About this poet

Born on February 15, 1968, in Madrid, Spain, Richard Blanco grew up in Miami, where he received a Bachelor of Science in Civil Engineering as well as an M.F.A. in Creative Writing from Florida International University.

His collections of poetry include Looking for The Gulf Motel (University of Pittsburgh Press, 2012); Directions to The Beach of the Dead (University of Arizona Press, 2005), winner of the 2006 PEN/American Center Beyond Margins Award; and City of a Hundred Fires (University of Pittsburgh Press, 1998), winner of the 1997 Agnes Lynch Starrett National Poetry Prize.

Sandra Cisneros describes Blanco's poems as "sad, tender, and filled with longing. Like an old photograph, a saint's statue worn away by the devout, a bolero on the radio on a night full of rain. Me emocionan. There is no other way to say it. They emotion me."

He is the recipient of two Florida Artist Fellowships, a Residency Fellowship from the Virginia Center for the Creative Arts, and the John Ciardi Fellowship from the Bread Loaf Writers Conference. Blanco is a professional civil engineer and has also taught writing at various schools, including Central Connecticut State University, Georgetown University, and American University.

In 2013, Richard Blanco was selected to read at Barack Obama's second Presidential Inauguration. Currently, he lives in Bethel, Maine.

Looking for The Gulf Motel

Richard Blanco, 1968
Marco Island, Florida

There should be nothing here I don't remember . . .

The Gulf Motel with mermaid lampposts 
and ship's wheel in the lobby should still be 
rising out of the sand like a cake decoration. 
My brother and I should still be pretending 
we don't know our parents, embarrassing us 
as they roll the luggage cart past the front desk 
loaded with our scruffy suitcases, two-dozen 
loaves of Cuban bread, brown bags bulging 
with enough mangos to last the entire week, 
our espresso pot, the pressure cooker—and 
a pork roast reeking garlic through the lobby. 
All because we can't afford to eat out, not even 
on vacation, only two hours from our home 
in Miami, but far enough away to be thrilled 
by whiter sands on the west coast of Florida, 
where I should still be for the first time watching 
the sun set instead of rise over the ocean.

There should be nothing here I don't remember . . .

My mother should still be in the kitchenette 
of The Gulf Motel, her daisy sandals from Kmart 
squeaking across the linoleum, still gorgeous 
in her teal swimsuit and amber earrings 
stirring a pot of arroz-con-pollo, adding sprinkles 
of onion powder and dollops of tomato sauce. 
My father should still be in a terrycloth jacket 
smoking, clinking a glass of amber whiskey 
in the sunset at the Gulf Motel, watching us 
dive into the pool, two boys he'll never see 
grow into men who will be proud of him.

There should be nothing here I don't remember . . .

My brother and I should still be playing Parcheesi, 
my father should still be alive, slow dancing 
with my mother on the sliding-glass balcony 
of The Gulf Motel. No music, only the waves 
keeping time, a song only their minds hear 
ten-thousand nights back to their life in Cuba. 
My mother's face should still be resting against 
his bare chest like the moon resting on the sea, 
the stars should still be turning around them.

There should be nothing here I don't remember . . .

My brother should still be thirteen, sneaking 
rum in the bathroom, sculpting naked women 
from sand. I should still be eight years old 
dazzled by seashells and how many seconds 
I hold my breath underwater—but I'm not. 
I am thirty-eight, driving up Collier Boulevard, 
looking for The Gulf Motel, for everything 
that should still be, but isn't. I want to blame 
the condos, their shadows for ruining the beach 
and my past, I want to chase the snowbirds away 
with their tacky mansions and yachts, I want 
to turn the golf courses back into mangroves, 
I want to find The Gulf Motel exactly as it was 
and pretend for a moment, nothing lost is lost.

From Looking for The Gulf Motel, by Richard Blanco, © 2012. All rights are controlled by the University of Pittsburgh Press, Pittsburgh, PA 15260. Used by permission of the University of Pittsburgh Press and Stuart Representation for Artists.

From Looking for The Gulf Motel, by Richard Blanco, © 2012. All rights are controlled by the University of Pittsburgh Press, Pittsburgh, PA 15260. Used by permission of the University of Pittsburgh Press and Stuart Representation for Artists.

Richard Blanco

Richard Blanco

In 2013, Richard Blanco was selected to read at Barack Obama's second Presidential Inauguration. Currently, he lives in Bethel, Maine

by this poet

poem

I.

Although Tía Miriam boasted she discovered
at least half-a-dozen uses for peanut butter—
topping for guava shells in syrup,
butter substitute for Cuban toast,
hair conditioner and relaxer—
Mamá never knew what to make
of the monthly five-pound jars
handed out

poem
Not a study or a den, but El Florida 
as my mother called it, a pretty name
for the room with the prettiest view 
of the lipstick-red hibiscus puckered up
against the windows, the tepid breeze 
laden with the brown-sugar scent 
of loquats drifting in from the yard.

Not a sunroom, but where the sun 
both