About Me

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Mark Olival-Bartley teaches English, tutors composition, trains teachers, and advises a literary circle. He studied applied linguistics at Hawaii Pacific University, attaining B.A. and M.A. degrees in TESOL, and poetry at the City College of New York. He is now anatomizing the prosody of E. A. Robinson’s sonnets for his dissertation at LMU Munich’s Department of English and American Studies, where also he edits a poetry weekly. His poems and translations have appeared in journals on both sides of the Atlantic. He is the resident poet at EcoHealth, where his science-themed verse is regularly featured, and a senior copyeditor of Review of International American Studies.

20111213

Eclogue


I heard a soldier on NPR speak
of an Afghan widow who, in a field
of blooming poppies, stooped low in the mud;
she’d been at her work for hours: “Crazy,”
he thought, watching the white dress go blood red
with flower stains of decollated bulbs
with a curious amount of leisure.



As in a gallery patron’s treasure
hunt (where each find is found, say, like the daubs
of Hofmann’s blasted and fragmented bed
of sanguinary chunks) lit by hazy
afternoon, she’d toss with a horrible thud—
he realized only later—the gross yield
of a land mine, which made the basket leak.


Mark Olival-Bartley


Note:  A recitation by the poet can be heard here.

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