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.

Most recent articles

Latest articles

  • ONLY THE ROAD / SOLO EL CAMINO: Eight Decades of Cuban Poetry

    , by Margaret Randall

    De sitios y posiciones
    Que no mantenga al enfermo tanto rato en la misma posición –dijo el medico. Que lo vire a un lado –luego a otro. Que cuide sus pulmones. Que no permanezca muchas horas bocarriba. Que lo mueva… -lo (con) mueva?
    Yo, un producto genuinamente nacional, fui (...)


    , by Margaret Randall

    A talking stick, sometimes called a speaker’s staff, is an instrument of aboriginal democracy used by many native tribes and adopted by a number of contemporary groups—political, discussion, creative, therapeutic, recovery—as a way of assuring all voices will be heard. The person (...)


    , by Margaret Randall

    Written in Patria o Muerte
    When night shrouds this Havana street its buildings might be freshly painted, no electrical wires struggling for power, no despair hanging from a full moon pale orange in duplicitous sky.
    Night the great equalizer— what we do not see cannot make us sad. Fifty-six (...)

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