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Happy New Year!

As we approach 2022, it’s easy to want to leave 2021 behind. While this past year definitely had its challenges, our team at BOA is proud to step back and recognize all of the amazing things accomplished in 2021, including celebrating our 45th anniversary of publishing vital new voices in poetry and short fiction!

In the last year, BOA published eleven incredible titles, including:

In addition to print books, BOA also introduced the BOA Audiobook Series! Soon, you will be able to purchase the following list of works for an alternative way to listen to your favorite authors read their own work:

We at BOA want to thank each and every person who supported us and contributed to such a great year. None of this would be possible without immense support from the National Endowment for the Arts, the New York State Council for the Arts, the Lannan Foundation, Monroe County, LitTAP, and numerous generous foundations and individual donors. See BOA’s full list of supporters here, and consider becoming one of those supporters through an Annual Campaign donation here. Your support ensures that 2022 will be another year full of powerful and necessary literature.

Already the new year promises the fantastic work of Erika Meitner, Heather Sellers, Dustin Pearson, Danni Quintos, Renia White, Gabrielle Lucille Fuentes, Luther Hughes, Matt Donovan, and others. You can view or preorder the Spring 2022 titles here. We can't wait to share these new collections with you!

As we look towards the future, we leave you with the words of Chen Chen, whose first book, When I Grow Up I Want to Be a List of Further Possibilities, is forthcoming on audiobook, and second collection, Your Emergency Contact Has Experienced an Emergency, is forthcoming in Fall 2022:

"Elegy to Be Exhaled at Dusk"

I am an elegy to be exhaled at dusk. I am an elegy to be written on a late
October leaf. An elegy to be blown

from its tree by a late October wind. To be stomped on & through
by passersby old & young

& dead & unborn. To be crinkled & crushed into tiny brown-
orange pieces. & then

collected, painstakingly, no, painfully, piece by piece, & assembled like
a puzzle or collage or

Egyptian god, but always incomplete, always a few bits & limbs
missing. An elegy to be

misplaced, stuffed away in the attic’s memory, & only brought out again
once every occupant of the house has

ceased. Yes, I am an elegy properly architectured by ruin. An elegy that has experienced crows & lake effect

snow, an elegy that has seen Ukrainian snow falling on the forehead
of Paul Celan, Paul Celan’s mother,

the German tongue, the tangled tongues of all your literary
& literal ancestors—but more

than that, an elegy that has felt light, the early morning light falling
on your lovely someone’s

lovable bare feet as he walks across the wood floor to sit by the window,
by the plants, with a cup of jasmine

& a book he will barely open but love to hold the weight of
in his lap. I am,

my friend, an elegy that has taken into account, into heart & October wind,
the weight of someone’s soft

hair-covered head in someone else’s warm, welcoming lap.

Post written by Isabella Mihok, Fall 2021 BOA intern

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