co-founder of Etruscan Press We wake in scenes that tell us what we dreamed. So begins one of the poems in M. B. McLatchey’s harrowing and remarkable collection, which is, with its deftly rendered and exquisite surface, a book about child abduction and murder drawn as the alternate reality it actually is. This is a book, when considering the soul chamber from which these poems must have originated, about the world-without-end quality to grief and the unresolved heart. It resists every easy answer and courts every dangerous and heavenly prayer. — Michael Klein, author of The Talking Day Book Details: Title: The Lame God Series: Swenson Poetry Award Hardcover: 80 pages Publisher: Utah State University Press; 1 edition Pub. Date: September 15, 2013 Language: English ISBN-10: 0874219078 ISBN-13: 978-0874219074 Product Dimensions: 8.5 x 5.5 x 0.5 inches Shipping Weight: 1 pounds Reading Dates: October 30, 2013 - CityArt, Salt Lake Library, Salt Lake City, UT. 7:00pm October 31, 2013 - Utah State University, Logan, UT. 12:00 noon November 1, 2013 - Brigham Young University, Provo, UT. 12:00 noon

Index Previous Next Dream Song For a sleeping student Our voices, a gurgling brook, became your parting song: a stream grading stones – meandering – where bend becomes slope. You teetered in the current – strong, young – yet bowed by doubts, centuries-old cares. A stream grading stones, meandering. Where might we have extracted you, harness and rope, young – yet bowed by doubts, centuries-old cares? Cold depths are ours to brave alone, I was also told. Might we have extracted you, harness and rope, what threshold did you cross; what pieces rearrange? Cold depths are ours to brave alone. I was also told our troubles wane when guardian spirits learn our names. What threshold did you cross; what pieces rearrange? Our voices, a gurgling brook, became your parting song. Our troubles wane when guardian spirits learn our names, bend becomes slope. You teetered in the current – strong. . Copyright © 2025 M. B. McLatchey. All rights reserved. Published in Teach. Write . Fall 2025.

Award Winning Poetry - 2020 Narrative Poetry Contest - Semi-Finalist Ode for an Absent Student So many dramas have played themselves out: a girl who saw through us, our Scout’s-honor truths; a girl scribbling her own proofs on the walls of a cell; a girl singing Fado in a tilted café, her star-rise a perfect – a textbook – chandelle; or, a girl whose shrill call feathers the walls of a well. Well of knowledge, coins, half-lives; mortar and water, a god’s paring knife. For his warrior mettle, Aristotle made Alexander recite – not the songs of Ajax – but the chant of his mother’s midwife. How she crooned at the sight of his scalp. Quick breaths, short beats like a cuckoo’s heart in flight; later, a conqueror’s lullaby; an air in clipped verse for his trek across the east, for his rise and fall, for the sound of his troops’ flat feet. Airs like anthems we hear in our sleep; bright conquests or the dull retreat. This morning marks three weeks. Your peers – all of us – proceed because there is a map to walk, countries to Hellenize – or not. Seas, you and Alexander must have known, cannot be crossed with brute force, missiles and stone. There is the compass that is another rower’s heartache for his home; the crow’s nest call that it will not be long. Things you forgot when you set out alone. Copyright © 2019 M. B. McLatchey. All rights reserved. Semi-finalist, Naugatuck River Review's 11th Narrative Poetry Contest Published in the Winter/Spring 2020 issue of Naugatuck River Review . Previous Next

Award Winning Poetry - 2012 Winner of the 46er Prize for Poetry Bingo Night for Missing and Exploited Children B efore we went underground. Before you fell through a gyre with no sound. I f one piece were unwound. If you had run. If we had looked for you sooner. If you had screamed. If the gods had intervened. N ascent. Still blooming, the orchid on your window sill. A thrill of color. G one. Gone. Gone. Gone. Gone. Phantom limb. If the soul leaves the body, we did not feel it go. Nothing and everything cloistered in stone. O mens we left for others. Ripples on a resting pond. The whistling of a breeze. The imprint on the ovaries. Copyright © 2012 M. B. McLatchey All rights reserved. Winner of the 2012 Adirondack Review's 46er Prize for Poetry. Published in The Adirondack Review , Summer 2013. Original version published here . The 46er Prize refers to the forty-six major peaks of the Adirondacks. Hikers who reach all forty-six summits are deemed "Forty-sixers." Also published by Beacon Press in The Blue Room Collective's anthology, Grabbed , Summer 2020. Previous Next

Index Previous Next The Lame God "When I'm alone here at night I cuddle him and hold him. Sometimes, I even try to make him walk." ― Nurse in one of the Lying Down Rooms in an orphanage in Russia, where, because of the social stigma of crippled children, they are often rejected by their parents and committed to the state. He walked on thin legs, as Homer put it. Hephaestus, born with a shriveled foot that so humiliated Hera she threw her son into the sea. Once tossed from high Olympus, he turned his frailty into grit: counterinsurgency. A terra firma, as opposed to the water she dreamed of, his exile made him face his kind, build her a catbird seat -- a throne with a trick release to trap her like the imperfections she reviled. In the end, he hobbled, motherless castaway, into their pantheon. What was it made the Greeks admit a lame god into their heaven? In all of their myths, his wit and craftsmanship. But there was plenty of that to go around. What if the Greek Ideal that gave them height, relied, for good form, on what the gods despised -- a symmetry of damned and apple of their eyes. Twins on a coin, a champion form: what men could learn to love; what the state wished was never born. . Copyright © 2007 M. B. McLatchey. All rights reserved. Published in The Spoon River Poetry Review , Winter/Spring 2008

BIO Fourth Grade 1963 Miss D 1963 Quincy Shipyard Fore River Bridge Goliath I grew up in a town where our parents were ship builders, bakers, waitresses, and cashiers, and where books found their right and proper place in the local library. Ours was an oral tradition, with the sounds and voices of elders and neighbors in inflections of Portuguese, Greek, Irish, and Italian – all of which I quickly learned to imitate. The result was a technical training that served a writer. I learned by ear the necessity for music in language, the power of truths told in nods and quiet breaths, and the critical importance of timing. And, I learned at my kitchen table that if you’re going to tell a story, it must be artful and it better be worth everyone’s time. At the age of ten, I met the woman who would become my lifetime mentor – Miss D, my fourth grade teacher. She would unleash my passion for literature and the arts and teach me how art connects us. A few years later, at the age of fourteen, I was awarded my first literary prize – 1st place in a poetry contest hosted by Boston’s Emerson College. In a packed campus theater, the contest judge, renowned poet Charles Simic, handed me a check for a hundred dollars and mumbled, “Good job, kid.” Even at that early age, I understood that writers thrive on affirmation – not because the ego needs it, but because it confirms that through our art, we connect. At that moment, my life as a writer was confirmed. My passion for languages and literature took me on a course of studies to some of the best colleges in the world. At each college, it would be the Poet in Residence that I would seek out. At Williams College, Lawrence Raab and Richard Wilbur taught me to unleash the mystery in poetry; at Brown university, Michael Harper tuned my ear for the music in poetry; at Goddard College, Alfred Corn and Michael Klein honed my technique in poetry; and at Harvard University, the Nobel-prize winning poet, Seamus Heaney mentored me in the mercy in poetry. I was immensely fortunate to share countless hours and discussions with Seamus (sometimes over a PBR and Powers) not only on the topic of how to write good poetry, but on how to be a good poet. “It takes a good person to be a good poet,” Seamus often said to me. I knew that this “goodness” was what Seamus himself strived for; it was a positioning of himself in service to the world that I continue to try to emulate in my work – empathy, authenticity, and self-effacement. It is Seamus and the mentors who preceded him that walk with me in my recognitions. My book with Regal House Publishing, Beginner’s Mind , examines a topic that I have made my life’s focus: namely, education. In a time when our schools are dogged by institutionalized goals for our children, this book gives us a classroom where personal growth and innovative thinking happens in unimaginable ways because of a remarkable fourth grade teacher. Though my soul naturally defaults to the poetic, I have chosen a prose format for this book to more directly reflect the classroom dynamics. Beginner’s Mind is a collage of teaching moments that forever changed a generation of ten-year-olds, and examines the question, “How do we want teachers to educate our children?” The answer is given to us through a series of classroom vignettes that put on display the possibilities before us when a teacher’s love is combined with the beginner’s mind. M.B. McLatchey holds her graduate degree in Comparative Literature from Harvard University, a Masters in Teaching from Brown University, the M.F.A. in writing from Goddard College, and a B.A. from Williams College. She has over thirty years of teaching and has been recognized by her university as Distinguished Teacher of the Year and as Distinguished Scholar. She was awarded Harvard University's coveted Danforth Prize in Teaching as well as the Harvard/Radcliffe Prize for Literary Scholarship, and she received the Elmer Smith Award for Excellence in Teaching from Brown University. M.B. has authored numerous literary reviews, compiled several text books for Humanities courses, and has contributed to many books on teaching. She has received national and international literary awards including the May Swenson Poetry Award for her debut poetry collection The Lame God published by Utah State University Press and the FLP national Women’s Voices Competition award for her book, Advantages of Believing . Her book Beginner's Mind was Winner of the Penelope Niven Creative Nonfiction Award from Salem College. Poetry awards include the American Poet Prize from the American Poetry Journal , the Editor’s Prize in Poetry from FOLIO literary journal, the Editor's Prize in Poetry from Spoon River Poetry Review , the Annie Finch Prize for Poetry, the Robert Frost Award in Poetry, the Penelope Niven Creative Nonfiction Award, the New South Writing Award from Georgia State University, the 46’er Prize from the Adirondack Review , and the Vachel Lindsay Poetry Award. She has been featured in Verse Daily and by AWP as a “Writer in the Spotlight”. A Professor of Classics at Embry-Riddle Aeronautical University, she served two terms as Florida’s Poet Laureate for Volusia County (2015-2025). She currently serves as lifetime Chancellor for Florida State Poets Association and as Arts & Wellness Ambassador for the Atlantic Center for the Arts. My Mentors... R. L. Stevenson 1850 - 1894 H. D. Thoreau 1817 - 1862 W. B. Yeats 1865 - 1939 John Keats 1795 - 1821 Dlyan Thomas 1914 - 1953 Yevtushenko 1932 - 2017 Richard Wilbur 1921 - 2017 Larry Raab 1946 - Michael Harper 1938 - 2016 Louise Gluck 1943 - Seamus Heaney 1939 - 2013 Elizabeth Bishop 1911 - 1979 Michael Klein 1958 - Alfred Corn 1943 -

Award Winning Poetry - 2017 Narrative Poetry Contest - Semi-Finalist Bad Apology As if in an endless rehearsal, I packed and unpacked. The challenge, you said, was to take no more than I’d need. Tenderly, you followed the track of a storm moving in from the east. In bed, a wrinkled map across our laps; you circled a town and highlighted a road. A yellow, satiny, path. When we slept, you tried the path, left markers you had kept for days like these. And the markers were keys. Clues in a moonscape of dust-covered things – a pair of gloves with suede tips; a scarf; a ring. Ruins like proof of a marriage, a story’s skeletal sheen, small deaths, small victories. Maestro, my mourning dove, another chance? Put me back in that place with its signals and gestures and promise of more mistakes. And I’ll show you the hurtful lessons lovers make. Copyright © 2017 M. B. McLatchey. All rights reserved. Pubished in SWWIM , December 2017. Previous Next

Index Previous Next Ode for My Department Chair Who Left a Face Shield on My Desk For Sally Because all of this is seeing through complex prisms; seeds reconciling to stalks that lean grey-blue instead of the expected, upright green. Because the soil we trusted, turned, and patted on our knees became unresponsive, a sick child’s pale serene. Because birds and song became a dull-working machine. Because this exchange called teaching is more than granting access, pointing to open gates. Because Sophocles portrayed us as we ought to be; but Euripides portrayed us as we are: surprisingly unstayed and dying a happy death in front of them. Breath after breath. Because care in a time like this is not a stockpiling of perfect arguments, pleas and refrains as if part of a lesson plan – or worse, the cliché – something preordained . Because master and apprentice should look the same. Smithies hammering, melding, iron and steel. Because metals, once coupled with the right vistas and bent into shapes – a cruciform, time’s infinite wheel – were in a previous plague, thought to heal. . Copyright © 2020 M. B. McLatchey. All rights reserved. Published in NCTE's 2021 Fall issue of English Journal , National Council of Teachers of English