Simply stunning. ( )

When Richard Blanco spoke at Union College in Schenectady this year, he mentioned workshopping his poems. Oh to be a fly on the workshop wall. (A talking fly, that is.)

First, I would tell Richard that some of the poems in Looking for The Gulf Motel are dazzling perfection: 5:00 AM in Cuba, Practice Problem, and, most of all, the title poem. Moreover, I would admire the way the poems in this collection mesh to form a cohesive and moving coming-of-age story.

Then, I would say something that poets in workshops always seem to say: "Throw away your babies." Even as I swoon, I believe that many of Blanco’s poems would be better if he chopped off the last line or two.

So. Richard Blanco, please — Trust your readers! We don't need to be told that you are “a boy afraid of being a boy” (Afternoons as Eldora). We understand that “you are one” (Queer Theory) without explanation. And we get that you yearn for your brother to “believe someday” you’ll glide down the mountain together. Terminal lines like these add a layer of sentimentality and dilute your otherwise powerful work. So, stop it!

Next, I would gently inquire whether Richard Blanco has, perhaps, written enough “It’s not this, but that” poems — as in “Not Ricardo but Richard” and “Not a study or a den, but El Florida.” Starting with a negative is a nifty device, but it does wear thin after awhile.

Finally, after spouting my opinions, I would flutter off (remember, I’m a fly) and try to write my own poems. Wish me luck with that. Richard… would you give me some tips?
( )

The best words, in the best order. Poetry at its best. ( )

I'm happy that President Obama exposed the nation to Richard Blanco. I was so moved by his reading at the inauguration, I immediately sought out his other work. My favorite poems are always those that leave me with conflicted emotions. This collection did precisely that - I began to read the namesake poem to my husband and found myself unable to finish, bursting into tears. That's the best compliment I can give. ( )

This is a highly personal collection of poems that range from nostalgic looks at childhood scenes and relatives, to the struggles of an outsider adolescent wrestling with his cultural and sexual identity, to an awareness of impending age and the death of loved ones. Blanco, born in Spain, but raised in NYC and Miami in a Cuban refugee family, felt displaced as a child both in the Cuban-centric, Spanish-speaking community and in the American world he landed in. Complicating his displacement problems was the growing awareness of his homosexuality in a highly macho atmosphere.

The images and the emotions are strong in this very approachable collection.

from the title poem of the collection:

There should be nothing here I don't remember

My brother and I should still be playing Parcheesi,
my father should still be alive, slow dancing
with my mother on the sliding glass balcony
of the The Gulf Motel. No music, only the waves
keeping time, a song only their minds hear
ten-thousand nights back to their life in Cuba.
My mother's face should still be resting against
his bare chest like the moon resting on the sea,
the stars should still be turning around them. ( )