Lisa Stops By; On-Line Floricanto 2011/1/4

Lisa Alvarado Update

[Editor's Note: Lisa Alvarado, one of the first Blogueras, promised to keep in touch. Here, for the new year, is one of those promised touches.]

I live now in Vermont, state where so far, the only Mexican I met was a farm hand. I am eminently visible and invisible at the same time. I have been party to conversations where 'those people ' have been referenced. I am those people. I am Chicana. I am also a Jew.

I do not have a poem about Arizona, an elegy, an allegorical tale. What I have is grief, is anger, the slow burn of a wound that keeps being reopened and reopened and reopened. The rage I feel is an acid that cannot be contained in free verse, a sestina, a couplet. There is no villanelle for my terror, for the nausea I felt when I was stopped by the state police last week.

The Arizona bill is not a new wound. It is as old as the Conquest, as Manifest Destiny. We are, and have been the other. America needs, and has needed a scapegoat--needed to strap the failure of capital on the backs of the same dark people who have built it. It is the legacy of those who have toiled and bled and died, and for whom the fruit of the tree is always just out of their grasp.

The tenor of this nation is more and more Beer Hall Putsch, a darker-than-crimson tug in my blood, a shadow fist tightening around my heart. Work camps and incinerators start with taking regular people’s fears of not having and losing, and showing them there is a culprit, an answer. A dark, evil, enemy that snatches the bread from their tables. And step by step there will be a solution. Terrified people need a solution. People angry that no matter how hard they work, they lose and keep losing, crave a solution.

Those in power, those with storehouses of money and the weapons to shape public opinion are glad to offer the the means to feel in control again. The enemy, the cancer must be found. Find them, capture them, bring them to one place where the process of cutting down and cutting out can begin. This is the History 101 I know in the marrow of my bones. This is old history, this is Califas mission history, Wounded Knee and Trail of Tears history, slaveship Jim Crow history, Yellow menace history and relocation camps history.

This is my America. This is yours.

This article appeared in the summer edition of the Tidal Basin Review, and Lisa Alvarado is currently in rural Wisconsin, planning her next landing. American history, however, remains the same.

On-Line Floricanto To Open 2011 • Poets Responding to Arizona, Breeding Ground of a Political Hate Culture

Francisco Alarcón and the moderators of the Facebook group Poets Responding to SB 1070 send in the work of five poets to launch the new year, Victor Avila, Avotcja, Iris De Anda, Omar Dlp Guzman Cruz, Guadalupe Rodriguez Jr.

1. "Revolution" of the Mind" by Victor Avila

2. "Ofrenda" and two other poems, by Avotcja

3. "Dream Act" by Iris De Anda

4. "One More Day / Un dia mas" by Omar Dlp Guzman Cruz

5. "I never lived in a glass house" by Guadalupe Rodriguez Jr




Revolution of the Mind

by Victor Avila

"Tell Fidel-I will do my duty" Salvador Allende


There is no border-
there is no line,
you cannot encage
the Revolution of the Mind.
Be it AK47 or M16
no bullet or grenade
will ever succeed.
For here stands the poet
unafraid to bleed
and stain the page
with the power of his ink.
And there, the artist,
for whom the canvas
cannot contain
the symbols, the images,
and the ideas they convey.
For in the heart of a people
a deeper truth lies.
And like the seed once planted
the tree will never die.
"Once the prison doors are open-
the real dragons emerge"
so wrote Uncle Ho
as the shells around him burst.
Yes, they killed Martin
and his rival Malcolm X
but neither of them died
in a New York ballroom
or on a balcony in Memphis.
Yes, they killed Ruben
in the Silver Dollar Cafe
but the more they kill the champion-
the champion remains.
For there is no border-
there is no line,
you cannot ensare
the Revolution of the Mind.
The revolution has not failed-
the revolution lives on.
They pass hateful legislation
and the marcher marches on.
More than ideology,
not just philosophy
we move forward into tear gas
a red bandana on our face.
From Selma to Delano
we walk, we march, we walk.
Our voices will not be stopped
by a policeman's black baton.
No artifice of demarcation,
nor fence of twisted wire,
no paradigm of hate
will contain the flame
for the very paradigms catch fire.
For there is no border-
there is no line,
And you will not enslave
the REVOLUTION OF THE MIND!




INDESTRUCTIBLE
Haiti Mystic Garden Of Dreams)

Mama Haiti
Beautiful magical incubator
Mother of miraculous visions
You are the Sacred Womb of our freedom
Still infused with
The spiritual integrity of Boukman
You are the divine Light
The driving force
The seed that fed the dreams of
Anacaona & Toussaint Louverture
You are the intangible source
That ignites the fire inside
The underlying unifying sincerity of a
Jean Jacques Dessalines
The promise in your voice cuts through steel
A mystical Machete that sings through Rara prowess
And the whole world drinks your tears
Trying to wash themselves clean on your pain
Mama Haiti
The fiend of greed may have tried to kill your economy
And blindly deforest the wealth of your Souls
“They” may have desecrated your rice fields, but
You always bounce back
You are the Light
And right now you shine on the newest incarnation of
“The Emperor has no clothes”
Your unbreakable Spirit is so powerful
That even “his story” blushes
At the whispered
International embarrassment of having to admit defeat
Defeat at the hands of determined Black peasants
Defeat of the worlds’ strongest Armies
Defeat … a bitter pill … an off key soundtrack
Salt in the wounds to accompany the fall of an Empire
And still you’re paying for it
Paying for an evil not of your making
Still paying in bloody deprivation for
That “behind whipping” that left Napoleon crawling
Beautiful Haiti
Sacred Womb of freedom
Hold on
The Emperor has no clothes
And you are the Light
The whole world finally sees
Sees right through the obscenity of his nudity
And it’s not a pretty picture
Majestic Haiti
Proud incubator of independence
I, too, bathe in your sorrow, but
After so long eating from the bowl of poverty
There is no Hurricane, or Earthquake
Strong enough to re-enslave you
You may be stunned, knocked down for a minute, in shock
But “they” will never knock you out
Just like they couldn’t lock you out of the Palace Gates
The proof’s in the memory of the strength of your piss
A communal gift of poor Folks piss
Eating its way through the aluminum plated greed
Of sanctimonious despots
And we will not see you be defeated
Mama Haiti, you are our Ashé
Our never-ending unbeatable Spirit of freedom
You are the Light
Your Spirit is immortal
And this time
The best of humanity is ready to help you be reborn

Copyright © Avotcja

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *


LAND OF THE LIVING DEAD

I wonder what they talk about
When it's not,
"who wore the same dress twice"
"And who was at the last recital"
Or
"what it's like in Florida in December"
Or
"which fur is really the nicest"
"That oh so quaint art exhibit"
A small scandal here & there
"The summer house in Vermont"
Their newest "knee-grow" Congressman,
and
"Mt. Vernon versus St. Albans"
"Those primitive Afro hair do's"
&
"what's what"
&
"who's who"
"And, wouldn't you know it,
Bonifacia's teenage daughter's
illegitimate baby
Looks just like the Delivery boy!!!"
I wonder what they talk about
When all the words run out
And they have to listen
To the sound
Of their own silence!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Copyright © Avotcja

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *



OFRENDA

Con el amanecer besando mis párpados
Levanto
Abrazando el nuevo día
Adentro el canto del Coqui
“Coqui” … “Coqui”
Chiquitito guía íntimo
Su sonido sagrado
Que mantengo en el alma
Mi ofrenda diaria
Un pedacito de mi sangre
Pá liberar los Ancestros

Copyright © Avotcja




Dream Act
by Iris De Anda

Dream Act
like waiting to come home
become known and seen
because I have a story...
I live and breath like you do.
I sleep and dream like you do.
Dream Act
like a thousand voices
carried in the wind
telling stories and asking...
Why deny me your ideals of liberty?
Why ignore me after you claim equality?
Dream Act
like a nightmare
where I can't wake up
struggling for rights
a piece of paper &
your stamp of approval
Dream Act
a dream deferred
american dream is dead
falling under lies,
under broken promises,
under votes
Dream Act
like an ancient memory
humanity is the same
we all bleed and laugh
and most of all
we will continue to DREAM...





ONE MORE DAY… .
Omar Dlp Guzman Cruz


One more day that people's thoughts
are possibly riddled thinking of the day
when Ramadan, Hanukah and Christmas
could be miraculously celebrated in unity… .

One more day that infinite prayers
will not eliminate the words: Hunger,
Odium, Selfishness, Crime; Iniquity;
and Peace will not magically come about… .

One more day resolving the unsolved,
exchanging gifts to make the rich, richer,
when millions of abandon children
will never embrace the word hope… .

One more day when wonderful humans
embrace their natural sincerity to love,
to share, to disperse happiness and joy,
but that happens every day in the World… .

UN DÍA MÁS… .

Un día más que el pensamiento humano
posiblemente este adivinando sobre el día
que el Ramadán, Janucá y la Navidad
milagrosamente sea celebrada en unidad… .

Un día más que oraciones infinitas
no eliminarán las palabras: Hambre,
Odio, Egoísmo, Crimen, Iniquidad;
y la Paz no aparecerá mágicamente… .

Un día más resolviendo lo inescrutable,
regalos en trueque, haciendo más rico al rico,
cuando millones de niños abandonados
nunca abrigaran la palabra esperanza… .

Un día más que humanos maravillosos
se apegan a su sinceridad natural de amar,
compartir, de dispersar felicidad y alegría,
pero eso pasa todos los días en la Tierra… .

© Omarr DLP Guzmán Cruz, 12-24-2010



I'VE NEVER LIVED IN GLASS HOUSE
by Rodriguez Jr GuadaLupe on Thursday, December 23, 2010 at 4:44pm
By: GUADALUPE RODRIGUEZ JR



I'VE NEVER LIVED IN A GLASS HOUSE



I NEVER LIVED IN A GLASS HOUSE
TO KNOW YOU COULDN'T SEE ME
TO JUDGE ME
FOR WHOM I AM

TO OPEN MYSELF AS I AM
TO THIS WORLD , MY LIFE
MY FEELINGS, AS WHO I AM
WITHOUT THOUGHTS OF YOUR FEELINGS
BUT MINE

I OFTEN WONDERED ABOUT YOU
WHEN YOU LISTENED AND YOU LAUGHED
A FEELING RATHER COLD
AFTER SHARING A BIT OF MY SOUL

PICTURES AND MEMORIES OF MY LIFE
I OPENED TO YOU AND THE WORLD
YOUR VOICE AND IMAGE BECOMES DIMMER
DISTANT YOU GROW

FADING FURTHER AND FURTHER AWAY
WITH A LOOK OF DISMAY!.....NO LONGER
THAT PERSON WITH FEELINGS
BUT VAIN
TOWARDS MY PAST AND PRESENT

WHO ARE YOU?.... AND WHAT ARE YOU?
WHERE DID YOU COME FROM?
AND WHY STILL HERE?
IN MY LIFE!

I NEVER LIVED IN A GLASS HOUSE AS YOU
I NEVER JUDGED OR FELT VANITY AS YOU
NOR DO I WISH TO.....CAST STONES
AS YOU

THAT GLASS BEFORE YOU IS NOT...I!
BUT PERHAPS, A METAPHOR OF YOUR HIDDEN PAST
CAUTION IN HOW YOU JUDGE!
CAUTION WHEN YOU CAST THAT STONE
TOWARDS THE GLASS

IT WILL NOT SHATTER MY LIFE OR IMAGE
BUT CAUSE SADNESS
UPON YOUR HOUSE OF GLASS

CAUTION WITH THAT STONE
YOUR JUDGMENT CARRIES
IT COULD BREAK THE GLASS
OF A HOUSE
BUT NOT MINE




GUADALUPE G RODRIGUEZ JR (c) 12/23/2010





BIOS

Iris de AndaI am a woman of Mexican & Salvadorian descent but above all a human being. I was born, raised, and currently live in Los Angeles, California. I am a revolutionary, mother, wife, lover, writer, activist, and student of the healing arts. I believe in the power of spoken word, poetry, storytelling, and dreams. I have been writing for most of my life and this is my ceremony, my creation, and my offering for a better world. Peace.



Omar Dlp Guzman CruzNaci en El Salvador el 21 de Noviembre de 1957, emigre a Estados Unidos en 1974, desde que me vine traia el deseo de escribir poesia, pero dadas ciertas circumstancias comenze a escribir con mas frecuencia hace como unos cinco años y a publicar mis trabajos en grupos de Internet.

Uso el nombre Omarr DLP Guzman Cruz, como un seudonimo pero mi nombre completo es Omar De La Paz Guzman Cruz, resido en Daly City, California y trabajo en la alcaldia del mismo lugar.

Victor AvilaVictor Avila is a California educator. poet, songwriter and frequent contributor to GHOULA Comix. He is the winner of the Chicano Literary Prize and his songs have been covered by many artists.




Guadalupe G. RodriguezGuadalupe G. Rodriguez was born to a large family April 7, 1961. Growing up, home life could be complicated with with a large extended family, and eventually 4 step brothers and 6 step sisters. Known to his friends as “Lupe,” even at age 10, he showed an early interest in planting gardens and arranging things to be visually pleasing, a talent that he would carry with him in his professional design career.

Like many Latinos, he was very close to his mother and as a dutiful son, would assist her with daily chores such as preparing meals, house cleaning, and working in the garden. His assistance was invaluable to her, and provided life skill sets preparing him for living on his own later in his life. His mother was always supportive of his artistic ventures and she would count on him to help in observing family traditions, such as assembling day of the dead family alters.

He was always a hard worker and worked in the fields of Texas side by side migrant farm workers witnessing first hand the toil and pain of this lifestyle. In his twenties, he returned to life in the City of San Antonio to work as a horticulturist at the Alamo, following a brief attendance at St. Edward's University in Austin.

Throughout his professional life in addition to his work in horticulture and landscape design, Lupe has been gainfully employed as a visual arts designer, floral designer, and costume designer. He worked with a team of artists to put together costumes for the San Antonio Fiesta dance troupe, Urban 15, and served as a board member for "A.C.A.S.T" , (A Colaborating Artist Support Team) in San Antonio,Texas. Alongside his fellow artist, he developed his style and artistic creativity by absorbing his culture and love for art.

Over the last 13 years, Lupe has been honing his interest in art and writing poetry since moving to Washington, DC. Though he is not a formally trained poet, he does speak from the heart and would quickly get down his thoughts of rhyme or not, sometimes on the back of a paper napkin when an inspiration came to him. He would often pass these poetic passages to his friends as a gift of his thought. His early poetry was more introspective about his personal relationships. However, since the death of his mother in 2009, his interest has been broader to encompass racial and immigrant current events and family and self experiences.

He is proud of his Spanish, Mexican, and Comanche heritage and enjoys incorporating his background, and bilingualism in his work. Over the last 5 years Lupe has been working as a horticulturist with the Architect of the Capital / United States Botanic Garden.