Fourteen

Under the plum tree I gorged on pomegranate seeds that stained my lips. Read More >

Calaveras (literally, sugar skulls,) are traditional satirical Mexican poems published on and around the Day of the Dead (Dia de los Muertos). The celebration of the day of the dead predates the independence of the countries in North America. Read More >

The Past is Your Mother in a Leopard Skin Jumpsuit

Are the children opening mouths like hungry saxophones
Clamoring for bread from my bread music? Read More >

“Henry at Henry” by Maria Garcia Teutsch

Henry Rollins has rocked my world for as long as I can remember. When I first heard him sing with Black Flag my body hummed for hours afterwards. Read More >

Here’s a groovy interview with me conducted by Climate Activist, Dan Linehan for Monterey Poetry Review

The Executioner

stands in a lake

of silence.

Hours termite

into hollow trees.

Published in The Dressing Room Poetry Journal

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I would like to thank Heather McHugh and the editors at Minerva Rising journal for selecting my collection of poems, The Revolution Will Have its Sky, which will be published this year:

Thoughts on The Revolution Will Have Its Sky by Emily Shearer

The personal is political, and politics are everywhere: the courtroom, the throne room, the confessional (real or fake), the brothel, the gallows, and the street corners. Here in The Revolution Will Have Its Sky, Maria Garcia Teutsch presents a manifesto for an ageless cause. By turning her poetic tricks, she conflates image and casts aspersions–we see shadow and reflection, we see queen as whore and judge as prophet as well as thief.
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If my husband’s head were a suitcase I’d put it on the front porch and phone Good Will, storehouse of all second-hand goods and include my blue dancing shoes with heels in want of repair. I don’t need them to dance alone in my living room with the curtains drawn to Hitsville U.K., to Fisherman’s Blues, to Ode to Joy like a trash-can ballerina all thump of toes on hardwood floor and limbs akimbo. Read More >

L’Affaire de Dieu

Je mets ma chaussette dans ma chaussure de Dieu,

marche au travail sur l’eau

divine, je berce mes hanches de Dieu

aux Muddy Waters dans ma tête,

bleus comme la mer écartée.

Je suis

merde d’ours, pas plus, pas moins

je suis Ellla Fitzgerald dans la douche

shoobedowaa—dotdeetdeetdobedo

je fais bulles aux cheveux avec savon de Dieu

chaque mèche chante comme chorale

je me sens Dieu qui coule au bas de ma jambe

dans le tuyau d’écoulement en argent dans mon jardin de derrière

s’infiltre dans les racines

envoie en haut une pousse

je suis une collectionneuse pour Dieu

un pin Lodgepole

(on dira, «regardez comme elle grandit tant droit»)

je ferai passer mon assiette de pomme de pin,

la remplirai avec manzanita, pennyroyal, lupin

et l’offrirai à Dieu

où elle sera portée sur le vent

qui serra à une tornade

démolira ma maison enchaînée

me soufflera à l’endroit

où je trouverai mon bébé

endormi par le fleuve

sur un oreiller de roseau

en bavant la bave de Dieu

je le réveille alors que je l’essuie

et je suis

finie

avec cette affaire de Dieu.

© Maria Garcia Teutsch