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POETRY
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 Excerpts from Z is for Zapatazo |
 https://circulowriters.com/ | Círculo A community of diverse poets and writers supporting literary arts in California. Somos en escrito provides a venue for these aspiring poets to feature their poetry, interviews, reviews and promote poetic happenings. |
ADELA NAJARRO
THE POET: IN HER OWN WORDS
I was born in San Francisco, and then around the age of four or five we moved to the Los Angeles area. We lived in many L.A. suburbs, Downey, Pico Rivera, Cerritos, and Torrance. We moved around a lot. I went to a different school almost every year. I learned to adapt and understand U.S. suburban culture. I also learned how all fluctuates and is indeterminate.
My love of writing and ability to play between two languages arose from the randomness of my childhood. My early years were filled with what can best be termed chaotic love, and so I came to understand how the world is not set in one place, language, or mode of seeing, which just happens to be the perfect upbringing for a poet in a post-modern world! I have done a lot of inner work analyzing and articulating my childhood. My family, my memories, mi pasado, fuel my poems, though perhaps not directly in a one-to-one translated narrative.
My early memories focus on my father. In one, he is carrying me from the car to the house. My head rests on his shoulder and I have my arms wrapped around his neck. We lived in San Francisco, at the time. We are going up the stairs to the door. In the other, I am in the same doorway, and someone asks my name. I reply “Adelita.” He tells me that my name is Adela and that Adelita is a term of endearment used in the family. Of course, he didn’t use those words since I must have been around four years old and this would have taken place in Spanish. I also have a memory of standing at the top of a street in San Francisco and looking down. I fear falling.
My parents and grandparents were born in Nicaragua. Some of my cousins were born here in the U.S. while others were born in Nicaragua. Nearly all family members are now living in the United States. I’m sure there are a few distant cousins in Nicaragua. I don’t know them, but I would like to. Instead, what I do is travel to Nicaragua through my imagination—what was Nicaragua like for my mother, my father, mis abuelas? I love to imagine los pericos in the tropical rainforest and iguanas sunbathing in the branches of barren trees.
I have always written. I have memories of writing poems in elementary school. I write to understand my place in the world
THE POET: IN HER OWN WORDS
I was born in San Francisco, and then around the age of four or five we moved to the Los Angeles area. We lived in many L.A. suburbs, Downey, Pico Rivera, Cerritos, and Torrance. We moved around a lot. I went to a different school almost every year. I learned to adapt and understand U.S. suburban culture. I also learned how all fluctuates and is indeterminate.
My love of writing and ability to play between two languages arose from the randomness of my childhood. My early years were filled with what can best be termed chaotic love, and so I came to understand how the world is not set in one place, language, or mode of seeing, which just happens to be the perfect upbringing for a poet in a post-modern world! I have done a lot of inner work analyzing and articulating my childhood. My family, my memories, mi pasado, fuel my poems, though perhaps not directly in a one-to-one translated narrative.
My early memories focus on my father. In one, he is carrying me from the car to the house. My head rests on his shoulder and I have my arms wrapped around his neck. We lived in San Francisco, at the time. We are going up the stairs to the door. In the other, I am in the same doorway, and someone asks my name. I reply “Adelita.” He tells me that my name is Adela and that Adelita is a term of endearment used in the family. Of course, he didn’t use those words since I must have been around four years old and this would have taken place in Spanish. I also have a memory of standing at the top of a street in San Francisco and looking down. I fear falling.
My parents and grandparents were born in Nicaragua. Some of my cousins were born here in the U.S. while others were born in Nicaragua. Nearly all family members are now living in the United States. I’m sure there are a few distant cousins in Nicaragua. I don’t know them, but I would like to. Instead, what I do is travel to Nicaragua through my imagination—what was Nicaragua like for my mother, my father, mis abuelas? I love to imagine los pericos in the tropical rainforest and iguanas sunbathing in the branches of barren trees.
I have always written. I have memories of writing poems in elementary school. I write to understand my place in the world
Adela Najarro
THE POET'S BIO
Adela Najarro is the author of three poetry collections: Split Geography, Twice Told Over and My Childrens, a chapbook that includes teaching resources. With My Childrens she hopes to bring Latinx poetry into the high school and college classroom so that students can explore poetry, identity, and what it means to be a person of color in US society. Her extended family’s emigration from Nicaragua to San Francisco began in the 1940’s and concluded in the eighties when the last of the family settled in the Los Angeles area.
She currently teaches creative writing, literature, and composition at Cabrillo College, and is the English instructor for the Puente Project, a program designed to support Latinidad in all its aspects, while preparing community college students to transfer to four-year colleges and universities. Every spring semester, she teaches a “Poetry for the People,” workshop at Cabrillo College where students explore personal voice and social justice through poetry and spoken word.
She holds a doctorate in literature and creative writing from Western Michigan University, as well as an M.F.A. from Vermont College, and is widely published in numerous anthologies and literary magazines. Her poetry appears in the University of Arizona Press anthology The Wind Shifts: New Latino Poetry, and she has published poems in numerous journals, including Porter Gulch Review, Acentos Review, BorderSenses, Feminist Studies, Puerto del Sol, Nimrod International Journal of Poetry & Prose, Notre Dame Review, Blue Mesa Review, Crab Orchard Review, and elsewhere.
Adela Najarro is the author of three poetry collections: Split Geography, Twice Told Over and My Childrens, a chapbook that includes teaching resources. With My Childrens she hopes to bring Latinx poetry into the high school and college classroom so that students can explore poetry, identity, and what it means to be a person of color in US society. Her extended family’s emigration from Nicaragua to San Francisco began in the 1940’s and concluded in the eighties when the last of the family settled in the Los Angeles area.
She currently teaches creative writing, literature, and composition at Cabrillo College, and is the English instructor for the Puente Project, a program designed to support Latinidad in all its aspects, while preparing community college students to transfer to four-year colleges and universities. Every spring semester, she teaches a “Poetry for the People,” workshop at Cabrillo College where students explore personal voice and social justice through poetry and spoken word.
She holds a doctorate in literature and creative writing from Western Michigan University, as well as an M.F.A. from Vermont College, and is widely published in numerous anthologies and literary magazines. Her poetry appears in the University of Arizona Press anthology The Wind Shifts: New Latino Poetry, and she has published poems in numerous journals, including Porter Gulch Review, Acentos Review, BorderSenses, Feminist Studies, Puerto del Sol, Nimrod International Journal of Poetry & Prose, Notre Dame Review, Blue Mesa Review, Crab Orchard Review, and elsewhere.
Adela Najarro & Juan Felipe Herrera
POEMS FROM TWICE TOLD OVER
Early Morning Chat with God
This morning I’m back to asking for patience.
With my cup of coffee I sit outside to say hello
to you God, my Jiminy Cricket, my salsa
dancing quick-with-a-dip amigo. We have
a very collegial relationship. I laugh
at all your jokes and praise the wonders
of a sky’s watercolors. I know you like me,
a benign affection and tolerance as I run
around like a chicken with its head cut off,
a truly gruesome image, nevertheless
hilarious like a grisly cartoon. The blood spurting.
The body winding down to zero. The crashing
into unforeseen objects. I think if I
were back on my great-grandmother’s farm,
the farm that I know only through stories
my mother tells of Nicaragua, Bluefields,
a tortilla filled with just enough, and I saw
the long scrawny neck and the axe,
I would be sick to my stomach: the aimlessness
of her final strut, the reality of blood
loss, her claws scratching the dirt, kicking up rocks,
a panic. But when she stops, into the pot
she goes. A meal, what we need to continue,
her flesh simmered off the bone. Truly delicious
in a tomato sauce flavored with green peppers
and onions. Transformation. The feathers
plucked, soil and dust washed away. The table set.
Goblets of red wine, white china plates,
a cast iron pot twirling a bay leaf
scented steam. Then a prayer and gratitude
that we have enough to make it through
another night alone, a night filled with longing
whispers and the turbulence of dreams.
Between Two Languages
Misericordia translates to mercy,
as in God have mercy on our souls.
Ten piedad, pity us the poor and suffering,
the lost and broken. Have mercy. Ten piedad.
Misericordia, a compassionate
forgiveness, carries within
miseria, misery, the stifled cry
on a midnight bus to nowhere,
and yes, the hunger, a starless night’s
piercing howl, the shadows within shadows
under a freeway overpass, the rage
that God might be laughing, or even
worse, silent, gone, a passing hallucination.
Our nerve-wracked bodies tremble.
Our eyes have trouble peering into night.
Let us hope for more than can possibly be.
Señor, ten misericordia de nosotros.
And if we are made in the image of God,
then we can begin heading toward
the ultimate zero, the void
that is not empty, forgive ourselves,
and remember the three
seconds when we caught a glimpse
of someone else’s stifling cry.
Compassion, then miseria, our own
misery intensified by the discordant
ringing of some other life. Our ultimate
separation. Our bodies intolerably
unable to halt the cacophonous
clamor of unanswered prayers.
But nevertheless we must try
for no reason at all. Once more,
Señor, ten misericordia de nosotros,
forgive us for what we cannot do.
Redlands
I'm coming to the conclusion that I'm simple,
like my mother, my grandmother, father. All of them
from Nicaragua where time goes back further.
Here, wagons and rifles, the prairie plowed
into fields of soybeans and sunflowers. Sunken wood
barns and tombstones rattle as a six-by-six tractor-trailer
rumbles through exit 41a and on past peach cobbler,
a shot of Jim Beam Whiskey, and the Stop'n'Go, 7-11,
Circle K, whatever name on that one corner, in that one
place, where someone calls the intersection of a convenience store
and a gas station their town, their home, their grass. Paint or
aluminum siding. A kitchen and carpet. Photos
of Aunt Edna and Uncle Charlie. That summer Chuck
went for a ride on a Harley under redwoods and past
cool stream shadows while Julie, as little girl, slept
in a Ford station wagon. Faded blue. Wood paneling
peeling open to rust. The back flipped down
for her and Ursa Major poured out sky.
*
In Nicaragua the colors are electric water in air.
The weight of clouds on winged cockroaches
and crocodiles in streams. La Virgen de Guadalupe. My cousin,
Maria Guadalupe Sanchez, on a bike with Brenda through
a suburb of Managua on the handlebars. The streets
were Miguel, her brother, with a rifle shooting iguanas
from a tree in a pickup or Jeep. The huge overbearing
green of myriad plants inching their way past
monkeys and chickens to a patio whitewashed
and cool. The distance away from grandmother. Actually
great-grandmother and her son, the witch doctor
who could stop malaria with powder or a gaze
into trembling hearts. The known ancient crossing
to psychology, biology, chemistry. The workings
of ourselves. A railroad blasted through mountain.
*
I want to dance during the Verbenas. I don't know the word
or correct spelling. V or a B? Just a sound from a one-time visit
to Nicaragua. A celebration. A truck lined with palm fronds
in a parade, then dancing. At three in the morning,
it was still warm. Verbenas. An old colonial colonel's name?
A street? A time to celebrate the harvest of bananas, yucca,
corn, beans? I don't know. There was a monkey on a leash,
on the roof. The tiles curved from Tía Teresa and Tío Rafael
to me being pretty sitting at a table with my first rum and coke.
The loss of my virginity was to be a golden icon mined
from history where my grandfather was a child hidden
under a loose brown skirt and delivered to a convent. Mi abuelita
with her eight kids. My aunts and uncles. My mother with us.
In college with Philip, a boy standing naked looking out
a window, his butt prettier than mine, it was California.
There were palm trees. I was correctly 18. I had gone to visit
Planned Parenthood. The ladies behind a desk were asking
questions and taking notes. With a brown paper bag
I waited on grass, in the park, knowing already Interstate 80
divides this nation in two, beginning in San Francisco
cutting straight through to New Jersey on the Atlantic Coast.
Early Morning Chat with God
This morning I’m back to asking for patience.
With my cup of coffee I sit outside to say hello
to you God, my Jiminy Cricket, my salsa
dancing quick-with-a-dip amigo. We have
a very collegial relationship. I laugh
at all your jokes and praise the wonders
of a sky’s watercolors. I know you like me,
a benign affection and tolerance as I run
around like a chicken with its head cut off,
a truly gruesome image, nevertheless
hilarious like a grisly cartoon. The blood spurting.
The body winding down to zero. The crashing
into unforeseen objects. I think if I
were back on my great-grandmother’s farm,
the farm that I know only through stories
my mother tells of Nicaragua, Bluefields,
a tortilla filled with just enough, and I saw
the long scrawny neck and the axe,
I would be sick to my stomach: the aimlessness
of her final strut, the reality of blood
loss, her claws scratching the dirt, kicking up rocks,
a panic. But when she stops, into the pot
she goes. A meal, what we need to continue,
her flesh simmered off the bone. Truly delicious
in a tomato sauce flavored with green peppers
and onions. Transformation. The feathers
plucked, soil and dust washed away. The table set.
Goblets of red wine, white china plates,
a cast iron pot twirling a bay leaf
scented steam. Then a prayer and gratitude
that we have enough to make it through
another night alone, a night filled with longing
whispers and the turbulence of dreams.
Between Two Languages
Misericordia translates to mercy,
as in God have mercy on our souls.
Ten piedad, pity us the poor and suffering,
the lost and broken. Have mercy. Ten piedad.
Misericordia, a compassionate
forgiveness, carries within
miseria, misery, the stifled cry
on a midnight bus to nowhere,
and yes, the hunger, a starless night’s
piercing howl, the shadows within shadows
under a freeway overpass, the rage
that God might be laughing, or even
worse, silent, gone, a passing hallucination.
Our nerve-wracked bodies tremble.
Our eyes have trouble peering into night.
Let us hope for more than can possibly be.
Señor, ten misericordia de nosotros.
And if we are made in the image of God,
then we can begin heading toward
the ultimate zero, the void
that is not empty, forgive ourselves,
and remember the three
seconds when we caught a glimpse
of someone else’s stifling cry.
Compassion, then miseria, our own
misery intensified by the discordant
ringing of some other life. Our ultimate
separation. Our bodies intolerably
unable to halt the cacophonous
clamor of unanswered prayers.
But nevertheless we must try
for no reason at all. Once more,
Señor, ten misericordia de nosotros,
forgive us for what we cannot do.
Redlands
I'm coming to the conclusion that I'm simple,
like my mother, my grandmother, father. All of them
from Nicaragua where time goes back further.
Here, wagons and rifles, the prairie plowed
into fields of soybeans and sunflowers. Sunken wood
barns and tombstones rattle as a six-by-six tractor-trailer
rumbles through exit 41a and on past peach cobbler,
a shot of Jim Beam Whiskey, and the Stop'n'Go, 7-11,
Circle K, whatever name on that one corner, in that one
place, where someone calls the intersection of a convenience store
and a gas station their town, their home, their grass. Paint or
aluminum siding. A kitchen and carpet. Photos
of Aunt Edna and Uncle Charlie. That summer Chuck
went for a ride on a Harley under redwoods and past
cool stream shadows while Julie, as little girl, slept
in a Ford station wagon. Faded blue. Wood paneling
peeling open to rust. The back flipped down
for her and Ursa Major poured out sky.
*
In Nicaragua the colors are electric water in air.
The weight of clouds on winged cockroaches
and crocodiles in streams. La Virgen de Guadalupe. My cousin,
Maria Guadalupe Sanchez, on a bike with Brenda through
a suburb of Managua on the handlebars. The streets
were Miguel, her brother, with a rifle shooting iguanas
from a tree in a pickup or Jeep. The huge overbearing
green of myriad plants inching their way past
monkeys and chickens to a patio whitewashed
and cool. The distance away from grandmother. Actually
great-grandmother and her son, the witch doctor
who could stop malaria with powder or a gaze
into trembling hearts. The known ancient crossing
to psychology, biology, chemistry. The workings
of ourselves. A railroad blasted through mountain.
*
I want to dance during the Verbenas. I don't know the word
or correct spelling. V or a B? Just a sound from a one-time visit
to Nicaragua. A celebration. A truck lined with palm fronds
in a parade, then dancing. At three in the morning,
it was still warm. Verbenas. An old colonial colonel's name?
A street? A time to celebrate the harvest of bananas, yucca,
corn, beans? I don't know. There was a monkey on a leash,
on the roof. The tiles curved from Tía Teresa and Tío Rafael
to me being pretty sitting at a table with my first rum and coke.
The loss of my virginity was to be a golden icon mined
from history where my grandfather was a child hidden
under a loose brown skirt and delivered to a convent. Mi abuelita
with her eight kids. My aunts and uncles. My mother with us.
In college with Philip, a boy standing naked looking out
a window, his butt prettier than mine, it was California.
There were palm trees. I was correctly 18. I had gone to visit
Planned Parenthood. The ladies behind a desk were asking
questions and taking notes. With a brown paper bag
I waited on grass, in the park, knowing already Interstate 80
divides this nation in two, beginning in San Francisco
cutting straight through to New Jersey on the Atlantic Coast.
Adela's father, brother & mother (early 1960's San Francisco)
IN CONVERSATION: ADELA NAJARRO (AN) AND LUCHA CORPI (LC)
LC: Adela, I have enjoyed listening to you read some of your poems a few times. Mostly, when we happened to coincide at meetings and readings sponsored by Escritores del nuevo sol in Sacramento and Círculo de poetas and Writers in Oakland. It’s been a treat every time. But quite a double and triple treat now to read and reread your exquisite poetry in solitude, as I prepare for our charla here today. And I am in awe, not just for this pleasure of hearing and reading your poetry. I have also had the opportunity to see you organize public events with an ease that never ceases to amaze me. Also because reading your biographical material I realize that you are a wife, mother, indefatigable professor, community organizer, a “dynamo” poet… and so much more.
Above, in your biographical information of your early years, you close your narrative with a line that immediately held my attention: “I write to understand my place in the world.” Could you elaborate?
AN: That arises from the idea that poetry is discovery. A rant, a diatribe, a polemic , all make statements about what is already known. The rant is yelling, screaming, crying on the page over events that have happened; the diatribe is an attack; the polemic tries to convince through astute argument. All of these begin from a standpoint of knowing, knowing how one has been wronged, knowing the wrong itself, and knowing how to correct and proceed. That’s not poetry. Poetry has to begin with an open mind that follows language into a discovery or truth. It is through writing that I discover the truth of what surrounds me, in the past, the present, and even in the future; in that sense I come to understand my place in the world.
I have no fear. If the truth I find is one of betrayal, hatred, violence, anger, then that is a part of the world I live in. Even so, it surprises me over and over, how writing always takes me to hope. Even when I write about issues that have broken others or myself, I always find beauty. Maybe it’s about being alive, being able to breathe, being able to wake up one more day. Praise God and sing Hallelujah! Poetry and religion merge onto the same roadway in that they both seek the human spirit and lead us to compassion, again, our place in the world.
LC: In “Redlands, California,” you tell the story of living in the United States while imaging life in Nicaragua. Could you talk about the context you had in mind when you imagine a homeland, Nicaragua, that you don’t know since you grew up in the United States?
AN: My brain developed a duality of language and culture as I grew up. I learned English in pre-school while my first language was Spanish. I was living in U.S. Anglo culture while at home it was all about Nicaragua. So—"Los dos fit better than one alone.” That’s my line from “Conversation with Rubén Darío's ‘Eco y yo’,” which was first published in Nimrod International Journal of Poetry & Prose and appears in my collection, Twice Told Over.
Los dos. I view myself in terms of Whitman and Anzaldúa in that I contain multitudes in my mestizaje. I seek an American literary tradition that contains the Anglo, the male, the Latinx, female, and all the range between. There is no set answer, just the flux of words, our thoughts, the daily wakening to a new day that somehow seems old and familiar.
“Redlands, California,” has three sections, the first is about life in the States; in the second, I imagine life in Nicaragua; the final section tries to create a new juxtaposition between these two states of being, and, of course, it ties in with sex because what else captures the union of two distinct bodies?
The Nicaragua I know is the Nicaragua of my imagination and that of the stories told by my parents, abuelitas, cousins, tías y tíos. I tell and retell their stories to bring them into the literary conversation of the Americas. They matter. They are part of the American story. As a writer it falls to me to create poems that capture this duality of language, culture, immigration, las penas and the joy.
LC: Tell us what you will about your creative process. Do you sit down to write at certain times of the day on certain days? What happens if you get inspired while driving or in other similar situations? Do you memorize the lines for the time you finally write the poem where they belong? Or hope for the best?
AN: There was a time when I wrote nearly non-stop. I remember being at a job training and writing a poem. I have written poems on napkins. I have written using big orange markers. I feared that if I stopped writing, then the Muse or inspiration would vanish. But it never has. As I accepted that writing was part of my identity, of who I am, and what makes Adela, Adela, I took a couple of days off. Then I wrote about those days. Then I took a few more days off, then wrote new poems. Eventually, I realized that my mind collects ideas, images, language, every waking and sleeping moment. When I sit down to write, it comes out. Then the work becomes revision. Editing. Cutting that which doesn’t belong and expanding that which is hidden, all the while finding the exact words and rhythms. Doesn’t that sound like joy? It is to me. When I write, I am at one with everything. I accept whatever shows up. The pain, the horror, the laughter, the jokes, the image. Right now there is an owl in the eucalyptus tree outside my bedroom patio. Earlier coyotes were howling at sirens, not the moon, but sirens. Someone on their way to a hospital. Tomorrow, a mint leaf will open in a pot. There are spiders in the eaves. Every waking moment holds something and then the world of dreams, the imagination, the possibilities. Here are the final lines to “Conversation with Rubén Darío's ‘Eco y yo’”:
Out of the delirium,
the sweat, the anxiety of every morning,
we weave a soft and tender sea,
the mermaids, the song,
the possibility,
and all begins again.
***
Thank you Lucha for this conversation. It is always such a pleasure to see you and collaborate! Hasta la proxíma.
Mil gracias, Adela.
© Adela Najarro: the poems that appear in this interview are from Twice Told Over, published by Unsolicited Press, 2015, with permission of the author.
More information about Adela can be found at her website:
www.adelanajarro.com.
LC: Adela, I have enjoyed listening to you read some of your poems a few times. Mostly, when we happened to coincide at meetings and readings sponsored by Escritores del nuevo sol in Sacramento and Círculo de poetas and Writers in Oakland. It’s been a treat every time. But quite a double and triple treat now to read and reread your exquisite poetry in solitude, as I prepare for our charla here today. And I am in awe, not just for this pleasure of hearing and reading your poetry. I have also had the opportunity to see you organize public events with an ease that never ceases to amaze me. Also because reading your biographical material I realize that you are a wife, mother, indefatigable professor, community organizer, a “dynamo” poet… and so much more.
Above, in your biographical information of your early years, you close your narrative with a line that immediately held my attention: “I write to understand my place in the world.” Could you elaborate?
AN: That arises from the idea that poetry is discovery. A rant, a diatribe, a polemic , all make statements about what is already known. The rant is yelling, screaming, crying on the page over events that have happened; the diatribe is an attack; the polemic tries to convince through astute argument. All of these begin from a standpoint of knowing, knowing how one has been wronged, knowing the wrong itself, and knowing how to correct and proceed. That’s not poetry. Poetry has to begin with an open mind that follows language into a discovery or truth. It is through writing that I discover the truth of what surrounds me, in the past, the present, and even in the future; in that sense I come to understand my place in the world.
I have no fear. If the truth I find is one of betrayal, hatred, violence, anger, then that is a part of the world I live in. Even so, it surprises me over and over, how writing always takes me to hope. Even when I write about issues that have broken others or myself, I always find beauty. Maybe it’s about being alive, being able to breathe, being able to wake up one more day. Praise God and sing Hallelujah! Poetry and religion merge onto the same roadway in that they both seek the human spirit and lead us to compassion, again, our place in the world.
LC: In “Redlands, California,” you tell the story of living in the United States while imaging life in Nicaragua. Could you talk about the context you had in mind when you imagine a homeland, Nicaragua, that you don’t know since you grew up in the United States?
AN: My brain developed a duality of language and culture as I grew up. I learned English in pre-school while my first language was Spanish. I was living in U.S. Anglo culture while at home it was all about Nicaragua. So—"Los dos fit better than one alone.” That’s my line from “Conversation with Rubén Darío's ‘Eco y yo’,” which was first published in Nimrod International Journal of Poetry & Prose and appears in my collection, Twice Told Over.
Los dos. I view myself in terms of Whitman and Anzaldúa in that I contain multitudes in my mestizaje. I seek an American literary tradition that contains the Anglo, the male, the Latinx, female, and all the range between. There is no set answer, just the flux of words, our thoughts, the daily wakening to a new day that somehow seems old and familiar.
“Redlands, California,” has three sections, the first is about life in the States; in the second, I imagine life in Nicaragua; the final section tries to create a new juxtaposition between these two states of being, and, of course, it ties in with sex because what else captures the union of two distinct bodies?
The Nicaragua I know is the Nicaragua of my imagination and that of the stories told by my parents, abuelitas, cousins, tías y tíos. I tell and retell their stories to bring them into the literary conversation of the Americas. They matter. They are part of the American story. As a writer it falls to me to create poems that capture this duality of language, culture, immigration, las penas and the joy.
LC: Tell us what you will about your creative process. Do you sit down to write at certain times of the day on certain days? What happens if you get inspired while driving or in other similar situations? Do you memorize the lines for the time you finally write the poem where they belong? Or hope for the best?
AN: There was a time when I wrote nearly non-stop. I remember being at a job training and writing a poem. I have written poems on napkins. I have written using big orange markers. I feared that if I stopped writing, then the Muse or inspiration would vanish. But it never has. As I accepted that writing was part of my identity, of who I am, and what makes Adela, Adela, I took a couple of days off. Then I wrote about those days. Then I took a few more days off, then wrote new poems. Eventually, I realized that my mind collects ideas, images, language, every waking and sleeping moment. When I sit down to write, it comes out. Then the work becomes revision. Editing. Cutting that which doesn’t belong and expanding that which is hidden, all the while finding the exact words and rhythms. Doesn’t that sound like joy? It is to me. When I write, I am at one with everything. I accept whatever shows up. The pain, the horror, the laughter, the jokes, the image. Right now there is an owl in the eucalyptus tree outside my bedroom patio. Earlier coyotes were howling at sirens, not the moon, but sirens. Someone on their way to a hospital. Tomorrow, a mint leaf will open in a pot. There are spiders in the eaves. Every waking moment holds something and then the world of dreams, the imagination, the possibilities. Here are the final lines to “Conversation with Rubén Darío's ‘Eco y yo’”:
Out of the delirium,
the sweat, the anxiety of every morning,
we weave a soft and tender sea,
the mermaids, the song,
the possibility,
and all begins again.
***
Thank you Lucha for this conversation. It is always such a pleasure to see you and collaborate! Hasta la proxíma.
Mil gracias, Adela.
© Adela Najarro: the poems that appear in this interview are from Twice Told Over, published by Unsolicited Press, 2015, with permission of the author.
More information about Adela can be found at her website:
www.adelanajarro.com.
 https://circulowriters.com/ | Círculo A community of diverse poets and writers supporting literary arts in California. Somos en escrito provides a venue for these aspiring poets to feature their poetry, interviews, reviews and promote poetic happenings. |
Arturo Mantecón and his Heteronym Winstead Macario by Arturo Balderrama.*
ARTURO MANTECÓN
THE POET: A Personal Narrative
As a child I was an avid reader. I read a wide variety of things. Once I learned to read, at age six, I sought out all the signs that I had seen on store fronts on my walks with my mother. I had been fascinated by the mysterious, indecipherable characters, and the ones in neon entranced me. The first sign I deciphered was one that had always enchanted me. It was near my school at the corner of Quincy and Grand River in Detroit. The sign jutted out from the storefront at a 45 degree angle. Its lettering was very unique, vivid and colorful. It turned out the sign read "Dry Cleaning." That was the first of a succession of profound personal disappointments in literature.
I was read to up to then, so I enthusiastically cut out the middle man (my mother) and started checking out a lot of books from the library. (It didn't occur to me until a year later that one could buy books.) I read kid stuff, stuff that was fun: Munroe Leaf, Hugh Lofting, Dr. Seuss, Aesop, but my preference at the time was paleontology and, to some degree, archaeology. I developed a thirst for rudimentary cosmology, and I was interested in the evolution of animals and men and would check out books on those subjects. When I was seven or so, I came across the book "Microbe Hunters" which detailed the lives and discoveries of van Leeuwenhoek and Pasteur among others. It led to my begging for a microscope, which I got, one wonderful Christmas.
No one guided me. No one made any suggestions as to what I should read. It was haphazard. I was indulged in my pursuits but not guided. I liked comic books and began to notice the covers of the "Classic Comics" series. These comic books were my first literary purchases (ten cents). I was introduced to Gulliver's Travels, Moby Dick, Don Quixote, and The Hunchback of Notre Dame. (It wasn't until I later checked it out at the library that I discovered its true title was Notre Dame de Paris.) I read these and, realizing that they were based on something grander, looked for them at the library. I read these things understanding perhaps 70 percent of what I read, but it was a start.
My paternal grandmother had been given some old books by a white lady who befriended her. My grandmother didn't read English, so they ended up with my father. One of them was the The Lady of the Camellias which I dismissed as a bore after a page or two. Another was the complete works of Tennyson, and it included Idylls of the King, which I adored. It was the first poetry I ever read, and it started me off on a life-long love of chivalric romances, and when I came to read Don Quixote, it enabled me to understand the satire. Anyway, this is a good description of my early childhood reading.
Different writers inspired me. My first thoughts of becoming a writer centered on baseball. I was about 12 and I wanted to be a sports writer/reporter. My models were Ring Lardner, Damon Runyan, and Paul Gallico. But it wasn't until I was 15 and had run into Dylan Thomas, García Lorca, and Rimbaud that the notion of writing poetry occurred to me. At the time, I was already writing sports articles for my high school newspaper. But it wasn’t until I was sixteen years old that I began writing poetry.
I was read to up to then, so I enthusiastically cut out the middle man (my mother) and started checking out a lot of books from the library. (It didn't occur to me until a year later that one could buy books.) I read kid stuff, stuff that was fun: Munroe Leaf, Hugh Lofting, Dr. Seuss, Aesop, but my preference at the time was paleontology and, to some degree, archaeology. I developed a thirst for rudimentary cosmology, and I was interested in the evolution of animals and men and would check out books on those subjects. When I was seven or so, I came across the book "Microbe Hunters" which detailed the lives and discoveries of van Leeuwenhoek and Pasteur among others. It led to my begging for a microscope, which I got, one wonderful Christmas.
No one guided me. No one made any suggestions as to what I should read. It was haphazard. I was indulged in my pursuits but not guided. I liked comic books and began to notice the covers of the "Classic Comics" series. These comic books were my first literary purchases (ten cents). I was introduced to Gulliver's Travels, Moby Dick, Don Quixote, and The Hunchback of Notre Dame. (It wasn't until I later checked it out at the library that I discovered its true title was Notre Dame de Paris.) I read these and, realizing that they were based on something grander, looked for them at the library. I read these things understanding perhaps 70 percent of what I read, but it was a start.
My paternal grandmother had been given some old books by a white lady who befriended her. My grandmother didn't read English, so they ended up with my father. One of them was the The Lady of the Camellias which I dismissed as a bore after a page or two. Another was the complete works of Tennyson, and it included Idylls of the King, which I adored. It was the first poetry I ever read, and it started me off on a life-long love of chivalric romances, and when I came to read Don Quixote, it enabled me to understand the satire. Anyway, this is a good description of my early childhood reading.
Different writers inspired me. My first thoughts of becoming a writer centered on baseball. I was about 12 and I wanted to be a sports writer/reporter. My models were Ring Lardner, Damon Runyan, and Paul Gallico. But it wasn't until I was 15 and had run into Dylan Thomas, García Lorca, and Rimbaud that the notion of writing poetry occurred to me. At the time, I was already writing sports articles for my high school newspaper. But it wasn’t until I was sixteen years old that I began writing poetry.
THE POETRY OF ARTURO MANTECÓN
SARDINE
I am tired of breathing,
weary
of my own two feet
I want to crawl
through the sand,
to the shell-scattered shore,
to the exhaling,
inhaling surf,
the rippling margin
of the grey-green mother,
who carries the lungless
in her womb.
I want to plunge
in the beckoning waves;
I want to be pulled
and drawn,
to where breath
is fatal.
I want gills
to capture
my essential gas
from the sodium liquid
atmosphere,
so that my blood
will flow, and redden
the folds of my brain.
I want fins;
I want tail;
I want a sleek,
oblong body,
with brilliant,
lapping scales.
I want to be small,
no more
than the span of a hand,
small and quick
and mindless.
I want to be
without hope;
I want to be
without disappointment;
I want to be
without happiness;
I want to be
without sadness;
I want to do
without comfort;
I want to be
without fear;
I want no
love;
I want no
hate;
I want no
indifference;
I want no
motive;
I want no
idea;
I will make no
mistakes.
I want only to swim;
I want to swim
with my fellows;
I want to school
with the others,
to move in unison
as a glimmering,
shifting cloud.
I want to follow
the signal of tail,
and bend of body
moving
to the music of food
and the avoidance
of pain.
I want to be a part
of the shifting,
quickening parabola,
the conical curves
of flesh flowing
outward,
downward,
upward
inward,
suspended
in the thickly
inhabited
ether of liquid darkness
enlightened
with the star-like
phosphorescence
of complex,
darting animation;
I want
to minimize
my zone of danger;
I want plankton
and more plankton;
I want
the nourishment
of the infinite-formed
diatomic soup
I want to move,
to swim,
to swim and move
over the red coral,
past the mouth
of the purple eel,
to flee the ravening,
yellow-fin tuna,
to follow the silvery,
corporeal alliteration,
of a million,
blue platinum
sardines.
I want
to swim with them;
I want
to release
my swimming,
milky milt
upon anonymous eggs.
I want to eat
my children;
I want to die
in the sea bass’s belly;
I want to die
in the beak of the squid;
I want to be pierced
by the needle-sharp teeth
of the rocketing
barracuda;
I want
to tangle
in the net,
to be enclosed
in the purse,
to be one
of the shining,
countless coinage
of a thrashing,
convulsive,
collective treasure.
I want to be entombed
in oil and salt;
I want nothing more
than movement,
un-thinking
movement,
organic
movement,
unconscious
movement,
movement,
and the bliss
of an unmourned end.
>>>> >>>>
SONETO DEL ALBA
El fulgor primitivo que aves
provoke with a chaos of selfish song
alumbra con aureolas suaves
the night-hid, many-named colorless throng.
Words are released in the logic of light
extrañadas por negras mudanzas.
They are bolted by tongue at war with sight,
y transforman adargas las lanzas.
La luz engendra aguda razón
that wounds with every daily, mortal name.
Seres parados en roja pasión
are all torn from nothing, one and the same.
Fatal destino de la fría luz,
our dark bliss is broken when you accuse.
en reverente idolatría
debajo los quivering heavens,
adorando tu sagrado cuerpo,
adorando tus infinitas, únicas
manifestaciones de maíz,
the indelible, edible,
skyborne fingerprints
of the hands
of our souls.
>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>
LORNA DEE CERVANTES
There is a fibrous,
ribbed quisqualis
to her lines,
at times rough,
at times fine,
like flat blades of chlorophyll,
like tight plaited trenzas of hair,
like set-at-angles herring spines,
like the palpated hand of a textile
like the wound filaments on a raveled spool,
like the branched barbules of a starling’s plume,
the warp as well as the crossing woof
shocked by the incidental catches
of her phrasing coins
and drawn
by the dylantommed orotundity
of her gathers.
But for all that,
this weave is not meant to be worn
but rather thrown and slung
and draped and tied
blanket, tarp, web and rebozo,
all for love, hunger,
and the forfending
of fear and dark rain
implicit all
in the design of her designs
y en la poridad de las poridades
contained within the petals
of her orchidaceous soul.
And the relentless,
vibrating shuttlebobbin
within her brain
speeds through the nervewebs
of the loom
perforce creating
the impetuous searching
with hand and tongue
for the grace of love
and memorial racial bliss
y el justo anhelo
for the restless peace
of justice
que anima
y da luces y fuego azul
a la poesía de Lorna Dee Cervantes
CULTURAL DELTAS: LINGUISTIC CHOICES:
In conversation: Lucha Corpi (LC) and Arturo Mantecón (AM):
LC: A re-cap: At age sixteen you began to write poetry. Before, you had written only sports articles. You fell in love with the short narrative or epic in verse. In your own words: “…it wasn’t until I was 15 and had run into Dylan Thomas, García Lorca, and Rimbaud that the notion of writing poetry occurred to me.”
Have you kept some of those—your--first Lyrics or narrative poems? If so, would you share one or two of them with us here? And perhaps talk about your source of inspiration and the feelings they elicited in you once done?
AM: The first poem I wrote was directly after I first saw San Francisco coming across the Golden Gate Bridge. I had never in my life seen a city so beautiful. I wrote it after the manner of Tennyson, the only poet with whom I was familiar at the time. I thought it was brilliant. It was awful. I kept if for a while, and, when I discovered Rimbaud a few months later, I destroyed it. I think I burned it. In high school, a friend of mine convinced me to collaborate with him in creating a poetry magazine called Lost. Fortunately for me, and for everyone else, all that poetry is lost. I remember only one, and that only vaguely. It was titled “The Beetle”. Two or three quatrains about being like a beetle on its back, legs waving madly trying to right itself…something about being trapped by conformity. I thought it was a very cool, hip little poem. It wasn’t.
Every attempt I made at poetry before the age of 50 was garbage, very stinky garbage.
LC: I am assuming that you read García Lorca in its original language--Spanish. And, of course, Thomas in English. How about Rimbaud’s poetry--in its original French as well? How many languages do you know well or are conversant in?
AM: My first encounter with García Lorca was at age 15 via an LP checked out from the Sacramento Main Library. The poem that made an impression on me from that recording was "Llanto por Ignacio Sánchez Mejías". If I remember correctly, a line was read in Spanish followed by a translations of that line in English by another voice, another reader.
The same day I checked out the García Lorca, I took home a disc of Thomas reading his own stuff. I was completely blown away. By the power and mystery of the words—"In the White Giant’s Thigh" (!!)—and that reading voice!
The two books I checked out of the library--Illuminations and A Season in Hell—were the translations by Louise Varèse. The original French was presented on the facing page. I knew nothing of French at the time but was intrigued to discover that it bore enough of a resemblance to written Spanish, that I was able to puzzle some phrases out with the English on the opposite page.
I spoke Spanish until the age of two and a half. I then lost it, but began studying it starting in junior high school. I am not fluent in Spanish. I have a knowledge of Spanish, French, Italian and Portuguese but, save for Spanish, have nothing approaching conversational competence. I can, however, read all of these languages tolerably well.
LC: You wrote a series of poems intended to memorialize a generation of Chicano/a poets, who were our contemporaries and have left us. All except for one: Lorna Dee Cervantes, who thankfully is still with us and writing her outstanding poetry.
Among those taken from us are José Antonio Burciaga, Víctor Martínez, Alfred Arteaga, among others. I liked very much that you chose to use their names as the titles of their individual elegies, as if they were written on the stones that mark their resting places.
Perhaps you have already collected all of these tributes in a chapbook or publish them individually. Have you? Any plans to do it, if not yet?
AM: Some were written as elegies, some while the subject was still alive. I wrote the one for Arteaga about a month before he died. I wrote two for Alarcón, one quite some time ago and another a few days before he died which I read at Café Bohème. I started writing poems about poets when I started hosting poetry readings back in 2001. Instead of reading off some idiotic bio that the poet provided touting all their publications and how they had three PhD’s from intergalactic universities, I would introduce them with a poem…about them. Some people liked it, others thought I was trying to upstage the poets.
I have written about 60 of them, and about five are lost, so I’ve got a sizable collection. I would love to publish them. I have found that the biggest impediment to publishing is publishers. I’ve tried to pitch my dedicatory poems to a couple, but no dice. If they are ever to appear in book form. I will probably have to go the vanity route. If anybody out there wants to save me from such a humiliating act, I welcome their help.
LC: Would you mind listing some of your book titles and where your fans might be able to purchase them? Any other literary, publishing projects that you would like to mention?
AM: List of publications: As far as books are concerned, my own:
Memories, Cuentos Verídicos y Otras Outright Lies is a collection of my short stories and some prose poems. Out of print, but some copies are out there somewhere.
Before the Dark Comes, a book of poetry, written by my heteronym Jose Primitivo Charlevoix
I have had five books of translations published, possibly available at Alley Cat or Bird & Becket bookstores in San Francisco, but most likely at Amazon.
1) My Naked Brain (collected works of Leopoldo María Panero)
2) Like an eye in the hand of a beggar (ditto)
3) The Sick Rose (a translation of Panero’s Rosa Enferma)
4) Chance Encounters and Waking Dreams (collected works of Francisco Ferrer Lerín)
5) Poetry Comes out of My Mouth (collected works of Mario Santiago Papasquiaro).
I have a number of things in progress that will probably never see the light of day: My translations of the translations that Leopoldo María Panero wrote of Lewis Carroll, Catullus, Edward Lear, John Clare, Browning, etc. Yes, translations of translations.
I have translated ten of García Lorca’s drawings and plan to keep going until I have at least 30 completed. Yes, translations of drawings. He stated that his drawings were poems, so I figured I’d call it translation rather than ekphrasis.
I am working on a version of Gawain and the Green Knight narrated by Morgan La Fey. In the same Arthurian vein, I have written a prose poem about King Arthur and the Cath Palug. In my version, the huge black cat kills and eats Arthur and assumes the throne of Britain. If it is ever published, I will be amazed. And I am currently in the pleasurably painful throes of writing a novel of manners set in Finland and replete with masters and servants, witches and giants. I will probably finish the first draft soon, although I am considering abandoning any idea of revisions and may let it fly off with little or no editing.
THE CASE OF ARTURO MANTECÓN AND WINSTEAD MACARIO.
LC: As you know, Arturo and Winstead, I am a poet and a P.I. crime fiction writer. I write my poetry in Spanish, my detective fiction in English, both published under my name. Often, my readers ask why I went from writing in Spanish to writing in English, my second language. Most importantly, why I went from “rhyme to crime.” I try to explain. I don’t always succeed. It isn’t that strange that writers and poets might publish or write under another name or in a different language or mode. It’s not unusual for two distinct creative personalities to co-exist within the folds or interstices of their shared-yet- separate creative minds. So when Arturo told me about Winstead Macario, I immediately wanted to know how Arturo and Winstead made their acquaintance and to read Winstead’s poetry. But first two poems by Winstead Macario:
La Santa Muerte
by Winstead Macario
Holy Death
Santa Muerte
Maa Chamunda,
come unto me.
Santísima Muerte
Most Holy Death
Seventh
of the seven mothers,
Sapta Matrika
Siete Madres…
Mother Chamunda
Madre Muerte
Eternal crone
Queen of addictions
Protector of the outcasts
Protector of the queers
Protector of the mad
and deranged
Protector of the weak
and the untouchables
Protector of those
who must carry off
the shit of multitudes,
I beg your help.
Mata Devi, Madre Divina
protect me
guide me
shield me from bullets
open the doors
tear down the walls that oppose me
lead me to the mothering darkness
lead me to the river under the earth…
Light of the moon,
let me see
let me darkly see
the god trees, the tree gods
gods and trees engendered
not from nut and seed
But gods and trees that spring forth
from the underearth roots
of our souls
gods of our making
gods for the kindling of our fires
Trees and trees
gods and gods
bearing near identical
heaven wood
with self-same birds
and sustaining
self-same beasts
with their green hair
and glabrous fruits
creased and rugated fruits…
tree of Chamunda
tree of Santísima Muerte
Santa Muerte,
you carry
sickle and severed head
scythe and orbis mundi…
scythe and sickle that cut
the silver thread
of the self…
y el tecolote, la lechuza,
le hibou, albowmetu,
the uloo
the ululating owl--
your vaahan--
is the bearer of your spirit,
owl ever at your feet
owl ever on your shoulder…
owl of the heavens of gloom,
the messenger
of the Dark Goddess
of la Blanca Niña
of the Kaala Ladakee
The land of Quetzalcoatl
and the land of the four-handed Brahma
know the black shade tree
of the Most Holy Death
know the black shade tree
of Chamunda the ever-starving…
Chamunda of the peculiar limbs
great pestilence
calacking bone music
auspicious corpse
white death
Victory to Chamunda!
Victory to La Santísima Muerte!
killer of the guilty,
suckling strangling
murderer of innocents
in the splendor of the night
Goddess of fortune
goddess of ignorance
goddess of the slow,
flowering whirlwind
goddess of the fetus
goddess of tantric lust
goddess of the sweet delivery
goddess of the sweeter abortion
adorned with the strung necklace
of dead, honey-dipped hummingbirds
adorned with the strung necklace
of the heads of the still-born
Lady of Oblivion
protect me
Lady of Death
take me underground
Lady of Darkness
confound my enemies
Santa Muerte
Santa Chamunda
stop my breath
halt my heart
show me all that is blank
show me all that is black.
>>>>>>>>><<<<<<<<<<<
THE BLACK MASK OF MERLIN
by Winstead Macario
The Ever-White queen,
the cup and the bowl
of the heavens and waters,
and the Blade-Bright king,
the mountain pinnacle
of the earth and the green,
are only the wedded
shine of the happenings
in our eyes,
and when the usages of time
fail,
when the hurtling boar
will eat the sun and
will steal away the moon
to bring on
the all and nothing
night...
When that end of time comes,
Merlin the Black Man,
Merlin the crab apple
growing furled inverted
beneath the crust of the world,
Merlin will emerge...
Merlin the excrement
infertile,
Merlin the stink-wild food
of the dreaming gods.
And then will Merlin
the Black Man
have no more need
for his black mask.
The Ever-White queen
and the Blade-Bright king
will be drowned
by the black waterless
liquid mask
of Nothingness,
and in the crushing embrace
of Nothingness
will the Ever-White queen
and the Blade-Bright king
breathe out and be reduced
to the absurdity
into which all truth
and all falsehood
must vanish.
***** ***** *****
In conversation with Arturo Mantecón about Winstead Macario:
LC: Tell me, Arturo, when did you first become aware of Winstead’s presence?
AM: I have felt his presence for years, perhaps 20 years, but I didn’t know what to make of him or an even stronger character that I felt living within in me, José Primitivo Charlevoix. My aspiration to “high art” kept both of them suppressed and locked away where I felt they couldn’t do any harm. José Primitivo cared nothing for the niceties of poetic expression and kept urging me to write in a wild, uninhibited way without caring for logic or letters. Winstead was very much interested in historical figures as archetypes and wanted me to obliterate the boundaries between legend and fact. Winstead got out later. The main difference between them is that Winstead is a very disciplined thinker. José Primitivo has no understanding of the word “discipline.”
Another heteronym emerged fairly recently. His name is Atanas Peev. He is a Bulgarian who writes in Spanish. He wrote me an email some months ago saying that someone had directed him to a poem that José Primitivo had written about Hammurabi. He sent me a beautiful poem about Lilith and a week later a poem in praise of slivovitz, both in Spanish. He promised to send me more things.
LC: Did his presence surprise you? Or had he been there most of your life?
AM: I was aware of him as a “voice” in my head. I didn’t think he was real until he started to write, and what he wrote was far more interesting than what I can produce. I think I was aware of other people within me fairly late in life. When I was young my ego was so strong that they must have been completely overwhelmed.
LC: What was happening in your life at the time?
AM: Well, I remarried, and my new wife kept urging me to break out of my almost formulaic way of writing. It was then that José P. and Winstead began to gloat and ridicule me, saying that I was incapable of accomplishing what my wife urged me to do, that they would have to do it for me.
LC: Did you welcome or resent Winstead’s presence at the time?
AM: I welcomed him. I wasn’t quite so sure about José Primitivo.
LC: While he’s been with(in) you, Arturo, in what ways has your life changed if at all? I ask because I’ve noticed how different, perhaps somber, the mood is in the Winstead poems.
AM: I believe my life has changed for the better. He has taught me to look beyond my own aesthetic inclinations, but I believe he was the voice within me when I would read a novel or poem that I thought was excellent. He was that voice that said, “The writer didn’t go far enough. I can do much better!”
LC: Will there be more future collaborations between both of you? Could you give us an idea of those future projects if any?
AM: Winstead has been insisting that he is the true author of my Arthurian poem, that I could not possibly have written it. We’ll see who wins out. There will be nothing more from José Primitivo Charlevoix because he died in around 1963, leaving only one book. There might be another work of his found, but I doubt it.
LC: Are you two planning or have been scheduled to read or present your work in the near future?
Calendar of events and readings please:
AM: There are four of us, but, no…no plans of that sort until the plague is under control.
LC: Amen! Thank you, Arturo. Thank you, Winstead.
Mil gracias, Scott Duncan y Armando Rendón. And Somos en escrito (SEE) literary magazine por hacernos posible esta serie de entrevistas con poetas latinos-as, y promover su presencia y sus obras.
Lucha Corpi, poet and writer: author of Palabras de Mediodía/Noon Words (poetry) & Confessions of a Book Burner: Personal Essays and Stories (Arte Público Press, Houston)
Oakland, California 2020
Oakland, California 2020
© *Arturo Balderrama, an artist whose graphic work has illustrated the books of several writers, works in a variety of media, and is also a sculptor. His drawing of Arturo Mantecón/Winstead Macario is published here with his permission. Gracias.
© Poetry, Arturo Mantecon and Winstead Macario
©Portrait of Arturo Mantecon, Arturo Balderrama
© Poetry, Arturo Mantecon and Winstead Macario
©Portrait of Arturo Mantecon, Arturo Balderrama
Poema/Poem
by/por Rafael Jesús González
Consejo para el Equinoccio Otoñal
Andar en equilibrio no es fácil --
pisar tan ligeramente
que la hierba no se doble,
pisar tan firmemente
que nuestra huella señale
el camino por la maleza.
En verdad nuestra naturaleza parece
ser sin balance,
un pie pisando tan ligeramente
el otro tan firme
que perdidos en el desierto
siempre caminamos en círculo.
Hay peores destinos; entonces
aprendamos a caminar el círculo en gozo.
Las estaciones voltean y vuelven
y no hay a donde ir;
la Tierra es hogar suficiente;
el camino, demasiado breve,
a nada nos lleva.
Para aprender a andar en balance
practica el baile.
Advice for the Fall Equinox
Walking in balance is not easy --
to step so lightly
the grasses are not bent,
to step so firmly
one’s track points
a way through the thicket.
Indeed it seems our nature to be
off balance,
one foot stepping so lightly
one so firmly
that lost in the desert
we always walk in a circle.
There are worse fates; let us then
learn to walk the circle in joy.
The seasons turn & return
one upon the other
& there is nowhere to go;
the Earth is Home enough;
the walk, all too brief,
leads Nowhere.
To learn to walk in balance
practice the dance.
pisar tan ligeramente
que la hierba no se doble,
pisar tan firmemente
que nuestra huella señale
el camino por la maleza.
En verdad nuestra naturaleza parece
ser sin balance,
un pie pisando tan ligeramente
el otro tan firme
que perdidos en el desierto
siempre caminamos en círculo.
Hay peores destinos; entonces
aprendamos a caminar el círculo en gozo.
Las estaciones voltean y vuelven
y no hay a donde ir;
la Tierra es hogar suficiente;
el camino, demasiado breve,
a nada nos lleva.
Para aprender a andar en balance
practica el baile.
Advice for the Fall Equinox
Walking in balance is not easy --
to step so lightly
the grasses are not bent,
to step so firmly
one’s track points
a way through the thicket.
Indeed it seems our nature to be
off balance,
one foot stepping so lightly
one so firmly
that lost in the desert
we always walk in a circle.
There are worse fates; let us then
learn to walk the circle in joy.
The seasons turn & return
one upon the other
& there is nowhere to go;
the Earth is Home enough;
the walk, all too brief,
leads Nowhere.
To learn to walk in balance
practice the dance.
Rafael Jesús González, named in 2018 the first poet laureate of Berkeley, California, where he resides, is an internationally known poet and social justice activist. (© Rafael Jesús González 2018. First printed /publicado primeramente in/en: Raven Chronicles, Vol. 25, 2017; author's copyrights/derechos reservados del autor.)
Girafa - Giraffe (Detail) Mixed Media, 12” X 28” Painting by Vanessa Garcia www.vanessagarcia.org
Two Poems/Dos Poemas
Por/By Carlota Caulfield
Inner chamber of the seashell (divine whisper)
And they will say: “A bit of smoke writhed in each drop of his blood.” -- Gilberto Owen
It would seem that I possess a religious bent;
a proof: a tongue sufficient
It would seem that I possess a religious bent;
to contain, direct, refined, and solid
has led me to the five points
of the universe: Quincunx.
Four rooms courtyard
that inclines its multiple forms
that resides in matter
that has vital layers
ceremonial passageways
of other architectures.
Just as the divine spark engenders in the earth Guillermo Marín, Mitla, City of the Dead
life in all its richness, thus the Quincunx, seed
of a revealed cosmology, flowers in a dazzling
system of images and architectural designs that,
by being part of the universe of forms, suffers
frequently from a deceptively elemental logic.
What completes this text
are monumental stones
there where a hand learned how
to move, sculpt and assemble.
Eduardo's voice traces a map of Mexico on the earth
while he tells of how “the colonial chroniclers never
referred to the architecture of Mitla without combined aversion
and admiration… Thus to speak of Mictlán (place of the dead)
we must detach ourselves from the Western concept of death…”
My absurd dizziness no longer rocks in the branches of the tule tree;
now, in the land of the spirits, it is content with a puff of wind
and a bold guffaw that perforates my eardrums. Yes, the church bells
have begun to set loose a timely splendor and murmurs:
Think of it this way, that amid the rubble of my energy suddenly looms
a presence, like that of a hallowed place, door of musical allusions.
I detach myself from the group.
I am content to see.
It matters. Several bolts of air
swerve around my
unfailing audacity
and city of voices
there where the wind
does not sound unfamiliar to the ear
nor is seeing spirits
an act of inner shadows.
What could be loved is erased
and eyes and lips, light and humidity
are stripped bare.
The enigma of flavors
is also resolved.
The night before kisses
Crossed two linguistic points.
Now there is no dialogue.
From the four cardinal points
will soon rise a cold and
ungenerous gust of wind. You will dissolve.
My death is associated with the earth,
but the other dead man in question
will have to cross a long and mighty river.
Techichi the little dog will guide him:
naked he will cross spiky peaks
and drink terrible storms.
The wind will slice his skin
like an orange.
More than any heartbreak, worse than death Albius Tibullus, Book I, Poem VIII
itself, “What hurts is touching the body,
long kisses, and pressing thigh to thigh.”
With transfigured vision,
Friar Bernardo of Alburquerque
ordered built between 1535 and 1580
the façade of the north side
of the Oaxaca cathedral in the image…
From the four room courtyard flow moving friezes of water.
I read: the gods' anger with those who are ungenerous in spirit
was not placated by sacrifices of armadillos, rabbits, birds
and deer. Misers were condemned
to a subterranean palace to hoist dark shadows.
Once again Eduardo's voice blends with my mental torrent
that encircles the marvelous mountains, copulates with the stone
And drinks milk droplets from the tree that used to nourish dead children.
Inhabitants of the clouds. Branches from which I hang.
Schumann lieder that fuse with my own visions.
Copious tongues of rock: to listen, to recognize,
to descend to the interior of a jacaranda:
to design the interior patio
“was to get back onto the trail of my poem Propertius, Book I, Poem IV
after biting my hands unreasonably
and stamping my feet in doubt and anger.”
Some elegiac distiches pound me with excessive skill.
What am I doing in the center of the city of the dead
humming a thousand popular tunes and with all those
poems breaking over me?
What is my skin doing turned into a spongy substance
enjoying each voicemark and stroke,
each perforation, each drop of blood that seeps from my pores?
Blessed recollection,
there where a scornful grimace
offers me landscapes.
Blessed misery of broken borders
that turns the heart into a semi prophet.
that “das harts iz a halber novi”
that is completed and heard
by a system of images:
it hits and turns with skill
for I was born in a city by the sea
with excessively white sands
and I never made a pact
with its hot winds
or its salts projected in my shadows.
If the sea breeze took my breath away,
I drowned and was resuscitated. And my mother
who couldn't hear the voices that filled
the whole house and went with me,
spoke alone with nanny Blasa.
Later they put an amulet on my chest,
There where no one could see presences or memories.
I think only of all the courage I've lacked
to go back to hearing the voices,
raised now, loud, without any semblance of
restraint, flowery battle of my own soul.
a proof: a tongue sufficient
It would seem that I possess a religious bent;
to contain, direct, refined, and solid
has led me to the five points
of the universe: Quincunx.
Four rooms courtyard
that inclines its multiple forms
that resides in matter
that has vital layers
ceremonial passageways
of other architectures.
Just as the divine spark engenders in the earth Guillermo Marín, Mitla, City of the Dead
life in all its richness, thus the Quincunx, seed
of a revealed cosmology, flowers in a dazzling
system of images and architectural designs that,
by being part of the universe of forms, suffers
frequently from a deceptively elemental logic.
What completes this text
are monumental stones
there where a hand learned how
to move, sculpt and assemble.
Eduardo's voice traces a map of Mexico on the earth
while he tells of how “the colonial chroniclers never
referred to the architecture of Mitla without combined aversion
and admiration… Thus to speak of Mictlán (place of the dead)
we must detach ourselves from the Western concept of death…”
My absurd dizziness no longer rocks in the branches of the tule tree;
now, in the land of the spirits, it is content with a puff of wind
and a bold guffaw that perforates my eardrums. Yes, the church bells
have begun to set loose a timely splendor and murmurs:
Think of it this way, that amid the rubble of my energy suddenly looms
a presence, like that of a hallowed place, door of musical allusions.
I detach myself from the group.
I am content to see.
It matters. Several bolts of air
swerve around my
unfailing audacity
and city of voices
there where the wind
does not sound unfamiliar to the ear
nor is seeing spirits
an act of inner shadows.
What could be loved is erased
and eyes and lips, light and humidity
are stripped bare.
The enigma of flavors
is also resolved.
The night before kisses
Crossed two linguistic points.
Now there is no dialogue.
From the four cardinal points
will soon rise a cold and
ungenerous gust of wind. You will dissolve.
My death is associated with the earth,
but the other dead man in question
will have to cross a long and mighty river.
Techichi the little dog will guide him:
naked he will cross spiky peaks
and drink terrible storms.
The wind will slice his skin
like an orange.
More than any heartbreak, worse than death Albius Tibullus, Book I, Poem VIII
itself, “What hurts is touching the body,
long kisses, and pressing thigh to thigh.”
With transfigured vision,
Friar Bernardo of Alburquerque
ordered built between 1535 and 1580
the façade of the north side
of the Oaxaca cathedral in the image…
From the four room courtyard flow moving friezes of water.
I read: the gods' anger with those who are ungenerous in spirit
was not placated by sacrifices of armadillos, rabbits, birds
and deer. Misers were condemned
to a subterranean palace to hoist dark shadows.
Once again Eduardo's voice blends with my mental torrent
that encircles the marvelous mountains, copulates with the stone
And drinks milk droplets from the tree that used to nourish dead children.
Inhabitants of the clouds. Branches from which I hang.
Schumann lieder that fuse with my own visions.
Copious tongues of rock: to listen, to recognize,
to descend to the interior of a jacaranda:
to design the interior patio
“was to get back onto the trail of my poem Propertius, Book I, Poem IV
after biting my hands unreasonably
and stamping my feet in doubt and anger.”
Some elegiac distiches pound me with excessive skill.
What am I doing in the center of the city of the dead
humming a thousand popular tunes and with all those
poems breaking over me?
What is my skin doing turned into a spongy substance
enjoying each voicemark and stroke,
each perforation, each drop of blood that seeps from my pores?
Blessed recollection,
there where a scornful grimace
offers me landscapes.
Blessed misery of broken borders
that turns the heart into a semi prophet.
that “das harts iz a halber novi”
that is completed and heard
by a system of images:
it hits and turns with skill
for I was born in a city by the sea
with excessively white sands
and I never made a pact
with its hot winds
or its salts projected in my shadows.
If the sea breeze took my breath away,
I drowned and was resuscitated. And my mother
who couldn't hear the voices that filled
the whole house and went with me,
spoke alone with nanny Blasa.
Later they put an amulet on my chest,
There where no one could see presences or memories.
I think only of all the courage I've lacked
to go back to hearing the voices,
raised now, loud, without any semblance of
restraint, flowery battle of my own soul.
POEMA BILINGÜE/BILINGUAL POEM
From Quincunce / Quincunx. Translated by Mary G. Berg and Carlota Caulfield.
Estudio cromático
Te gustaría lentamente tatuarte con las notas del trombón.
Decir, no tengo más que esto, lo que abre la epidermis
y hace brotar sangre,
lo que queda cuando la muerte lo arrasa todo,
menos los sonidos del cuerpo.
Y así las uñas guardarán su color rosáceo,
los senos su firmeza,
el cuello su tersidad.
Reconocerás el privilegio enorme que se aloja
en las venas y podrás descender a un centro de quietud
sin aferrarte a nada.
Entonces la respiración empezará una vez más,
y con ella una salivación anfibia repugnante
hasta que tu mano se mueva con rapidez
y el sudor pierda su pestilencia.
Pero no sufrirás vértigo.
La avalancha caerá sobre ti como bendición.
Tu boca vibrará y escupirá hilos imperceptibles.
Después llegará el viento loco y comenzará el concierto.
Chromatic Study
You'd like to tattoo yourself slowly with the trombone's notes.
Saying: I only have this, this that rips my skin open
and makes blood gush out,
this that remains when death wipes out everything,
except the sounds of the body.
And thus fingernails will keep their rosy hue,
breasts stay firm,
neck smooth.
You will recognize the enormous privilege lodged
in your veins and be able to descend to a center of quietude,
breaking all ties.
Then breathing will begin yet again,
and with it, a repugnant amphibious salivation
until your hand moves rapidly
and sweat loses its pestilence.
But you will not suffer from vertigo.
The avalanche will sweep over you in benediction.
Your mouth will vibrate and spit out imperceptible threads.
Later the mad wind will blow and the concert will begin.
Decir, no tengo más que esto, lo que abre la epidermis
y hace brotar sangre,
lo que queda cuando la muerte lo arrasa todo,
menos los sonidos del cuerpo.
Y así las uñas guardarán su color rosáceo,
los senos su firmeza,
el cuello su tersidad.
Reconocerás el privilegio enorme que se aloja
en las venas y podrás descender a un centro de quietud
sin aferrarte a nada.
Entonces la respiración empezará una vez más,
y con ella una salivación anfibia repugnante
hasta que tu mano se mueva con rapidez
y el sudor pierda su pestilencia.
Pero no sufrirás vértigo.
La avalancha caerá sobre ti como bendición.
Tu boca vibrará y escupirá hilos imperceptibles.
Después llegará el viento loco y comenzará el concierto.
Chromatic Study
You'd like to tattoo yourself slowly with the trombone's notes.
Saying: I only have this, this that rips my skin open
and makes blood gush out,
this that remains when death wipes out everything,
except the sounds of the body.
And thus fingernails will keep their rosy hue,
breasts stay firm,
neck smooth.
You will recognize the enormous privilege lodged
in your veins and be able to descend to a center of quietude,
breaking all ties.
Then breathing will begin yet again,
and with it, a repugnant amphibious salivation
until your hand moves rapidly
and sweat loses its pestilence.
But you will not suffer from vertigo.
The avalanche will sweep over you in benediction.
Your mouth will vibrate and spit out imperceptible threads.
Later the mad wind will blow and the concert will begin.
Carlota Caulfield, a poet, writer, translator and literary critic, has published extensively in English and Spanish in the United States, Latin America and Europe. Her most recent poetry books are JJ/CC and Cuaderno Neumeister / The Neumeister Notebook. The recipient of several awards, Caulfield is the W. M. Keck Professor in Creative Writing and head of the Spanish and Latin American Studies Program at Mills College, Oakland, California. Her webpage is www.carlotacaulfield.org.
Mary G. Berg, a Resident Scholar at the Women’s Studies Research Center at Brandeis University, Boston, Massachusetts, has translated poetry by Juan Ramón Jiménez, Clara Roderos, Marjorie Agosín and Carlota Caulfield and novels by Martha Rivera (I’ve Forgotten Your Name), Laura Riesco (Ximena at the Crossroads), Libertad Demitropulos (River of Sorrows). Her most recent translations are of collections of stories by Olga Orozco and Laidi Fernández de Juan.
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