Poetry Connection: Following Santa Barbara's New Poet Laureate, George Yatchisin, Around Town

  

 

Santa Barbara Poet Laureate George Yatchisin

 

 Melinda Palacio, Santa Barbara Poet Laureate 2023-2025

Over two weeks in February, I followed Santa Barbara Poet Laureate, George Yatchisin, as he spoke to two very different book clubs, the Santa Barbara Women’s Book Club at Rockwood and the Montecito Poetry Club. The Women’s Book Club, led by Linda Alderman, is unique in that they don’t read a shared book ahead of their meeting. Unlike most book clubs, they invite an author to talk about their work and encourage them to bring books to sell. They asked George to offer a more general discussion on the role of a poet laureate. This topic never gets old. It’s interesting to see how many people don’t know what a poet laureate is or that the position exists in Santa Barbara.

George is the city’s 11^th Poet Laureate. He charmed everyone at the Women’s Bookclub with his poetry and deep dive into the history of the laurels worn by Apollo and Poets Laureate. He brought a sample laurel crown to add to his explaination of the mythology surrounding the laurels. The wearing of the laurels are associated with the Greek God Apollo who was struck by one of Cupid’s golden love arrows. The nymph Daphne happened to be in his sight but Cupid didn’t use the same arrow on her. In praying for a solution to escape Apollo, she was transformed into a laurel tree. Since Apollo is associated with poetry, he declared the tree sacred and wears the laurels in her honor. Ancient traditions passed the tradition of wearing of laurels to heroes and poets. Someone asked the question, that I often hear as well, ‘Does every city and state have a poet laureate?’ You guessed correctly, the answer is No.

Santa Barbara didn’t have a poet laureate until 2005 with the installation of the inaugural position going to the late Barry Spacks. Sometimes, institutions appoint a poet laureate that is separate from the city poet laureate, such as former Independent intern, Leticia Hernández-Linares who is San Francisco’s library laureate. There’s also the example of former Santa Barbara resident, David Oliveira, who was recognized as Santa Barbara’s Millenial Poet from 1999-2000 for his promotion of poetry, for founding the Santa Barbara Poetry Series, and for co-founding Mille Grazie Press with Cynthia Anderson. David will make a return trip to Santa Barbara on March 27 when he reads at the Santa Barbara Public Library in the series he founded.

Over at the Montecito Library, the format for the Montecito Poetry Club is very different. This group is made up of poets, four poets laureate were in attendance. Santa Barbara Librarian Jace Turner organizes this group. Packets of George’s poems were passed out. People sat in circle and there was more sharing and less of a lecture or presentation from the featured poet. This group is used to discussing favorite poets who are not in the room. It was a treat for them to be able to ask questions from the poet. George read some poems to the Rockwood group, but at the Montecito Poetry Club, George had the honor of hearing the audience read his poems to him and then ask questions about his process and inspiration. Jace set the tone by asking each person in the circle to describe what draws them to poetry. George was asked how he felt about language.

As someone who writes about food for the Independent, George discussed the taste of language in poetry: “I like how a poem feels in my mouth,” he said. He adds spice and flavor to his poems by infusing them with obscure or eclectic song lyrics. There’s much freedom and playfulness in his poems and he says that he tries to move around while he writes. In April, for Poetry Month, there will be plenty of opportunities to taste and sip poems. George and Gunpowder Press will release a food poetry anthology celebrating local food, drinks, restaurants, and agriculture. Also, George will curate the 12^th Annual “Spirits in the Air: Potent Potable Poetry, April 15 at the Good Lion.

This week’s poem comes from Santa Barbara Poet Laureate, George Yatchisin.

An Air

Feathers are the things

with hope, for who doesn’t

brighten at a first glimpse

of birds, whether alight

or in flight, stealthily silent

or full-throated in song.

You can’t over-value them

in charm per pound,

in the lift they give,

not thinking about giving at all.

Even a simple house wren

prefers bugs to your bird feeder.

They’re unruffled we can’t

distinguish among their happy

host of dust-colored birds.

Just ask the cold-eyed hawk

or hungry cat what good

distinction does its feathered prey.

But beneath the lowest reach

of bushes, their clutch of cheerful 

cheeps hint at what we’ve missed.

Please, then, even off-key come

sing with me, something awkward,

unrehearsed, unadorned, but true.

George Yatchisin

*an earlier version of this article was published in the Independent

Following the Calexico Comet to Cal

 Note: DEI is about stories, and ours are under attack, so I thought it would be a good time to repost this story, a story about the U.S. and its people, our people, our elders. by Daniel Cano

                                                                     

Following the Calexico Comet to UC Berkeley

     Recently, I came across some old black and white photos of my dad and his friends, Larry Baez, Freddie Santana, and my uncle Rufino Escarcega. In one photo, I see a car, maybe a 1952 or ’53 light colored Chevy. It could be my dad’s 1953 light-green Chevy. I don’t know for sure. On the driver’s door, someone painted the words: “CALEXICO, Comet ‘Primo’ UCLA.”

     Kneeling beside the driver’s door, I see Dario Sanchez, I think. It’s a small photo. Beside Dario, standing to the rear, it looks like my dad. Beside him in the foreground is Georgie Saenz, and behind Georgie is Richard Sanchez, Dario’s younger brother, all hearty UCLA fans, most of them veterans, and the first generation of Chicanos, proud Mexican Americans. They pose next to Primo’s name, UCLA’s star running and defensive back. Primo, short for Primitivo, his father’s name.

     I try to put it all into context. I wish my dad was here to tell me the story. I’m sure it’s 1954, the year UCLA won the National College Football Championship. My dad and his friends travelled to Berkeley to watch Primo and UCLA battle Cal. A couple of things…. Now, a road trip to Berkeley doesn’t seem much to us today. But in the early 1950s, without freeways or major highways, that was one hellava drive.

     To reach the San Fernando Valley from West L.A., you had to wind around the Santa Monica Mountains along the Sepulveda Pass, in a car with no power anything. To cross the Valley, you had to grind your way up Sepulveda Blvd, stopping at red lights through every little settlement in San Fernando, Sherman Oaks, Van Nuys, Reseda, Pacoima, Sylmar, etc. etc. 1954 was only twenty years after the great Okie migration west, which meant crossing the San Joaquin Valley was a major achievement, not just a weekend romp. There were few hotels, gas stations, restaurants, or facilities for travelers, especially if you were a dark-skin Mexican, forget about it.

     As I study the photograph, I think: man, UCLA football must have been a powerful draw to get them to make that journey. Then I remember, it wasn’t just UCLA football, it was Primo Villanueva, and the pride my dad and his friends had in the kid who came from a small border town down south. I mean, Primo played for one of the greatest football coaches to ever walk the sidelines, Red Sanders. What must it have been like for Primo, a minister’s son, a kid from a small farming town where racism was rampant and poverty was a way of life, to know a football icon wanted him to move to Los Angeles and play for his team, UCLA, in the heart of Los Angeles, Hollywood, bright lights, big city?

                                                                                           

One of the all-time greats, Primo Villanueva

     To many of us Chicanos in Los Angeles, even non-UCLA fans, Primo was king. He’d dominated high school football in Calexico, the Imperial Valley, and San Diego County. At UCLA, he became an idol to thousands of kids across Los Angeles and California, and at a time when Chicano kids needed someone to look up to. When the media flooded us in the ‘50s with images of Mexicans as rapists, murderers, thieves, and slackers, Primo showed the true side of our community, where the majority were law-abiding, hardworking folks contributing to the development of this country, striving to educate their kids, and give them a good life.

    Primo, as a running back, led UCLA’s offense with 886 yards. If that wasn’t enough, he also played defensive back, and helped take the Bruins to a national championship, an undefeated season, 9-0. The kid was barely 19. He held his own among UCLA’s superstars, powerhouse athletes like Jack Elena, Jim Salisbury, and Bob Davenport, names known in college football across the country. We aren’t talking about good athletes here. We are talking about the best in the country.

     My dad and his friends couldn’t stop talking about Primo during those years. Sometimes, I’d attend games with them, the only kid in the car, or my cousin Junior squeezing in, as they made their way each Saturday night to the Coliseum, an hour drive, easy, in those days, from West L.A. After the game, the fans rushed on to the field to touch or shake hands with the gargantuan players. One time, my dad pushed his way through the crowd, so I could gawk up at the Chicano in cleats and full pads towering over us. After the field had emptied, my dad and his friends waited for the players to walk up the ramp, out of the Coliseum, and into the adoring fans, shaking hands and giving autographs. I can still hear my dad and his friends yelling, as if they were kids, “Primo! Primo! Primo!” He’d always smile and wave at them. They never missed a home game.

     Coincidentally, my wife hails from Calexico, California. Her brothers played high school football, and, of course, I had to ask them if they knew Primo. Her oldest brother, who received a football and academic scholarship to Dartmouth, told me when he played for Calexico High School, the coach gave him Primo’s helmet, mainly because it was the largest. My father-in-law, who also played high school football in Calexico, told me that fans would caravan from Calexico each season to watch Primo play. He said that on one trip, he and his friends got into a bad car accident, but even that didn’t stop them from attending the game. They sat the Coliseum, wrapped in bandages, watching Primo pull out another victory.

     I have visited Calexico over the years disappointed that there is little recognition of Primo, or his younger brother Danny, a punter and field goal kicker, for UCLA, the Los Angeles Rams, and the Dallas Cowboys. I would have thought for sure the high school might be named after Primo, or if not, at least the high school football field, gym, even a swimming pool. After all, Primo was an All-American football star. But no, nothing, no mention of the man. Most public facilities are named after…who knows, ex principals, superintendents, parents of city council or school board members?

     Then I heard Primo Villanueva hadn’t even been inducted into the UCLA Football Hall of Fame. How could that be? What was I missing here, the Calexico Comet who led UCLA to its only national football championship? Then, I heard a rumor that nominees and inductees, or those who nominated them, were expected to donate or raise big bucks for the university, just like a buying a star on the Hollywood Walk of Fame, nothing comes for free, not even for excellence.

     What I do know is that Chicano(a)/Latino(a) Studies, and all fields of study, should not be solely about scholars digging into esoteric, antiquated intellectual issues. It should be about people, their stories, and their contributions to Chicano/Latino culture, whether academic, musical, film, literature, art, athletics, or any other human endeavor. Chicano Studies should uplift the community, as well as show the difficulties and obstacles we’ve faced. To me, forgotten names of men like Primo Villanueva, Art Aragon, and Leo Carrillo, and women like Dolores del Rio, Isela Vega, and Linda Ronstadt, through their life’s work, have earned a place in the academy. Students should know about them.

     For me, anyway, I will always consider Chicano Studies as having begun with my father’s stories, and those men and women of his generation who lived to tell them.

Estela, Undrowning

Written by René Peña-Govea 

*Publisher: Quill Tree Books

*Publication date: March 3, 2026

*Language: English

*Print length: 368 pages

*ISBN-10: 0063429950

*ISBN-13: 978-0063429956

*Reading age: 14 years and up

In her raw and resonant debut novel, René Peña-Govea seamlessly interweaves prose and poetry to uplift the power of language, the courage to fight injustice, and the complex beauty of finding your people—perfect for fans of Elizabeth Acevedo’s The Poet X and Carolina Ixta’s Shut Up, This is Serious. 

Estela Morales is one of the only Latinas who tested into San Francisco’s most exclusive public high school. In her senior year, Estela just wants to keep her head down, eke out a passing grade from her racist Spanish teacher, and get into her dream college. 

But after placing second in the Latiné Heritage Poetry Contest behind a non-Latino student, Estela is thrust into citywide debates about merit, identity, and diversity.

Things only get messier when her family is threatened with eviction. As Estela’s friends organize against bigotry and her landlady increases the pressure, Estela is suffocating and finds release only in poetry and in a breathless new romance. When tensions finally reach their breaking point, Estela must find a way to undrown the community she loves—and herself.

Review

"In Peña-Govea’s arresting debut, Estela contends with complex questions regarding love and sexuality, identity, and how to use her voice to enact change, she comes to understand the value of imperfection and growth. It’s both a poignant reflection on young adulthood and a joyful celebration of adolescence that challenges stereotypes and engenders hope." - Publisher's Weekly- starred review

"Hand this to teens hungry for realistic fiction with rich, complex characters, and multifaceted drama." - The Bulletin of the Center for Children's Books- starred review

"Through a gorgeous blend of prose and verse, Peña-Govea delivers a timely and impactful story about personal growth and combating harmful systems of oppression that encourage self-hatred and racial in-fighting." - Booklist- starred reviews

"First-person narrator Estela’s intense, dramatic inner voice takes center stage, highlighting her angst and emotional extremes...The work asks poignant questions about bias, opportunity, and racial inequalities and explores techniques for supporting mental health." - Kirkus Reviews

René Peña-Govea is a Chicana writer, musician, and educator who was born and raised in San Francisco and still lives there with her family. She published her first poem and released her first album at age fifteen. Since then, she has been named an inaugural Bay Beats musician, a YBCA-100 Honoree, a Las Musas Hermana, a Brown-Handler Resident, and a Creative-in-Residence at the Ruby. René performs music with three generations of La Familia Peña-Govea and as René y Familia. Estela, Undrowning is her first novel. 

Memories, Moths, Enamoradas Pasadas

Nightime Walkabout: Visit With A Swarm of Unknown Moths

Michael Sedano

The night isn’t particularly dark on the concrete driveway entering the brightly lit mall parking lot. I’m walking, so I keep to the edge where a bed of dwarf lantana grow. Something, maybe a gum wrapper, maybe a critter, darts across the flowers into shadow.

I bend to gaze intently scanning the spot where movement has arrested my attention. I search around several plants, eyes primed to see a piece of paper that doesn’t exist. I straighten up surveying the bed at my feet where some natural magic shares this climactic moment of metamorphosis with me when these moths rise from the earth like silent chicharras, seeking nourishment from abundant lantana flowers.

I have no idea what moth this can be. When the moths stop to sip, their wings flutter in nonstop delight fully comprehending this nectar. Getting close and getting an iphone foto takes dozens of exposures, but at such wing velocities the iphone cannot catch a wing in space even with flash. By their wings will you know them, moths, I have no identification for these small souls.

I get to my car and a moth has posed itself on the windshield. Mira nomás.

Fast As You Can Wink An Eye

Michael Sedano  

 

She ripped my heart

Into tiny quivering pieces

scattered everywhere. 

A bloody mess.

The janitor complained

It’s not my job, man.

I gathered the shards

Myself

Thinking to put it back

The way it was, later.

 

Carolina haunted him with profound regret, and unrequited passion. Walking away straight-shouldered, she turns to smile over her bare freckled shoulder, hair wafting into a golden blur. The glint from her eye promises him everything he would ever want. But she is paper and gelatin and silver halides and a fifty-years old memory. He’d held the camera to his cheek watching her turn away. She had walked into the crowd and he’d never laid eyes upon Carolina again.

 

Until now. The novelty of being in Edison NJ wears off quickly. Yesterday, to conclude the day’s business routine, his local hosts insist on taking Mr. De las Costillas sightseeing. The blimp. Edison’s labs. The Raritan Canal. White Castle burgers stuns him as the epitome of everything evil about fast food, but Miguel keeps that to himself. The locals are delighted to introduce the big shot from the coast to sliders.

 

It is the final night of the annual three-week swing and Costillas finally gets to be on his own. Relieved at the absence of ritualized company dinners, Miguel walks in a bouncy quick time, excited at the prospect of dinner in a diner. A shiny aluminum railcar diner, just like in old movies or corny teevee situation comedies. Even better, it’s called Carolina’s Place. 

 

De las Costillas mentally leaps in the air to click his heels to read “Blue Plate Special” on the chalkboard. The menu goes on for pages. Burgers, knishes, pirogi, cabbage soup, borscht, steak, fish, spaghetti. Miguel orders the blue plate special, meat loaf and all the trimmings. When he tops off the meal with a slice of custard pie, he tells Mary how delicious this custard pie tastes, like home.

 

Mary laughs and tells Miguel frankly she can’t stomach that slimy shit in her mouth, pardon my french. But the owner insists they keep custard pie on the menu. It doesn’t sell. Mary tells him I gotta tell boss lady about this. And with that Mary wheels around and pushes her way into the back.

 

The piecrust has a hard shell of granulated sugar along the rim. The side of Miguel’s fork cracks into the crispiness and glides through dense orange pudding. Perfumes of cardamom, nutmeg, and canela tantalize his nostrils and quivering tastebuds. Miguel’s fork trembles remembering another custard pie.

 

His mouth fills with flavor when he crushes the morsel with his tongue. The custard has baked just to the point of perfection; light, solid, creamy smoothness. He thinks of the smile over Carolina’s shoulder, the fine hairs of her cheek fuzz glowing in the afternoon light, her eyes at once distant and urgent. Miguel draws a long slow breath through parted lips across the flan still resting in his mouth. He closes his eyes to concentrate on sensing this aroma filling his sinus as he exhales. He remembers the moment he’d called, “Carolina, soma pa’ca! look over here!”

 

When Miguel de las Costillas opens his eyes he is looking into a woman’s eyes. He knows her and he slowly angles his head to look at her from a different perspective. She looks at him intently, then suspiciously. “How’d you find me?” Her voice still carries that sweet timbre that had rested unheard in his memory for fifty years. Fifty years of cigarettes—she reeks of tobacco—ravaged it, but the woman speaks with Carolina’s voice.

 

“Hi, Carolina” is all he says. Then he adds, “Happy birthday, 50 times over.” It has been that long. Carolina sits.

 

Miguel takes another bite of custard pie, savors it, and takes another bite. He remembers watching a 16-year old Carolina bustling in her mother’s kitchen, whipping up a custard pie. That girl had spirit. He played “Billy Boy” on the piano and made up a lyric about custard pie. She had laughed and danced and sang along, and baked a custard pie fast as young Miguel could blink an eye.

 

Carolina’s biography serves up a litany of woes and five husbands. Hard luck turns into elation. But that doesn’t work out, and more hard luck. Only three kids, thankfully, who have troubles of their own. Lou, the last husband before she gave up men, had beaten the shit out of her but when he died he left her this diner and the parking lot. She is not eking by, doing all right, getting there. 

 

Does he want to, you know? Miguel holds her eyes with regret and she begins to sing “It’s Been a Long, Long Time.” 

 

It was their song. He played the sheet music, she sang. Singing had been her tease. She would lean over him to read the words, squeezing him with both arms. Or she snuggled against him on the piano bench, an arm around his waist, leaning into him to turn the page with her right hand, occasionally sliding her nose into his neck. She drove him wild, a long, long time ago.

 

Costillas wishes he could photograph the empty darkened diner, shades half drawn, their corner booth in a pool of light. Two figures sit across from each other, their faces moving into and out of the overhead bulb like nighthawks turning in the gyre. The muted green walls scream out to be photographed. 

 

She sings the entire song and by the final measure she has reached her hands across to him. He takes both hands and caresses them. She begins to lose the melody and energy, her voice fades until she whispers haltingly “… long, long, time.”

“Tinta negra, Black Ink, Tinta Nera, Μαύρη μελάνη” by Xánath Caraza

“Tinta negra, Black Ink, Tinta Nera, Μαύρη μελάνη” by Xánath Caraza

 

Xanath Caraza

Tinta negra

 

por Xánath Caraza

 

Llueve en el fosforescente verde matutino.

Descubro entre la cibernética tinta negra,

entre un desconocido norte que es mi sur,

palabras entretejidas con miedos,

sentimientos disfrazados de distancia,

muros metálicos dividen dos países,

dos corazones, madres e hijos,

padres y hermanos, pasado y presente.

 

¿Qué nos hace diferentes?

 

Somos manos que escriben,

que trabajan, limpian y guían

en la oscuridad más grande.

 

¿Qué es una frontera?

 

Límites creados,

culturas forzadas

a darse la espalda.

 

Llueve en el fosforescente verde matutino.

Descubro entre la tinta negra

de esta pantalla de luz artificial,

los hombres y mujeres sin nombre

que apenas dejan rastro de su existencia

en los desiertos. 

 

Anónimos seres que nunca

serán reclamados.

 

Esperan las madres orgullosas

a los hijos e hijas tragados por

la flamígera arena del desierto.

 

Rojo atardecer llena mi pantalla

y la tinta negra empieza a sangrar.

 

 

Xanath Caraza

Black Ink

 

Translated by Sandra Kingery

 

It’s raining in the phosphorescent greenness of daybreak.

I discover in the cybernetic black ink,

in an unknown north that is my south,

words interwoven with fears,

emotions disguised as distance,

metallic walls dividing two nations,

two hearts, mothers and children,

fathers and siblings, past and present.

 

What makes us different?

 

We are hands that write,

that work cleaning and guiding

in the darkest dark.

 

What is a border?

 

Created limits,

cultures forced

to turn their back.

 

It’s raining in the phosphorescent greenness of daybreak.

I discover in the black ink

of this screen of artificial light,

nameless men and women

who barely leave a trace of their existence in the deserts. 

 

Anonymous beings who

will never be claimed.

 

Proud mothers awaiting 

sons and daughters swallowed

by the scorching desert sand. 

 

Red twilight fills my screen

and the black ink begins to bleed.

 

 

Xanath Caraza

Tinta Nera

 

Tradotto da Andrea Garbin

 

Piore nel fosforescente verde mattutino.

Copro nella cibernetica tinta nera,

in uno sconosciuto nord che è il mio sud,

parole intrecciate con paure,

sentimenti mascherati da distanza

muri metallici dividono due paesi

due cuori, madri e figli

padri e fratelli, passato e presente.

 

Cosa ci rende differenti?

 

Siamo mani che scrivono,

che lavorano, che puliscono e guidano

nell’oscurita più gande.

 

Cos’ è una frontiera?

 

Limiti creati,

culture forzate

a voltarsi le spalle.

 

Piove nel fosforescente verde matutino.

Scopro dentro la tinta nera di questo

schermo di luce artificiale,

le ombre e donna senza nome

che a stento lasciano una traccia della

lore esistenza nei deserti. 

 

Esseri anonimi che non saranno

mai reclamati.

 

Sperano le madri orgoliose

dei loro figli e figlie inghioltiti dalla

fiammoggiante sabbia del deserto.

 

Il rosso crespuscolo riempie

il mio schermo e la tinta nera

cumincia a sanguinare.

 

Xanath Caraza

Μαύρη μελάνη

 

Translated to the Greek by María José Martínez Rodríguez and her students: Angelikí Patera, Stella Panagopoulou, Katerina Apostolaki, Varvara Asouti, Tatiana Basakou, Timoklia Dougali, Afroditi Papatheodorou

 

Βρέχει στο λαμπερό πράσινο του πρωινού

ανακαλύπτω ανάμεσα στη μαύρη μελάνη του κυβερνοχώρου

ανάμεσα σ’ έναν άγνωστο βορρά που είναι ο νότος μου

λέξεις υφασμένες με φόβους

αισθήματα μεταμφιεσμένα από απόσταση μεταλλικά

τείχη διαιρούν δυο χώρες

δυο καρδιές, μητέρες και παιδιά

Γονείς και αδέρφια, παρελθόν και παρόν

 

Τι μας κάνει διαφορετικούς;

 

Είμαστε χέρια που γράφουν, που εργάζονται

καθαρίζουν και οδηγούν στο πιο μεγάλο σκοτάδι

 

Τι είναι τα σύνορα; Όρια φτιαχτά

πολιτισμοί πειθαναγκασμένοι να γυρίζουν την πλάτη

βρέχει στο λαμπερό πράσινο του πρωινού

ανακαλύπτω ανάμεσα στη μαύρη μελάνη αυτής της

οθόνης με τεχνητό φως τους άνδρες

και τις γυναίκες χωρίς όνομα που μόλις

 

αφήνουν ίχνη της ύπαρξης τους

στις ερήμους. Ανώνυμα πλάσματα

 

που ποτέ δεν θα αναζητηθούν

οι μητέρες περήφανες περιμένουν τους

γιους και τις κόρες που κατάπιε η φλογισμένη

 

άμμος της ερήμου. Κόκκινο σούρουπο γεμίζει την

οθόνη μου και η μαύρη μελάνη αρχίζει

να ματώνει.

 

Tinta negra / Black Ink

Author:  Xánath Caraza

Publisher: Pandora Lobo Estepario Press (April, 2016)

 

Tinta Negra / Μαύρη μελάνη

Author: Xánath Caraza

Publisher: Pandora Lobo Estepario Press (2019) (Spanish-Greek)

 

Cover art by Silvia Santos

 

Tinta negra / Black Ink by Xánath Caraza received Honorable Mention for ‘Best Book of Poetry in Spanish-One Author’ for the 2017 International Latino Book Awards

 

Xanath Caraza