Margaret Randall

Margaret Randall
Photo by Juan Pérez
“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.

El Corno Emplumado 9

Our first issue of 1964 featured a section of poetry written by painters: Henri Rousseau, Giorgio de Chirico, Paul Klee, Francis Picabia, Jean Arb, Oskar Kokoshka, and Salvador Dali.
El Corno #9 also featured a small anthology of poetry from Peru, and work by Juan Martinez, Theodore Enslin, Thelma Nava, Efrain Huerta, Allen Katzman, Agusti Bartra, Anselm Hollo, Ulises Carrion, and Jack Hirschman.
The journal had received an enthusiastic letter from Henry Miller, and Sergio Mondragon and (...)

Most recent articles

Latest articles

  • 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 still (...)

  • THE MORNING AFTER: POETRY AND PROSE IN A POST-TRUTH WORLD

    , by Margaret Randall

    The Morning After
    —To the children
    It’s the morning after and the polar bear licks blood from his foot’s white fur. Ice is jagged and cuts, its islands recede to the beat of human denial. Far to the south: a dying parrot’s heart cries.
    It’s the morning after and beneath the wall long scarring (...)

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