Switchback books is pleased to announce the winner of our 2012 Gatewood Prize, chosen by Brenda Shaughnessy:
A Table that Goes on for Miles by Stefania Heim
Stefania Heim holds an MFA in Poetry from Columbia University and is completing a PhD in English at the CUNY Graduate Center, writing a dissertation called Dark Matter: Susan Howe, Muriel Rukeyser, and the Scholar's Art with support from the Josephine de Karman Fellowship Trust. Her poems have appeared or are forthcoming in publications including A Public Space, The Literary Review, and Harp & Altar; her scholarship and criticism in The Boston Review, Jacket2, and The Journal of Narrative Theory, and her translations in Aufgabe and Harper's. She is a founding editor of CIRCUMFERENCE: Poetry in Translation and has taught literature and writing at Columbia University and Hunter College and been a poet in residence in Chicago and New York City Public Schools.
Congratulations, Stefania! And welcome to Switchback!
[Red Missed Aches] is a collaboration between text and visual material: drawings, photos, and art, between art that is created and found art, and between languages: Spanish, English, Spanglish. [...] Tamayo’s reaches out, body imprisoned by body, signifying citizenship and witness.
Arielle Greenberg, from her essay, "The Blurred, Visionary Promise of Hybridized Poetics" (APR 41.5, Sept./Oct. 2012):
And what of gender and race and ethnicity, of border crossing and marginalization? These concerns seem to almost demand, topically, a hybridized form, and there must be something to the fact that, when looking through stacks and stacks of new books in search of the hybrid, I came up with a pile of work mostly by women, people of color, and immigrants.
All of this comes to fruition in Jennifer Tamayo’s Red Missed Aches/Read Missed Ache...
Crawford’s poems say no to aesthetic distance. They ask you—and me—to jump into the pool with them, to join them up in the attic, and not to climb out. Their performance of girlhood seems, to them and to me, an amazed alternative to the compromises and the logical consequence of any well-ordered, decorous, appropriately attired adult world. The poems are like temporary, miniature, wilder alternatives to that world, “like an entire town underneath the Christmas tree, if you think about it” (which also works as a figure for poetry in general). The poems are like Christmas-tree miniatures, but they are also like erotic fantasies, envisioning impossible transformations, such as Emily Dickinson as a high school swimmer, or myself as a woman, a girl. “She rammed her head into my mouth, in the pool. I hid her letters in my bra. There’s a part of my brain that’s like the zipper on a sleeping bag, a cluster of pine trees, a telephone c...