Eva Skrande
Eva Skrande was born in Havana, Cuba and grew up in Miami. She earned a B.A. from Sarah Lawrence College, an M.F.A. from Iowa, and is currently finishing a Ph.D. in Creative Writing at the University of Houston. Her poems have appeared in the American Poetry Review, American Voice, Iowa Review, Ploughshares, and the Alaska Quarterly, among others. Her chapbook, the Gates of the Somnambulist was published by Jeanne Duval Editions
Articles by this Author
TULIP
- By Eva Skrande
- Published 05/3/2002
- MaverickMagazine 6/7 , Feature Poet 6/7: Eva Skrande
- Unrated
Tulip of my dreams, tulip of my emptiness,
tulip which follows the moon
that rides off with the wolf's head.
O horses and linen, buried, soundly asleep
tulip which follows the moon
that rides off with the wolf's head.
O horses and linen, buried, soundly asleep
THE SHEEP
- By Eva Skrande
- Published 05/3/2002
- Feature Poet 6/7: Eva Skrande , MaverickMagazine 6/7
- Unrated
When it is evening and the sheep knock at the door,
I know you are near,
that you have jumped out of the corn
to read the century and her seven grains.
I know you are near,
that you have jumped out of the corn
to read the century and her seven grains.
THE MASON PARTY
- By Eva Skrande
- Published 05/3/2002
- MaverickMagazine 6/7 , Feature Poet 6/7: Eva Skrande
- Unrated
The river mason was there.
The woman who had built a heart
with no bitter lemons was there too.
So was the horse that had built the town
The woman who had built a heart
with no bitter lemons was there too.
So was the horse that had built the town
THE MARKET
- By Eva Skrande
- Published 05/3/2002
- MaverickMagazine 6/7 , Feature Poet 6/7: Eva Skrande
- Unrated
Come fill my ears with the flowers' seas.Fill me with valleys of markets
where the only vagrants are cherries
and oranges and kisses that proselytize
from their shoulders.
THE BRIDE
- By Eva Skrande
- Published 05/3/2002
- MaverickMagazine 6/7 , Feature Poet 6/7: Eva Skrande
- Unrated
Like a bride who weeps for her country's exiled palm trees,
I am honey and morning.
I kiss your sea's red intemperance.
For the scroll's pleasure,
I offer corn and her evening.
I am honey and morning.
I kiss your sea's red intemperance.
For the scroll's pleasure,
I offer corn and her evening.
SEVEN DIRECTIONS
- By Eva Skrande
- Published 05/3/2002
- MaverickMagazine 6/7 , Feature Poet 6/7: Eva Skrande
-
Rating:
There were, my trumpet, at least seven directions between us,
the wolves exiled just east of your hair's allegories
and the western corner of your shoulder
where birds come with their sirens to celebrate
our corn's anniversary. How easily along the coast
the wolves exiled just east of your hair's allegories
and the western corner of your shoulder
where birds come with their sirens to celebrate
our corn's anniversary. How easily along the coast
EVERYDAY, MY EARTH
- By Eva Skrande
- Published 05/3/2002
- MaverickMagazine 6/7 , Feature Poet 6/7: Eva Skrande
- Unrated
Everyday, my earth, I kiss your seven continents
and marry your rivers. Your fish, your birds
my language at dawn. Let there be no secrets
between my mountains and your cities.
and marry your rivers. Your fish, your birds
my language at dawn. Let there be no secrets
between my mountains and your cities.
CHURCH
- By Eva Skrande
- Published 05/3/2002
- MaverickMagazine 6/7 , Feature Poet 6/7: Eva Skrande
- Unrated
Within your arches, I am moon and corn.
Church where winter crows, church of souls
that wear shoes, church of birds playing hopscotch.
My tribes and your thighs' rivers are one.
O altar of horses and sweat,
Church where winter crows, church of souls
that wear shoes, church of birds playing hopscotch.
My tribes and your thighs' rivers are one.
O altar of horses and sweat,
WIDOWER'S SONG
- By Eva Skrande
- Published 11/7/2000
- MaverickMagazine 4
- Unrated
To stand in the blink of the cemetery as between centuries
And hide from the river of oxen.
To go with the bones, to go with the bones.
To refuse the dust of the harp. There's no difference
Between the promise of death's aubade and the laugh of nails.
And hide from the river of oxen.
To go with the bones, to go with the bones.
To refuse the dust of the harp. There's no difference
Between the promise of death's aubade and the laugh of nails.
DESTINY
- By Eva Skrande
- Published 11/7/2000
- MaverickMagazine 4
- Unrated
Destiny of blue fingers, flying over a dynasty of brides,take from the dusk, the priesthood of your violins.
Destiny where earth lies down, and the bread of history takes root,
that lifts the dawn from the eyelids of shame.
Categories
- Issues
- MaverickMagazine 1
- Feature Poet 1: Ramón E. Martínez
- MaverickMagazine 2
- Feature Poet 2: Martha Modena Vertreace
- MaverickMagazine 3
- Feature Poet 3: Bill Knott
- MaverickMagazine 4
- Feature Poet 4: Henry Oso Quintero
- MaverickMagazine 5
- Feature Poet 5: Mac Oliver
- MaverickMagazine 6/7
- Feature Poet 6/7: Eva Skrande
- MaverickMagazine 8
- Feature Poet 8: Howard Fisch
- MaverickMagazine 9
- Feature Poet 9: Mark DeCarteret
- MaverickMagazine 10
- Feature Poet 10: Allison Eastley
- MaverickMagazine 11
- Feature Poet 11: Aaron Anstett
- MaverickMagazine 12
- Feature Poet 12: Maria Melendez
- MaverickMagazine 13/14
- Feature Poet 13/14 - Janaka Stucky
- MaverickMagazine 15/16
- Feature Poet 15/16: Todd Fredson
- MaverickMagazine 17
- MaverickMagazine 18