Ginny MacKenzie

Ginny MacKenzie teaches creative writing at the School of Visual Arts and CUNY in New York City. Her poems have been published in Agni Review, American Literary Review, and many other literary magazines. In addition to The Backwaters Prize for 2002, which was judged by Hilda Raz, MacKenzie received the John Guyon Literary Nonfiction Award from Southern Illinois University.

Books by Ginny MacKenzie at the Backwaters Press

Skipstone Skipstone by Ginny MacKenzie

Author: Ginny MacKenzie
Format: Paperback, 78 pages
ISBN: 0972618716
Published: June 2003

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Awards for Skipstone

Backwaters Prize, 2002

Critical Praise for Ginny MacKenzie’s Skipstone

Here for your readers is Skipstone, a book both smart and passionate, filled with poems whose words pump color back into language while they both frame and release our best and worst memories. At once traditional and iconoclastic, these poems urge their readers to accept the human mysteries of love and art: “don’t look/beyond the window to where the grass breaks like a fever/above the entrance to Hell.” For Persephone and her mother both, for all mythological and other lovers, delight anneals as this fine poetry does.
Hilda Raz – Glenna Luschei Endowed Editor of Prairie Schooner

Excerpt from Ginny MacKenzie’s Skipstone

Clearfield County Fair

My mother told me never mind the morphodite
“And stay away form those babies,
in those bottles,” she called out the screen door.

Their abortive faces bulged their jars:
some lacked noses, or ears; others
had double sets of genitals labeled

For Educational Purposes Only, they
were lined up like targets.  I stepped back,
took imaginary aim.  Just this morning

I had scattered starlings from our garden
with my BB gun.  Shooting galleries, kewpie
prizes, Haunted House, I passed them all.

Lit by a red spotlight:  Mondu the Hermaphrodite
loomed, glowering at us as if we
were to blame for the half-rouged, half-bearded

cheeks, for all this.  I closed my eyes,
thought of that other display, what they’d’ve
been like grown up.  Then suddenly

it was over, or nearly:  “Ladies,”
the barker hissed, “I must ask you to leave.
Gentlemen, for another 50 cents,

2 quarters, 5 thin dimes, Mondu will remove
this loincloth and reveal to you…”
Back outside, it was chilly, the fairgrounds

covered with trash.  I headed up the midway
toward home, my new Babydoll high-heels
sticking in gum, taffy, Crackerjacks.

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