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Ricardo Pau-Llosa

Ricardo Pau-Llosa has published seven books of poetry. His latest is Man (Carnegie Mellon, 2014). He is also an art critic and curator. His poetry has appeared in American Poetry Review, Hudson Review, Poetry, the New England Review, Southern Review, Boston Review, and elsewhere.


Husserlian Meditation

Winter 2017 | Poetry

The squirrels deny themselves from front and back 
and only word into view from the sides when 
their outline rejects the coup of geometry. 
From the south we delight in the polar symmetry 
of their foggy tails cupped by rounded hinds. 

Solvitur Ambulando

Winter 2017 | Poetry

The man used to walk four miles a day, 
two hours at first, less as he got stronger 
and thinner, to defy the sense of rules that dictates 
higher challenges as the ability climbs. Rebel 
mind in a rebel body. Not even Plato’s 

Dos Gardenias Para Ti

Spring 2010 | Poetry

“Cultivo una rosa blanca. . . .”José MartíThe seed’s the show all the petal seats are arranged for. Between bulbous heads we angle for a view, and these suede white honey scabs between fingertips used to cash must have taught our ancients to [...]


You have begun to wonder, a glass world rolling in gentle shadows beneath you, if all your genuflecting did not turn God into a masochist. At times, that is the only way the mighty can feel power, whip in hand, the red back of the world streaked [...]


for Judith Berke The man and the woman, knees in gravel, beneath the faceless rim of tattered straw, break their rhythm of splitting and digging when they find what a thoughtless eye might call another pebble. Glass third century, the woman says, tur [...]

Vereda Tropical

"Tú la dejaste ir" "Tropical path, you let her leave." It's just the same. The season was rotten. Even if you couldn't tell in this all the time summer place, I could. She marked the time of year by fits of weeping. Then fits of laughter. Then anger [...]

Juan Carlos Formell

Between Lorca and the cubists, I figured the guitar was finished. Now he has thrown it in my face like a drowning girl and I, who can't swim, must sort through memories of Tarzan sliding past crocodiles, and drop myself like a legume into hero stew t [...]