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#Noʻu Revilla
lifeinpoetry · 2 years
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Inside the dress, there is a creature, she
careful
is a cliff in a girl’s body.
— Noʻu Revilla, from "Memory as missionary position," Ask the Brindled
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heatwa-ves · 1 year
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your hands are bloody_
george abraham | yrsa daley ward | rachel mckibbens | richard siken | unknown | flannery o'connor | clive barker | noʻu revilla | nayyirah waheed | warsan shire
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ebookporn · 3 years
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ʻŌiwi poet-professor lands national award, publishing deal
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A University of Hawaiʻi at Mānoa assistant professor is making literary history this month, becoming the first ʻŌiwi (Native Hawaiian) poet to win the National Poetry Series competition.
“In fall 2022, Noʻu Revilla will most likely become the first openly queer ʻŌiwi woman to have a full-length collection of poetry published by a leader in the industry,” according to a University press release. Milkweed Editions, an independent publisher, offered Revilla a book deal after she topped more than 1,600 other poets in the 2021 NPS open competition.
“I feel very lucky that my work gets to be recognized like this,” Revilla said. “When I was young, I didn’t have access to poetry written by Hawaiians, and there were definitely no books being published by openly gay Hawaiian women. It is a dream come true.”
Revilla submitted a poetry manuscript entitled “Ask the Brindled,” which explores how aloha is possible in the face of colonization and sexual violence. The collection delves into themes of desire and intergenerational healing through the cultural figure of moʻo, or shapeshifting water protectors. The Maui native hopes her first book of poetry will respond to the lack of representation of queer Indigenous women in Pacific Literature.
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fatehbaz · 5 years
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New Poetry by Queer Indigenous Women - A Series Curated by Natalie Diaz - Literary Hub - 12 April 2018
The words of Natalie Diaz:
In my Mojave culture, many of our songs are maps, but not in the sense of an American map. Mojave song-maps do not draw borders or boundaries, do not say this is knowable, or defined, or mine. Instead our maps use language to tell about our movements and wonderings (not wanderings) across a space, naming what has happened along the way while also compelling us toward what is waiting to be discovered, where we might go and who we might meet or become along the way.
This feature of indigenous women is meant to be like those song-maps, to offer myriad ways of “poetic” and linguistic experience—a journey through or across memory, or imagination, across pain or joy or the impossibility of each, across our bodies of land and water and flesh and ink—an ever-shifting, ever-returning, ever-realizing map of movement, of discovery, of possibility, of risk—of indigenous and native poetry. It is my luck to welcome you to this indigenous space and invite you into the conversations of these poems, languages, imageries and wonders. In the first installment of this bi-monthly feature, I’m pleased to share the work of Noʻu Revilla, Janet McAdams, Lehua M. Taitano, Deborah A. Miranda, and Arianne True.
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Noʻu Revilla is a queer Indigenous poet and educator of Hawaiian and Tahitian descent. Born and raised on the island of Maui, she has performed and facilitated creative writing workshops throughout Hawaiʻi as well as in Canada, Papua New Guinea, and at the United Nations. Her work has been exhibited at the Honolulu Museum of Art and appears in Poetry magazine, Black Renaissance Noire, The Missing Slate, Hawaiʻi Review, and Poem of the Week by Kore Press. Her chapbook Say Throne was published by Tinfish Press in 2011, and she is currently finishing her PhD in creative writing at the University of Hawaiʻi-Mānoa.
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Janet McAdams is the author of three poetry collections, most recently the chapbook Seven Boxes for the Country After.  With Geary Hobson and Kathryn Walkiewicz, she coedited the anthology The People Who Stayed: Southeastern Indian Writing after Removal. A writer of mixed Scottish, Irish, and Creek (Muscogee) ancestry, she grew up in Alabama and now lives in Ohio, where she teaches at Kenyon College.
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Lehua M. Taitano, a native Chamoru from Yigo, Guåhan (Guam), is a queer writer and interdisciplinary artist.  She is the author of two volumes of poetry–Inside Me an Island (forthcoming 2018) and A Bell Made of Stones. Her chapbook,  appalachiapacific, won the 2010 Merriam-Frontier Award for short fiction, and her most recent chapbook, Sonoma, was published by Dropleaf Press in 2017. She hustles her way through the capitalist labyrinth as a bike mechanic who sometimes gets paid to make art.
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Arianne True (Choctaw, Chickasaw) is a queer poet and folk artist who has worked everywhere from the temperate rainforest canopy to the rocky edges of the Salish Sea. Arianne has taught and mentored with Writers in the Schools (WITS), YouthSpeaks Seattle, and the Richard Hugo House, and has served as a guest editor for cloudthroat. In May, Arianne will graduate from the MFA program at the Institute of American Indian Arts.
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Deborah A. Miranda is the author of Bad Indians: A Tribal Memoir (winner of the PEN Oakland Josephine Miles Literary Award), as well as three poetry collections, Indian Cartography, The Zen of La Llorona, and Raised By Humans.  She is co-editor of Sovereign Erotics: An Anthology of Two-Spirit Literature and her collection of essays, The Hidden Stories of Isabel Meadows and Other California Indian Lacunae is under contract with U of Nebraska Press.  Miranda is an enrolled member of the Ohlone-Costanoan Esselen Nation of California.  As John Lucian Smith Jr. Professor of English at Washington and Lee University, Deborah teaches Creative Writing (poetry and memoir), composition, and literature of the margins (Native American, Chicana/o, LGBTQ, African American, Asian American, mixed-genre, experimental).
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Read more, including some poems from each of the listed writers.
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redshift-13 · 4 years
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Travis Hedge Coke
Taté Walker
Romeo Romero
Rapheal Begay
Rain Prud’homme
Noʻu Revilla
Michael Wasson
M. Carmen Lane
Kit Thomas
Kim Shuck
Kai Minosh Pyle
Julian Talamantez Brolaski
Jenny L. Davis
Crisosto Apache
Billie Kearns
Arianne True
MISSION
“Anomaly is an international journal of literature and the arts. We provide a platform for works of art that challenge conventions of form and format, of voice and genre.
Anomaly is committed to actively seeking out and promoting the work of marginalized and underrepresented artists, including especially people of color, women, queer, disabled, neurodivergent, and gender nonconforming artists. We recognize that, as Kazim Ali wrote brilliantly to Aimee Nezhukumatathil: “The notion of an unbiased concept “literary merit” is an inherently and inescapably racist principle. An institution that relies on it is by definition a white supremacist institution.” Anomaly recognizes that aesthetics are not neutral, and that difference tends to be marginalized.
Anomaly is committed to encouraging experimentation in the arts.
Anomaly believes in the importance of compensating artists for their work, and we are working toward financial sustainability, which will allow us to compensate our contributors and our editorial staff for their work.
Anomaly focuses on especially innovative and experimental literature and arts. Anomaly is run by an entirely volunteer staff, dedicated to literature and art and the internet (well, more like literature and the art on the internet, but we’re fans of the medium, too).”
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fullofevents · 7 years
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New Event has been published on http://fullofevents.com/hawaii/event/liliu-poetry-workshop-with-jamaica-osorio-nou-revilla/
LILIU Poetry Workshop with Jamaica Osorio & Nou Revilla
The PAʻI Foundation will be sponsoring a 2-day (July 5th & 6th, 2017) “LILIʻU: A Poetry Writing Workshop” with Native Hawaiian writers Jamaica Osorio and Noʻu Revilla, with a subject focus of Queen Liliʻuokalani, at the Honolulu Museum of Art Education Lecture Hall. Workshops will run from 10:00am-3:30pm each day. Lunch will be hosted by the PAʻI Foundation. REGISTRATION REQUIRED. By registering, attendees are committing to attend both days. To register click on “Find Tickets”.
#hawaii #events #fullofevents
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lifeinpoetry · 2 years
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By the third lover, she had peeled so much skin she became a woman who could walk on blood. She meant nothing to me. She is a house of red. A holy assemblage. A city of nerve & dirt. nothing to me her skin survived every summer. I don’t want you to leave she spoke to the jars. I want you to live like a city that never rises live here cigarettes here aimed at god. No evidence of life after death so she left that skin for good. Years later, she will remem- ber the sound of her wife’s tires flexing against mud, the sound of stolen glass jars ringing after her. By the third lover, she could finally walk on blood, but even the saint had gone looking for more skin. 
— Noʻu Revilla, from "In search of a different ending," Ask the Brindled
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lifeinpoetry · 2 years
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you are shattered & many-named
believing no one knows /// how to call you home
home is a ravaged thing // we wish // you could see
the peace in the pieces / our bodies ungoverned by fear
— Noʻu Revilla, from "The ea of enough," Ask the Brindled
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lifeinpoetry · 2 years
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in seven days, she destroyed your world. for the next seven, eat with your fingers & trust only the moon. there will be pressure-cooked pork. there will be gauze.
— Noʻu Revilla, from "After she leaves you, femme," Ask the Brindled
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lifeinpoetry · 2 years
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When you say “protestors” instead of “protectors”
I would call it a trick, if it wasn’t so terrifying, how your mouth doesn’t move when you speak. Your smile, shiny as a church, but what kind of prayer could ever be trusted without evidence of a free tongue? On the rare occasion sound shakes loose, words, no matter how unmuzzled, words still go to die. In your mouth, even womb is wound. Sometimes I dream of tear- ing your throat wide open and finding there, where stories should be born, only bleedingbleedingbleeding. The wish to desecrate. We are, yet again, portrayed by you, the girl the Native the water the mountain who was “ask- ing for it.” Your lips so Sunday still. Sometimes I almost believe you. So it’s best I keep hiding knives in my hair, the way my grandmother—not god— the way my grandmother intended.
— Noʻu Revilla, from Ask the Brindled
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lifeinpoetry · 2 years
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The one made of open until her mother chased her with a knife. She is the cure to everything that hurts but will never let anyone touch her.
— Noʻu Revilla, from "Shapeshifters banned, censored, or otherwise shit-listed, aka chosen family poem," Ask the Brindled
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lifeinpoetry · 2 years
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The hurt is origin story. And spreads. For some families, their evidence is blood. Our family, graves clean, our family is skin. Stop scratching. No longer children because we asked: Does it always hurt like this?
— Noʻu Revilla, from "About the effects of shedding skin," Ask the Brindled
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lifeinpoetry · 2 years
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She sat near the bath- room window & blew smoke at heaven, half-listening to the latest gospel, half burning a hole in the sky: she’s just a white picket fence she makes me feel #skinoritdidnthappen I didn’t mean life after betrayal. She remembered St. Anthony. Patron saint of lost things. Come, collect this body, saint. I smoked you a hole to fall through.
— Noʻu Revilla, from "In search of a different ending," Ask the Brindled
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lifeinpoetry · 2 years
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When I dream of women and wire it means I fuck like a woman at war with her body. Where is my rope? I am witch. I am island. Or am I a love story poorly translated?
— Noʻu Revilla, from "Myth bitch," Ask the Brindled
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lifeinpoetry · 2 years
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Another descendant may pretend not to notice euphemisms in each conversation, the oh-so-sweet invitation for my healing body to partake of life after what-should-have-killed-you-but- under-these-circumstances-keeps-you-wondering-anyway- how-honorable-is-it-really-to-swim-upstream-with-your-mouth-open. Kinder calls could not be made to help me be less lonely. I remind everyone how daily it is to be broken. Must the world suffer more creation stories? Night gave birth to the lizard at rest, so don’t be so pleased with yourself, they tell me. A wasp’s nest is growing where my hurt should be. ‘A‘ole i pau.
— Noʻu Revilla, from "Catalogue of gossip, warnings & other talk of mo‘o, aka an ‘ōiwi abecedarian," Ask the Brindled
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lifeinpoetry · 2 years
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Antihero, someone suggests. Expression of Native, feminist, and queer in one body. Listen, there is never just one or four, hundreds or thousands. Do you understand what I mean when I say swallowscape? How I eat one world at a time, kick my pants off, brace myself like a hurt animal on all fours. Mean it—each time you fling your hips toward night like bones to a monster. Pick a better name for what you become when you fly from my mouth, faster and harder than myth. ‘A‘ole i pau.
— Noʻu Revilla, from "Catalogue of gossip, warnings & other talk of mo‘o, aka an ‘ōiwi abecedarian," Ask the Brindled
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