Carolyn Forché

Rating: 5
Rating: 5

Carolyn Forché Biography

Carolyn Forché is an American poet, editor, translator, and human rights advocate.

Life

Forché was born in Detroit, Michigan, on April 28, 1950, to Michael Joseph and Louise Nada Blackford Sidlosky. Forché earned a B.A. in International Relations at Michigan State University in 1972, and MFA at Bowling Green State University in 1975. She taught at a number of universities, including Bowling Green State University, Michigan State University, the University of Virginia, Skidmore College, Columbia University, San Diego State University and in the Master of Fine Arts program at George Mason University. She is now Director of the Lannan Center for Poetry and Poetics and holds the Lannan Chair in Poetry at Georgetown University in Washington, D.C. She lives in Maryland with her husb ...

Carolyn Forché Comments

Sayeed Abubakar 10 May 2012

Having gone through your poems, I have understood that you are a real poet. I am a poet of Bangla language. I have 7 books of poetry here which have been popular. I have also a literary magazine named Bangla Literature. Can we exchange our views on poetry and become friends? e-mail: sayeed_jh@yahoo.com

2 11 Reply
Andrew Fincham 25 October 2006

There is a fierce love which builds and binds these poems, such as comes from the heart of a natural poet sharing truths they have seen. This is what poetry is for.

6 3 Reply
nelsonop1yahoo.com 10 January 2021

thank you for such an amazing book WHAT YOU HAVE HEARD IS TRUE. I Iived in Guatemala at the same time and visited El Salvador. Your descriptions bring back loads of emotions

0 0 Reply
nelson pereira 10 January 2021

Just finished listening to WHAT YOU HAVE HEARD IS TRUE. What an amazin g book with so mckuh relaism I lived in Guatemala at the same time and only visited El Salvado

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Richard Ponsonby 27 February 2020

This lady has a great facility with words, and I enjoy reading her work.

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Bob Mitchell 17 January 2014

OMG! ! ! Talk about fun with Ferlinghetti, I just read The History of the Airplane. I really love that guy! RWM

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Bob Mitchell 17 January 2014

Today, on a search for Maggie and Millie and Mollie and May by e.e.cummings I found these 500 poets with God knows how many poems? First stop, Omar Khayyam, never read The Rubaiyat before. Then, by random chance, I read all eight of the poems gathered here. They are on the dark side but bursting with meaning. Poem for Maya is my fave. Next I'm going for some Ferlinghetti and then who knows. I'm like a butterfly today... in search of a bit of sweetness and light. RWM

1 2 Reply

The Best Poem Of Carolyn Forché

The Colonel

What you have heard is true. I was in his house.
His wife carried a tray of coffee and sugar. His
daughter filed her nails, his son went out for the
night. There were daily papers, pet dogs, a pistol
on the cushion beside him. The moon swung bare on
its black cord over the house. On the television
was a cop show. It was in English. Broken bottles
were embedded in the walls around the house to
scoop the kneecaps from a man's legs or cut his
hands to lace. On the windows there were gratings
like those in liquor stores. We had dinner, rack of
lamb, good wine, a gold bell was on the table for
calling the maid. The maid brought green mangoes,
salt, a type of bread. I was asked how I enjoyed
the country. There was a brief commercial in
Spanish. His wife took everything away. There was
some talk of how difficult it had become to govern.
The parrot said hello on the terrace. The colonel
told it to shut up, and pushed himself from the
table. My friend said to me with his eyes: say
nothing. The colonel returned with a sack used to
bring groceries home. He spilled many human ears on
the table. They were like dried peach halves. There
is no other way to say this. He took one of them in
his hands, shook it in our faces, dropped it into a
water glass. It came alive there. I am tired of
fooling around he said. As for the rights of anyone,
tell your people they can go f--- themselves. He
swept the ears to the floor with his arm and held
the last of his wine in the air. Something for your
poetry, no? he said. Some of the ears on the floor
caught this scrap of his voice. Some of the ears on
the floor were pressed to the ground.

May 1978

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