Carmen Giménez Smith
Biography of Carmen Giménez Smith
Carmen Giménez Smith (born February 20, 1971 in New York City) is an American poet, writer and editor.
Giménez Smith earned a Bachelor of Arts from San Jose State University and an Master of Fine Arts from the Iowa Writers' Workshop, where she was a Teaching-Writing Fellow. She is currently an assistant professor in the Master of Fine Arts Program in Creative Writing at New Mexico State University. She also teaches in Ashland University's Master of Fine Arts Program in Creative Writing. Giménez Smith serves as publisher of Noemi Press and editor-in-chief of the literary journal Puerto del Sol, and she holds a seat on the editorial committee at VIDA: Women in Literary Arts. She is married to writer Evan Lavender-Smith.
In 2009, Giménez Smith was named to Poetry Society of America's biennial New American Poets Series. In 2011, she was named a Howard Foundation Fellow in Creative Nonfiction; her memoir, Bring Down the Little Birds, received an American Book Award; and her third collection of poems, Goodbye, Flicker, was awarded the Juniper Prize for Poetry.
Carmen Giménez Smith Poems
We make dogma out of letter writing: the apocryphal story of Lincoln who wrote angry letters he never sent. We wait for letters for days and days. Someone tells me I'll write you a letter
I have thirty seconds to convince you that when I'm not home, my verve is still, online or if I'm sleeping when you call,
My heart is bleeding. It bleeds upward and fills my mouth up with salt. It bleeds because of a city in ruins, the chair still warm from sister's body,
We said she was a negative image of me because of her lightness. She's light and also passage, the glory in my cortex. Daughter, where did you get all that goddess?
Decoy Gang War Victim
Just a tick ago, the actor was a Roman candle shot to the sky, smudged by rain's helter- skelter. His motivation was: he's a stooge
It happened to me once. Winter came, and snow quilted every inch. I stood on the soapbox, as I was told,
Off-season and in the burnt forest of my nightgown, a feral
Only a Shadow
My daughter gathers the seeds she finds in our desert, calls them spirits — the spirits are us, she says when I worry those orbs in my fingers
Photo of a Girl on a Beach
Once when I was harmless and didn't know any better,
My siblings and I archive the blanks in my mother's memory, diagnose her in text messages. And so it begins, I write although her disease had no true beginning, only a gradual peeling away
My siblings and I archive the blanks in my mother's memory,
diagnose her in text messages. And so it begins, I write although
her disease had no true beginning, only a gradual peeling away
until she was left a live wire of disquiet. We frame her illness
as a conceptual resistance—She thinks, yet she is an other—
to make sense of the transformation. She forgot my brother's cancer,