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About this poet

Richard Blanco is the Education Ambassador of the Academy of American Poets. In his role, he helps champion the organization's free resources for teachersstudent projects, and other education initiatives. 

Born on February 15, 1968, in Madrid, Spain, Blanco grew up in Miami, where he received a bachelor of science degree in civil engineering as well as an MFA in creative writing from Florida International University.

He is the author of the poetry collections How to Love a Country, forthcoming from Beacon Press in 2019; Boundaries (Two Ponds Press, 2017), featuring photography by Jacob Bond Hessler; Matters of the Sea/Cosas del Mar (University of Pittsburgh Press, 2016); 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. He is also the author of a memoir, The Prince of los Cocuyos (Ecco Press, 2014), a Lambda Literary Award–winning account of his childhood and adolescence coming to terms with his sexual, national, and cultural identities, and For All of Us, One Today: An Inaugural Poet’s Journey (Beacon Press, 2013). His inaugural poem, One Today, was also published as a children's book illustrated by Dav Pilkey (Little, Brown, 2015).

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 has taught at various schools, including American University, Georgetown University, and Wesleyan University, and has been an artist in residence at Colby College’s Lunder Institute for American Art. He is currently a distinguished visiting professor at Florida International University.   

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


As Educator Ambassador, Richard Blanco is available for speaking engagements and to meet with teachers. For more information, contact Alison Granucci at Blue Flower Arts.


Selected Bibliography

Poetry
Boundaries (Two Ponds Press, 2017)
Matters of the Sea/Cosas del Mar (University of Pittsburgh Press, 2016)
Looking for the Gulf Motel (University of Pittsburgh Press, 2012)
Directions to the Beach of the Dead (University of Arizona Press, 2005)
City of a Hundred Fires (University of Pittsburgh Press, 1998)

Prose
For All of Us, One Today: An Inaugural Poet’s Journey (Beacon Press, 2013)
The Prince of los Cocuyos (Ecco Press, 2014)

One Today

A Poem for Barack Obama's Presidential Inauguration
January 21, 2013

 

One sun rose on us today, kindled over our shores,
peeking over the Smokies, greeting the faces
of the Great Lakes, spreading a simple truth
across the Great Plains, then charging across the Rockies.
One light, waking up rooftops, under each one, a story
told by our silent gestures moving behind windows.

My face, your face, millions of faces in morning’s mirrors,
each one yawning to life, crescendoing into our day:
pencil-yellow school buses, the rhythm of traffic lights,
fruit stands: apples, limes, and oranges arrayed like rainbows
begging our praise. Silver trucks heavy with oil or paper—
bricks or milk, teeming over highways alongside us,
on our way to clean tables, read ledgers, or save lives—
to teach geometry, or ring-up groceries as my mother did
for twenty years, so I could write this poem.

All of us as vital as the one light we move through,
the same light on blackboards with lessons for the day:
equations to solve, history to question, or atoms imagined,
the “I have a dream” we keep dreaming,
or the impossible vocabulary of sorrow that won’t explain
the empty desks of twenty children marked absent
today, and forever. Many prayers, but one light
breathing color into stained glass windows,
life into the faces of bronze statues, warmth
onto the steps of our museums and park benches
as mothers watch children slide into the day.

One ground. Our ground, rooting us to every stalk
of corn, every head of wheat sown by sweat
and hands, hands gleaning coal or planting windmills
in deserts and hilltops that keep us warm, hands
digging trenches, routing pipes and cables, hands
as worn as my father’s cutting sugarcane
so my brother and I could have books and shoes.

The dust of farms and deserts, cities and plains
mingled by one wind—our breath. Breathe. Hear it
through the day’s gorgeous din of honking cabs,
buses launching down avenues, the symphony
of footsteps, guitars, and screeching subways,
the unexpected song bird on your clothes line.

Hear: squeaky playground swings, trains whistling,
or whispers across café tables, Hear: the doors we open
for each other all day, saying: hello / shalom,
buon giorno / howdy / namaste / or buenos días
in the language my mother taught me—in every language
spoken into one wind carrying our lives
without prejudice, as these words break from my lips.

One sky: since the Appalachians and Sierras claimed
their majesty, and the Mississippi and Colorado worked
their way to the sea. Thank the work of our hands:
weaving steel into bridges, finishing one more report
for the boss on time, stitching another wound
or uniform, the first brush stroke on a portrait,
or the last floor on the Freedom Tower
jutting into a sky that yields to our resilience.

One sky, toward which we sometimes lift our eyes
tired from work: some days guessing at the weather
of our lives, some days giving thanks for a love
that loves you back, sometimes praising a mother
who knew how to give, or forgiving a father
who couldn’t give what you wanted.

We head home: through the gloss of rain or weight
of snow, or the plum blush of dusk, but always—home,
always under one sky, our sky. And always one moon
like a silent drum tapping on every rooftop
and every window, of one country—all of us—
facing the stars
hope—a new constellation
waiting for us to map it,
waiting for us to name it—together

One Today: A Poem for Barack Obama's Presidential Inauguration, January 21, 2013, by Richard Blanco, © 2013. All rights are controlled by the University of Pittsburgh Press, Pittsburgh, PA 15260. Used by permission of the University of Pittsburgh Press.

One Today: A Poem for Barack Obama's Presidential Inauguration, January 21, 2013, by Richard Blanco, © 2013. All rights are controlled by the University of Pittsburgh Press, Pittsburgh, PA 15260. Used by permission of the University of Pittsburgh Press.

Richard Blanco

Richard Blanco

Richard Blanco is the Education Ambassador of the Academy of American Poets. In his role, he helps champion the organization's free resources for teachers, student projects, and other education initiatives. He is the author of several poetry collections, including Matters of the Sea/Cosas del Mar (University of Pittsburgh Press, 2016) and two memoirs, including The Prince of Los Cocuyos: A Miami Childhood (Ecco Press, 2014). In 2013, Blanco was selected to read at Barack Obama's second Presidential Inauguration. He lives in Bethel, Maine.

by this poet

poem
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
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

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