By Ray Gonzalez
WINNER OF THE 2016 MINNESOTA publication AWARD FOR POETRY
"[Beautiful Wall] is infused with mythos and formality, even if it’s a pilgrim discovering respite contained in the clean sanctuary of a cathedral’s coloration, or a vacationer analyzing old ruins...Gonzalez maintains his useful position in American literature.”
-Diego Báez, Booklist
“Gonzalez has a manner of mixing the magical with the standard and nature with the area of the relatives to provide poems lush with empathy.”
"Gonzalez...has tested himself as a author of place....[In his poems] panorama turns into a palimpsest the place no unmarried narrative reigns."
Beautiful Wall takes us on a profound trip during the deserts of the Southwest the place the ever-changing common panorama and an competitive border tradition rewrite intolerance and ethnocentric concept into human heritage. Inextricably associated with his Mexican ancestry and American upbringing, Ray Gonzalez's new assortment mounts the wall among the present realities of violence and politics, and a stunning, never-to-be-forgotten past.
Ray Gonzalez is the writer of fifteen books of poetry. The recipient of diverse awards, together with a 2002 Lifetime success Award from the Southwest Border local Library organization, he's a professor on the collage of Minnesota in Minneapolis, Minnesota.
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Additional info for Beautiful Wall
Hidden and apparent, your expression is dry-eyed, set as a bride who waits to marry her second husband in the Palace of Solemn Events. 6 You stare over the cotton curtain at my window. You look past me, past my kitchen, vapor rising from my coffee— your presence bright in the warmth of morning sunlight. Below the gutter rusting along the eaves, plaster falls away, widening borders of exposed brick, threatening your days mortared to the cracked facade. Remember the boy Antschel running with hoop and stick down the strasse, who, years later, holding the hand of a girl, turned and kissed her lightly under the veil of arclight— of a long time ago, of least things forgotten, turned from, but sought now, after the bombs.
It has been too long. There is nothing normal left. The smell of guns massed in this valley Hangs bitter in the air. A town burns across the ridge. I know the distance. It is late, And being out of candles, I have to quit. 36 Chernivtsi Nor it nor no remembrance what it was. —shakespeare, sonnet 5 Such weight, Little Vienna, snow falling across Europe, villages lost to avalanche. People who return say the streets are clean in Deutschland— on the walks, a mere light dusting from the newly fallen.
People who return say the streets are clean in Deutschland— on the walks, a mere light dusting from the newly fallen. Here in the crosswinds, streets and walks are buried in ice. Wherever they are, Little Vienna, shovels wait shivering. Last night, who spread the path of ashes on the walk? ” . . Oh last night with stars scattered across the blackest night— ice giving way from the balconies . . The winter potatoes I peeled were stones softening, deeply bruised. 37 Today, I’m nearly out of bread.