Where to find me
On launching a book in less than two weeks
April 12th— Women and Children First, Chicago, IL, 7 pm
April 16th— Cambridge Public Library, Cambridge, MA, 7 pm
April 18th— Harvard Square Books, Cambridge, MA, 7 pm
April 19th— New Dominion Books, Charlottesville VA, 7 pm
April 25th— Unnameable Books, Brooklyn, NYC, 7 pm
April 26th— Brooklyn Poets Friday Night Open, Brooklyn, NYC, 7 pm
April 28th— Water Street Books, Exeter, NH, 3 pm
May 17th— Striking Beauties Boxing Gym, North Attleborough, MA 7 pm
June 15th— Mother Foucault Books, Portland, Oregon, time TBD
I’m standing up in cities across the country to read poems about a life that is long gone, and I’m inviting you to the party.
I hope to inhabit past selves with love, with fire, with fierceness. With care for all I’ve lived and keep living.
It’s the spring equinox, and this month I’ve flown on turbulent planes and watched snowdrops bell their heads to the earth. I turned 29. I made some promises. I broke some promises. I’ve sent flowers to people I love.
I keep hearing the word hope, hope, against all odds.
Last week I heard sand-hill cranes scream out, primordial, in Utah. I saw bison stampeding across great plains, as if they dropped down from the sky. The whole time, I thought of poet Muriel Rukeyser, who said, “And it seems to me that the invitation of poetry is to bring your whole life to this moment, this moment is real, this moment is what we have, this moment in which we face each other, and if a poem is any damn good at all, it invites you to bring your whole life to that moment..."Â
The truth is, it is terrifying to stand up and read the poems I wrote to help myself understand myself. To bring my whole life, and to invite you to do so as well. It’s beautiful, too, to know there will be witnesses. Both, and. To show up and be imperfect, messy, alive.
I’m proud of this book. I’m proud I wrote something I needed at sixteen. I’m proud of what I’ve lived, who I’ve become since then. I’m proud to be able to offer this bright yellow and red object to you and say here, I made this, and I love you.
I’d probably write these poems differently now, but as Joan Didion says, we are well-advised to keep on nodding terms with the people we used to be. I’m excited to remember.
Thank you to so many of you who have already supported the process, the poems; who have pre-ordered and written and sent notes of courage. I’m grateful beyond words.
With love,
Raisa
A poem I have been reading every day: