Nidhi Zak / Aria Eipe: “In its March 2019, The Atlantic published ‘Nobody’s Going to Believe You,’ an article detailing the outcome of a year-long investigation into allegations of sexual misconduct against Hollywood director Bryan Singer. Journalists Alex French and Maximillian Potter interviewed over 50 sources—men claiming that ‘they were seduced by the director while underage; others say they were raped. The victims [….] told us these experiences left them psychologically damaged, with substance-abuse problems, depression, and PTSD.’ One of these men, Victor Valdovinos gives a detailed account of his experience of sexual abuse by Singer, and its aftermath. Valdovinos was thirteen years old, in seventh grade, at the time it occurred—he hadn’t even had hist first kiss yet. Over the years, he started to question ‘how his life might have gone differently if not for that locker-room encounter with Singer. ‘What if he never did this to me—would I be a different person? Would I be more successful? Would I be married?’ As he watched the Harvey Weinstein scandal unfold, Valdovinos thought, ‘Me too—only I was a kid.’ He considered going to Singer’s house and knocking on the door and asking him, Why? He thought about going public. But who would believe him? This is for Victor. Because I believe.” (web)
Rimas Uzgiris: “My poem was written after reading an academic article about Socrates that got me thinking about our “post-truth” moment, Trump’s tweets and Ancient Greek rhetoricians, and then when Christmas made an appearance as well, I thought, yes, Rattle, yes.” (web)
Julie Price Pinkerton: “Traveling has always felt strange to me. When I was seven, my dad took our family on vacation to Washington, D.C., so we kids could learn more about the country he loved. He took us to meet our congressman, John Myers, and filled our week-long itinerary to the brim. Amid stunning monuments and museums, the thing I found most fascinating (aside from there being some new, otherworldly food in our hotel called honeydew) was that we encountered a taxi driver who smoked a cigar. I had never seen a cigar before. Five decades later, the small, unexpected parts of any trip are still like catnip to me. While at the beach last May with my husband, Scott, the shark scene in this poem unfolded in front of us. It’s a perfect example of what I’m drawn to most: numerous little chunks of strangeness pulling together like a pile of paper clips snapping onto a magnet. I could relate to every part of it. I was the crowd of nosy bystanders, the duo of fishermen, and the small creature minding its own business when it suddenly lands inside a snow globe of agony, looking for someone to rescue it.” (web)
Rayon Lennon: “I moonlight as a clinical therapist and in one session last fall I asked a client to write a forgiveness letter to himself; and in another session, I asked the same client to write a forgiveness letter to someone who has hurt him. I wrote my own forgiveness letters as well, which gave birth to this poem. I should also mention that I am a Barrel Child. The phrase ‘Barrel Children’ refers to, in particular, Jamaican children whose parents—compelled by social and economic challenges—choose to leave their children behind in Jamaica to pursue economic opportunities in other countries such as Canada, England, and the United States of America. These parents then send back barrels full of food and clothes and other items to their children. A good many of the children left behind face physiological and psychological challenges. I have devoted my life to correcting this problem. It’s easy to say too that this lightly fictionalized poem was informed by the shock of watching Trump win the election last November and our ensuing crush on Canada. Or that this poem is a meditation on mortality, in general. In some ways, it’s an elegy for the life I could have lived. It’s a letter and a prayer to a God I tend to disappoint but who continues to fill my life with otherworldly blessings; a forgiveness letter to my parents too, who I love dearly, though—for complicated reasons—I don’t believe I’ve ever told them I love them (except in poems). They have done the best they could for me and for that I’m forever grateful. It’s a love letter to New Haven, Connecticut; Hamilton, Canada; and all of Jamaica. And finally, a thank-you letter to and an elegy for Derek Walcott, the towering, Nobel-winning, Caribbean poet and my literary father (though I’ve never met him) who left this world last spring and whose life was, like mine now, an answered prayer.” (web)
David Miller: “Another year of teaching Latin, another year I will have to tell my students how to behave among white people at Latin conventions, at the Getty, at plays. It is always difficult to do. I do not know whether I make a difference by doing that. It is like the advice we give our own children to help them survive the world. This poem is a reflection of that uncertainty, of the pain of loss and the ambivalence of time.” (twitter)
Alex Greenberg: “Poetry lets me breathe when I feel stifled and serves as a vital outlet of expression for me. In poetry, there is a real sense of discovery that shocks me each time I sit down with a piece of paper and pen.”
Leila Chatti: “I am fascinated by faith, and I write a lot about it. Someone recently pointed out to me that I’ve written about my father and I’ve shared religion (Islam), but nothing about my mother’s Catholicism, her somewhat lapsed relationship with God. I don’t mean to say that my mother no longer believes in God, only that she is disappointed by Him. In His absence, my mother has found comfort in other rituals, ones that have become precious—sacred, even—in our family. I wanted to write a poem that celebrated that.” (web)
