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About this poet

Cynthia Hogue is the author of eight poetry collections, including Revenance (Red Hen Press, 2014), Or Consequence (Red Hen Press, 2010), The Incognito Body (Red Hen Press, 2006),and Flux (New Issues Press 2002).

Hogue is the recipient of the 2013 Harold Morton Landon Translation Award from the Academy of American Poets for her co-translation of Virginie Lalucq and Jean-Luc Nancy’s Fortino Sámano (The Overflowing of the Poem) (Omnidawn, 2012).

Her other publications include four books of criticism and When the Water Came: Evacuees of Hurricane Katrina, with photographer Rebecca Ross (University of New Orleans Press, 2010).

She is the Maxine and Jonathan Marshall Chair in Modern and Contemporary Poetry and director of the Creative Writing Program at Arizona State University. She lives in Phoenix, Arizona.


Bibliography

Poetry

Revenance (Red Hen Press, 2014)
Or Consequence (Red Hen Press, 2010)
The Incognito Body (Red Hen Press, 2006)
Flux (New Issues Press 2002)
The Never Wife (Mammoth Press, 1999)
The Woman in Red (Ahsahta Press, 1989)
Where the Parallels Cross (Whiteknights Press, 1984)
Touchwood (Porchwood Press, 1979)

Translation

Virginie Lalucq and Jean-Luc Nancy, Fortino Sámano (The Overflowing of the Poem), with Sylvain Gallais, (Omnidawn, 2012)

The Changeling

Cynthia Hogue

after an Icelandic folktale in which an elf child
is exchanged for a human one

Loftur. His name means air,
and my cries
wend up to him, 
floating
on the currents 
of afterbirth, the veil

of second sight
still wrapped around his head. 
You mean wind. 
Husband, I know what I named him. 
He witnessed his own birth; 
it caught his breath

like a raven swooping to catch a berry 
as it drops from the bush. 
When a cold front moved off sea, 
to the ring of mountains-- 
everything gave way to stillness 
I could not escape.

His first impulse was flight 
out from under this lid 
toward another vision, 
but was he blind to the one we have?
You mean storm, brewing around us, 
had he waited to ride it out?

I mean this child left to me, without cowl, 
breath gone from him, 
no cry issued, 
nothing for me to nurture. 
By now he's back there, 
knew where to go--

his hand extended to grasp 
the forerunner's, and when they touch, 
all the dark feathered beings will rivet 
the air with their calls and I'll 
shudder through root and stone. 
You mean rain

will come soon. 
This time, I will follow. 
They are brothers now 
someone else must raise.

From Flux by Cynthia Hogue. Copyright © 2002 by Cynthia Hogue. Reprinted by permission of New Issues Press. All rights reserved.

From Flux by Cynthia Hogue. Copyright © 2002 by Cynthia Hogue. Reprinted by permission of New Issues Press. All rights reserved.

Cynthia Hogue

Cynthia Hogue

Cynthia Hogue is the author of eight poetry collections.

by this poet

poem
(reading Robert Duncan in Haldon Forest)

bloom looks
like lupine from afar
but up close the small bell-
like flowers of wild hollyhock

        the holy that forth
        came that must

come mystery
of frond fern
gorse a magic