Holly McGhee

 things that inspire me as a writer and literary agent. I believe in the magic of this world.

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www.hollymcghee.com/dear-neighbor-please-vote/

www.raisingourvoices.today

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#cardsforkids #raisingourvoices #keepfamiliestogether #familiesbelongtogether

#edelrodriguez

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thank you @gettyimages for capturing #raisingourvoices at the #familiesbelongtogethermarch across the Brooklyn  Bridge on June 30, 2018 / protest posters by prominent artists are downloadable for free at www.raisingourvoices.today 

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These posters are available at www.raisingourvoices.today for free download, with directions on how to print them in one day at Staples.com. Use them to support immigrants. The top one is from the 2018 Newbery Medalist & Hello Universe author Erin Entrada Kelly, whose mom immigrated from the Philippines, the middle one from visionary author and NYT bestselling artist Peter H. Reynolds who is an immigrant, and the bottom one from fashion illustration and maker of children’s books Sujean Rim, child of immigrants from Korea.  #raisingourvoices #familiesbelongtogether#keepfamiliestogether #immigration#erinentradakelly #2018newberywinner

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Go to www.raisingourvoices.today to download free poster art by #kidlit artists to support immigrants, for use on June 30 and at all future events.

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stay tuned for posters like this to download and print for #FamiliesBelongTogether rallies across America June 20. 

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she showed up & i was so happy to see her #geckos

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this book / September 2018

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when your nineteen year old gives you a doll she had made from your book

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Q & A with An Na

An Na spoke with PW about her new novel, 'The Place Between Breaths,' which captures the disjointed inner workings of a schizophrenic teen’s mind.

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chess

[nemfrog]

Source.  Source.  Source.  Source.  Source.

Source.  Source.  Source.  Source.  Source.

[hollymcghee]

PEN Out Loud with Jason Reynolds and Gregory Pardlo - PEN America

This February, join bestselling and multi-award winning author Jason Reynolds and Pulitzer Prize winning poet Greg Pardlo in conversation for the launch of the 2018 season of PEN Out Loud, presented in collaboration with PEN America and the Strand Book Store. In a candid author-to-author conversation, they will discuss the vital importance of a literary …

[hollymcghee]

With an eye to the various brokennesses of the world, past and present, Morrison writes: This is precisely the time when artists go to work. There is no time for despair, no place for self-pity, no need for silence, no room for fear. We speak, we write, we do language. That is how civilizations heal. I know the world is bruised and bleeding, and though it is important not to ignore its pain, it is also critical to refuse to succumb to its malevolence. Like failure, chaos contains information that can lead to knowledge — even wisdom. Like art.

Toni Morrison, via brainpickings

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The Testing-Tree Stanley Kunitz 1905-2006

1

On my way home from school   up tribal Providence Hill      past the Academy ballpark where I could never hope to play   I scuffed in the drainage ditch      among the sodden seethe of leaves hunting for perfect stones   rolled out of glacial time      into my pitcher’s hand; then sprinted lickety-   split on my magic Keds      from a crouching start, scarcely touching the ground   with my flying skin      as I poured it on for the prize of the mastery   over that stretch of road,      with no one no where to deny when I flung myself down   that on the given course      I was the world’s fastest human.

2

Around the bend   that tried to loop me home      dawdling came natural across a nettled field   riddled with rabbit-life      where the bees sank sugar-wells in the trunks of the maples   and a stringy old lilac      more than two stories tall blazing with mildew   remembered a door in the      long teeth of the woods. All of it happened slow:   brushing the stickseed off,      wading through jewelweed strangled by angel’s hair,   spotting the print of the deer      and the red fox’s scats. Once I owned the key   to an umbrageous trail      thickened with mosses where flickering presences   gave me right of passage      as I followed in the steps of straight-backed Massassoit   soundlessly heel-and-toe      practicing my Indian walk.

3

Past the abandoned quarry   where the pale sun bobbed      in the sump of the granite, past copperhead ledge,   where the ferns gave foothold,      I walked, deliberate, on to the clearing,   with the stones in my pocket      changing to oracles and my coiled ear tuned   to the slightest leaf-stir.      I had kept my appointment. There I stood in the shadow,   at fifty measured paces,      of the inexhaustible oak, tyrant and target,   Jehovah of acorns,      watchtower of the thunders, that locked King Philip’s War   in its annulated core      under the cut of my name. Father wherever you are    I have only three throws       bless my good right arm. In the haze of afternoon,   while the air flowed saffron,      I played my game for keeps-- for love, for poetry,   and for eternal life--      after the trials of summer.

4

In the recurring dream   my mother stands      in her bridal gown under the burning lilac,   with Bernard Shaw and Bertie      Russell kissing her hands; the house behind her is in ruins;   she is wearing an owl’s face      and makes barking noises. Her minatory finger points.   I pass through the cardboard doorway      askew in the field and peer down a well   where an albino walrus huffs.      He has the gentlest eyes. If the dirt keeps sifting in,   staining the water yellow,      why should I be blamed? Never try to explain.   That single Model A      sputtering up the grade unfurled a highway behind   where the tanks maneuver,      revolving their turrets. In a murderous time   the heart breaks and breaks      and lives by breaking. It is necessary to go   through dark and deeper dark      and not to turn. I am looking for the trail.   Where is my testing-tree?      Give me back my stones!