Margaret Randall

Margaret Randall
Photo by Jim Norrena
“Then I saw what the calling was :
it was the road I traveled”
- Muriel Rukeyser

My life and work have been profoundly informed by parents who gave me love and adventure, and encouraged creativity; the dramatic desert canyons, rich colors and open skies of the southwestern United States; Socialist ideals; the second wave of feminism; and the generous mentorship of many great friends and colleagues. My children, grandchildren, and great grandchild are always with me, even when far away; and my spouse Barbara is bedrock. New York’s abstract expressionist painters in the 1950s, Mexico and her struggles of the 1960s, the Cuban revolution’s second brave decade in the 1970s, the Vietnamese people’s struggle against US attack and occupation in that same decade, and the Sandinista attempt to change Nicaragua in the early 1980s were places and events that shaped me. The exploration of ancient sites continues to be a source of nourishment, and I have long been involved with oral tradition. I deeply believe in humanistic values, combating our culture of violence and greed, and art as a tool for change. I invite you to enter my website, learn about my books, read my poetry and look at my photographic images.

ABOUT LITTLE CHARLIE LINDBERGH - poems

Everyone Lied
We wanted to make the world a better place but everyone lied, fought power with humble flesh, blood, brilliance, and the luck of the innocent.
The enemy’s lies assaulted us, their language diminished our numbers, turned us against one another, touched lovers, confused our sense of who we were and why.
And we lied about them, claimed they were drug dealers and murderers, all their food poisoned, all their streets unsafe. Then we lied about our own, sowed serious doubt, (...)

Most recent articles

Latest articles

  • By Reynaldo García Blanco

    , by Margaret Randall

    HONORABLE ROQUE DALTON (REVISITED)
    Honorable Roque Dalton, hell or heaven wherever you are we’ve been talking about you for a while. It rained in Medellin and the temperature was ten beers below zero. I despaired because my window looked out on the whores’ quarter and we were talking about (...)

  • By Yanira Marimón

    , by Margaret Randall

    Every year, on the same date
    to V.F.
    I never wanted to be just one among multitudes. My delusional eyes were accustomed to being spectators at an endless raging circus.
    I remember it: my feet obeyed the delirious rhythm.
    Someone shouted: A little faster! Imperiously
    (or another sort of (...)

  • By Chely Lima

    , by Margaret Randall

    Confused, uncertain, murky, ambiguous
    No one will take notice, that much is clear. You will be confused by your body, your voice trained to sound sweet, inoffensive. But you are you are you are you: A solitary man who lives between two worlds, looks in the mirror and sees only his (...)

  • By Alfredo Zaldívar

    , by Margaret Randall

    THE DOG / by Goya
    If I had to pick one painting at the Prado Museum The Maidens wouldn’t be my choice / too much for me.
    Nor The Surrender of Breda I contemplate sitting on a bench for hours that seemed centuries.
    Not even those drunken faces by Velázquez /my favorite painter, /the piece of (...)

  • By Laura Ruiz Montes

    , by Margaret Randall

    NUMBERS
    In some other city it’s always surprising to find
    what we expect of this country’s nights.
    Surprising to find that the scent
    my grandmother celebrated for years
    still exists.
    1800 isn’t only an eau de cologne.
    Neither is it just a number,
    but something refused at every border
    yet (...)

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