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...so they say...
| Joined: |
May 17, 2008 |
| Rank: |
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| Awards: |
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| Location: |
Waterbury, CT |
| Last visit: |
Tuesday, November 17, 2009 (19:32:06) |
| My Occupation: |
High school math teacher |
| Interests: |
Martial Arts, Writing, Scrabble |
| Signature: |
Today is a gift. That's why they call it the present. |
| Biography: |
Victoria Rivas has been a math teacher for three years. She always wanted to teach but somehow got detoured for 25 years programming computers.
She is also poetry addict who now uses her students and job for inspiration. Victoria has featured around CT and NY for the past 15 years, including the Bethel Arts Junction, The Buttonwood Tree, Kafe International, Klekolo World Coffee, and many other CT venues as well as The Knitting Factory in NYC.
Her poetry has been published in many journals including Bogg, The Underwood Review, Big Hammer, Connecticut River Review, Caprice, Common Ground Review, Brouhaha, and the Journal of Asian Martial Arts. It has also been included in two anthologies, Working Hard for the Money from Bottom Dog Press and Along the Lake edited by Sean Thomas Dougherty. She has one chapbook Doing Laundry, and is working on a new book, Yo Miss! I Need a Pencil which includes poetry and prose.
Victoria was on the board of directors for the The 8th Annual National Poetry Slam Championship & 1997 Connecticut Poetry Festival, and the 2001 and 2003 Connecticut Poetry Festivals. She was also an alternate on the 1998 CT Slam Team.
Her press, Ye Olde Font Shoppe, specializes in Connecticut poets and the new generation of beat poets. She hopes to someday support herself with the profits from the press, but then she also thinks world peace is possible.
P.S. That's my real classroom in the background of my Simpsonized pic... |
Snapshots
I sat in the fourth floor window, six week old
infant boy who cried with colic for days, rocked
in my arms. And I with the knowledge that
if my arms opened he would drop. It would be
over, easy as a farmer drowns a bag
of kittens who would not survive anyway.
It's the same, she said. I take care of my cats.
Life grew from bulges in my womb to people
I cannot recognize as parts of myself
except around her mouth, sometimes from her mouth,
except around his eyes, a foot above mine,
grown different each day, shed their yesterdays,
eight thousand days, more or less, every day.
It's battle scars, he said. makes you different.
I picked her up from jail, barefoot, dark circles
under eyes that stared resolutely past me,
mute witness to distance between us. Those
cold wars can sometimes outweigh the many nights
she spent with her head on my lap as my hand
stroked her hair and I watched my teenager sleep.
I miss nothing, she said, not having children.
She was three first time she went missing, wandered
off to another trailer park. He was in
high school last time, three hours late before we found
he was missing. He came for Christmas. She moved
to Texas, showed her boyfriend photos of her
as she grew, took a few more snapshots and left.
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