Michael Sedano
When the world wide web first came to my notice—back in the 20th century--I loved its text-dependent nature. There was E-mail; puro text. Text curiosities like ASCII art. Virtual entities like Usenet and Chicle streamed interesting messages and tons of garbage, but text nonetheless. Even images were text files that only tech wizards could download and convert.
Warmed the cockles of my heart, seeing how reading would continue occupying a principal principle in our rapidly futurizing civilization.
Soon, however, Netscape and competing web browsers took on increasingly graphic capacities. In the flash of a software upgrade, all that lovely text took second place to illustration, photo, animation, and video. The internet has become television.
Probably still a vast wasteland, teevee. But there is good teevee, and there is bad teevee; good internet, and bad internet. Finding the former without having to consume toxic loads of the latter can be a hit-and-miss challenge. Thus it’s a happy occasion to note the official launch of an arrestingly useful and entertaining website, Latinopia. Put simply, Latinopia is good internet.
Casa Treviño/Murray, the home of Jesus and his gracious wife Bobbi Murray, was the site recently of the official launch of the Latinopia service. The hillside home looking toward the eastern edge of the San Fernando Valley was washed clean by days of rain and blue skies and warm sun presaged Latinopia's future. The good weather obviously a beneficence from the three female dieties' steles installed on the uphill slope.
Probably still a vast wasteland, teevee. But there is good teevee, and there is bad teevee; good internet, and bad internet. Finding the former without having to consume toxic loads of the latter can be a hit-and-miss challenge. Thus it’s a happy occasion to note the official launch of an arrestingly useful and entertaining website, Latinopia. Put simply, Latinopia is good internet.
Casa Treviño/Murray, the home of Jesus and his gracious wife Bobbi Murray, was the site recently of the official launch of the Latinopia service. The hillside home looking toward the eastern edge of the San Fernando Valley was washed clean by days of rain and blue skies and warm sun presaged Latinopia's future. The good weather obviously a beneficence from the three female dieties' steles installed on the uphill slope.
While La Bloga’s January 2011 exploration of the beta Latinopia found the site fully ready for prime time, Treviño explains he’s been fine-tuning the links and features and getting ready to bring Latinopia to the mobile audience in Latinopia’s next major technology enhancement.
Speaking to the rationale for launching the site now, Treviño points out the growing influence of Chicana Chicano Latina Latino demographics: Youthful and growing. Big aggregate spenders on entertainment products. Major league consumers of everything marketers want to sell. And with all those eyes and ears waiting to be served, there’s untapped demand to satisfy.
“You’ll never make any money from it,” Treviño’s Hollywood tipo acquaintances declare. That’s a good thing, as far as audience-friendly programming goes. Hollywood, be that broadcast or cable, subscribes to a philosophy that celebrates MOS, more of the same. In the Army we had SOS, same ol’ stuff. MOS, SOS, same-o same-o; little to celebrate nor emulate. So in that sense, I, for one, am pleased that Latinopia won’t be making Treviño and his two business partners multimillionaires.
“It’s about serving the community,” Treviño says. But that will be true only if the community in turn supports Latinopia. To that end, Latinopia programs for a range of interests including Art, Cinema/TV, Food, History, Literature, Music, and Theater. By the end of the year, more than 100 video pieces, and scattered text, will be available at Latinopia. Right now Latinopia features interviews, performances, and the highly popular food series featuring Diane Velarde Hernandez' recipes and cooking tips, and Frito Lascano's Annual Pelada.
Among Treviño’s more cherished goals for Latinopia is drawing that younger audience to the site. To this end, the site features--or shall--young writers like scintillating poet Monica Ortiz, and dozens of young and emerging writers who read at September’s Festival de Flor y Canto. Yesterday • Today • Tomorrow.
In addition, Latinopia is opening its pages to young filmmakers, as well as expanding its current five-minute design to allow extended presentations. As Latinopia's audience grows, feedback may influence the site to lengthen its snippets. A ver.
With Latinopia's emphasis on the new, I am nonetheless content to explore the fabulous work in the can from Treviño’s twentyplus year career as a documentarian, writer, director, photographer. José Montoya’s reading of “El Louie,” for example, is a must-see for all young writers who want to learn from a master the art in reading your stuff. And that's just one of the absolutely sparkling gems waiting for visitors to this highly recommended site, Latinopia.
There was a single sore spot in the entire afternoon. Fortunately, it affects me alone, unless there were others in attendance who cannot consume gluten. Treviño poured the perfect black and tan. And, despite Murray's reminder the black and tans were Brit goons against the Irish, that black and tan sure looked good on that pleasant final winter’s day.
3rd Annual Latino Trojan Family Reunion
El Centro Chicano provides a host of amenities, important touches of home and cultura, and outreach to gente in the world of work, to USC's students who elect to join El Centro's activities. When I was a grad student in the 70s and the early years of El Centro Chicano, the tardeadas and local organizing introduced diverting hours and good chow, equally important on a GI Bill budget. I sure hope those tardeadas continue today.
Among last year's notable achievements, El Centro's Director, Billy Vela, and Justin Pegueros of the Latino Student Association, helped organize Festival de Flor y Canto. Yesterday • Today • Tomorrow, reprising the role played by the centro back in 1973, for the first floricanto.
Among the more quotidian responsibilities, Billy and El Centro organize events like the upcoming networking night for undergraduates, graduate students alumni & friends. Scheduled for Tuesday, March 29, 2011, 6:00pm– 9:00pm at El Centro Chicano, the event includes light snacks and beverages. Co-sponsored by LSA, USC Latino Alumni Association & Target.
Get directions to the centro and campus parking--do not park in the shopping center across the street--by calling El Centro at (213)740-1480 or via hyperlink.
On-Line Floricanto
Francisco Alarcón and a team of moderators recommend this week's five poets and works selected from on-line submissions to the Facebook group, Poets Responding to SB 1070. Details on submissions at the link.
1. "Inmigrantes" by Don Newton
2. "Finally" by Leslie Ross-Cantu
3. "Absence" by Tom Sheldon
4. "Leaning Into The Wind" by Alma Luz Villanueva
5. "March 19, 2009" by Linda Rodriguez
INMIGRANTES
by Don Newton
i. inmigrantes
underlying murmur,
in Spanish but also,
(trying to listen across
noise of the marketplace),
in Armenian, Korean, Russian
perhaps Aramaic?
the class struggle happening
right here out in the light of day
-- perfectly clear & sunny,
in spite of predictions of rain.
underlying gestures, glances,
her eyes brush past mine
as we turn a corner, each of us
following out our delimited path,
by law/ which side of the street
which lane to turn from…
“Down by Law” (whose laws
are these?) …determined by law
STEP ON A LINE YOU
BREAK YOUR MOTHER’S SPINESTEP ON A CRACK
BREAK YOUR MOTHER’S BACK
the caverns of the body trembling
haunted by these ordinances.
when they’d had enough of the
Chinese laborers,
nothing stopped their deportations,
banned after the railroads
were finished…
when the braceros
finished with their harvest,
off they went, no law protected them.
it’s happening today, even if
denials & evasions write
the text for so-called
news: at Pilgrim’s Pride,
at the tuna canneries
sudden raids come
just before payday:
no law defends our
working people, any statement
can & will be used against you…
crossing from wet to dry, over or
under the walls, carrying everything
in a bulging sack…
got my stuff in a brown paper bag,
hurrying down along the line,
dreaming back to the stories we told
over the fire at suppertime…
“why did you come here?” they ask:
better than all the trouble over there.
leaving our manifestoes aside,
here we are looking for dictionaries.
here we hide within chaos & corruption,
hoping that another kind of ear
will listen to us now.
when there is work to be done,
always more than enough of us
pushing & shoving in line,
putting on confident grin,
anxious to please…
ii. crossing borders
mosquitoes & fleas
distracting Basho
from his thousand years'
contemplation, crossing
barriers toward the north,
remembering all the
old soldiers’ dreams.
or traveling north in 1781,
with Capitán Rivera, the
original inhabitants of L.A.
all got across the desert, the
deadly boundary… came to
San Gabriel Mission & walked
to the site of the new pueblo.
this border crossed
for thousands of years,
open to trade, to wanderers
across the continent:
artifacts from Gulf of Mexico
found among remains
of Chumash & Tongva rancherias…
this border where
(in groups or alone)
thousands hide out in
dry brush & burning sand,
in hostile desert land,
avoiding Border Patrol &
Minuteman fanatics
hurrying north to the city:
becoming workers, part of
our community.
we’d cross at Laredo & then
at Brownsville, when I was
a child on tourist visa, every
6 months a long ride to the
border from the Mexican
interior, we often crossed at
night, the Rio Bravo far below
& entering the strange U.S.A.
for a few days, it was always
for a few days, it was always
a pleasure for me to return
to the south, the loosening
of my breath, the lightening
of my mind…
from Gaza they have crossed
en masse into Egyptian towns
from Haiti crossed in starving
crowds into Dominican
hostility, from Africa to Spain,
from Tibet into Nepal,
from Hungary to Austria,
from Guatemala into Chiapas,
from Russia into China…
in 1689, Matsuo Basho, one of
the great Japanese haiku poets,
undertook a journey north,
to the interior… he and a
companion crossed many barriers
designed, apparently, to keep out
invaders from the north.
but guards took precautions against
people coming from the south, too.
“Beyond Narugo Hot Springs,
we crossed Shitomae Barrier and
entered Dewa Province. Almost
no one comes this way, and the
barrier guards were suspicious,
slow, and thorough. Delayed, we
climbed a steep mountain in
falling dark and took refuge in
a guard shack. A heavy storm
pounded the shack with wind &
rain for 3 miserable days
Eaten alive by lice & fleas
now the horse
beside my pillow pees.”
iii. exile
“What exile fleeing from his native
land would ever flee his own mind?”
Horace, quoted by Benjamin
crossing the delicate filigree borders
of sanity, coasting along impossible
corridors, tunnels: searching for
new continents.
caught in an environment which
resists him, a victim instead of prime
mover, having crossed from relative
influence into isolation, from
familiarity into confusion.
all of the stories & multiple proof
of the refugee’s correctness falling on
eaf ears, mostly nobody cares, not
able to imagine what he sees so clearly,
over the years it fades into parables &
outlines.
crossing from health into mystery, no
guarantees in the night of exile, false
comforts better than fear and its
physical component.
crossing from health into mystery, no
guarantees in the night of exile, false
comforts better than fear and its
physical component.
no longer able to seek comfort in old
documents, old books, piled-up
treasures & mementoes, all of it left
behind, turning vague in memory.
living in occupied territory, California,
the whole southwest U.S., along with
the lands of my ancestors, Canada,
Scotland, Ireland all subjugated lands,
the look over the shoulder, the glance
in the mirror, special laws for special
people.
iv. drawing lines
drawing our lines,
surveys, initiatives,
the boundaries of
personal relationships…
dreamt of maps
cutting up headlands,
narrow plots running from
sea up to the mountains,
dividing up public land.
the personal divided-up,
work vs. political vs. married
vs. drinking vs. poet…
transformations, metamorphoses
surveillancing, following
each change, reporting,
drawing conclusions with
charts & graphs,
records of tapped phone-calls,
brain scans, x-rays,
alpha-rays, comparative
development, behavioral
statistics…
the refugees pouring across
borders, breathing heavy
in relief, burst into
new songs,
as people in the ancient
darkness huddled together
holding onto each other,
awaiting the first dawn,
propped up the sky out of
the darkness, opened up
the border between
earth & heaven.
v. limits
I’ll sing all the songs
because all of the people
are inside of me now,
crossed all of the borders
opening the way…
& we know about strange leaves
& trees & certain kinds of
water which don’t exist
on earth, as oxygen from
meteors is differe
our oxygen…
the borders of sleep, of
the dream. the borders
of climates, of altitudes.
gathering all data in
a net, fishing in the
waters of mystery.
crossing borders as
birds & beetles do.
machines, the parts &
wheels of the social
machine trundled across
bridges & the borders
of perception, limits of
intelligible life, so small
it can’t be seen in microscope,
so big it’s something other than
alive…
vi. arriving
that they were always wandering
across borders to get here,
mountain people, adventurers,
coming in across the desert, finding
the San Gabriel Valley’s ranchos
just in time to keep from dying of
thirst or hunger, coming through
raging heat Mojave & Sonora deserts
into fields & forests, California,
the golden valleys…
so that they kept on coming,
one by one, over all the years before
I got here, 30 years or so ago, when
they were still coming, getting off the
boxcars in the big wide yard there
next to the L.A. River, up into
the light of the Tip Top Liquor Store
at San Fernando Road and Verdugo,
eyes bent away from our faces,
brushing the dust off of their clothes,
pushing their hair back away from
their faces, asking for directions
or a little bit of spare change to
make a telephone call or buy a
drink to celebrate their arrival.
FINALLY
A poem for Dr. Stephanie Alvarez
by Leslie Ross-Cantu
I grew up last year
At Autumn’s death
Just before Winter’s breath
In a formidable nation
I grew up last year
In the middle of class
Talking about Gregorio Cortez
Cesar Chavez and Dolores Huerta
I grew up last year
Understanding
My people
My people-shouldn’t settle for crumbs
I grew up last year
Stephanie brought me to life
From a dark silent grave
In stolen lands
I grew up last year
When I figured out
I am La Mestiza
The pocha that barely gets by
I grew up last year
When I heard la voz de Aztlan
Talking about Latinos
Rising up from the barrios
I grew up last year
Putting the puzzle together
Patching up old wounds
With a lump in my throat
I grew up last year
No longer able to ignore reality
And now I just can’t tame
This wild tongue
I grew up last year
With a barbed wire
Splitting my heart in half
Dissection. Introspection. Coevolution.
I grew up last year
When I realized
My life is worth so much more than theirs
Because of that existential border
I grew up last year
Realizing that we’re all the same
People
Gente de sangre Malinche
I grew up last year
Overcoming boundaries
And cycles of inequality
I grew up last year
…and found my identity
Absence
by Tom Sheldon
Your silhouette fades into the woods
Tracks evaporate in a swale of snow
Dissolving like air or water
Silence tied to your hair
Lingering in a drum beat of wings
Leaving an imprint
A labyrinth of words wash me
a river winding on.
A memory now a shadow,
rest your dream in mine.
Buried in the past
but here I am again.
Remembering your simplicity
your memory becomes my sanctuary
I have the gift of fate
of your sweat stained sage,
2/1/11© Copyright
Tom Sheldon February 2011
LEANING INTO THE WIND
by Alma Luz Villanueva
Old union organizer, president
of the Ironworkers, your son
(my first husband, teenager) was
terrified of you- the night
we came to dinner, my three children,
your son, after the gourmet
meal cooked by your non-
complaining wife (who tied your
boy with clothesline, gagged, for
hours, too much trouble), you
sat by yourself, your favorite
chair, your wife bringing your
whiskey on the rocks, you
sat alone, your son watching
something on TV quietly, in awe
of your presence, my kids teasing
each other, undisciplined monsters
(your hooded eyes say)- I can't
help myself, I come and sit
next to you, the other chair
(reserved for men, clearly),
silence, shock, especially your
twenty-six year old son, also
an Ironworker, who walks
those high wind beams, leaning
into the wind to not fall, sensing
when the wind will change direction,
but your son is not the president,
you are, so I ask the obvious-
"How did you become president of
the Ironworkers?" You glare at
me, I hold your gaze, waiting-
"Mary, bring another whiskey, the
bottle!" She brings it, confused-
"Give it to her, she wants to talk,"
you laugh loudly, no kindness.
"Do you drink whiskey?"
"I think your son would like one," I
see he's edged close on the couch,
silently, a beaten dog/boy/dog.
"He can get his own." The bottle
between us- refills his glass,
I sip mine- "Before unions men
just lined up for work, the bosses
picking only the youngest, the strongest,
and if you worked your youth out
for them, what did they care,"
you boom, drowning out the TV,
my three kids stop to listen,
especially the older two. "I saw
men of thirty with families, no job,
kids starving, so when I came
to this West Coast, I got into
construction, Ironworkers, bad pay,
bad hiring, the bosses still in
charge, the no good bastards."
Your eyes dare me to correct
your language, my kid's eyes
wide- I stand to refill my glass-
"Bring more ice, Mary!" you command,
and pick up the bottle, motioning me
to sit- the ice in a bowl, you refill
my glass. "So me, a French Canadian
who loved the high beams, my
Cree grandma said us Indians
know the wind... (edge of gentleness,
memory) ...I got good being an
Ironworker here on the West Coast,
got to know the Longshore Harry
Bridges..." Your son stands up to
fill his glass, you let him, not
looking at him once- "I saw
men beaten bloody, some
dead, the bosses hired
thugs when we tried to
unionize and when the scabs
came through our lines we
beat them bloody, some
dead, they had families, too
bad, time for unions, real
pay for real work no matter how
old you are, ya get me?"
I nod yes, sip my whiskey.
"The no good bastards wouldn't
be picking and choosing who would
work, who wouldn't work, so
Harry Bridges, the Longshoremen,
the unions took over
San Francisco, the West Coast,
damn right, shipped those
scabs home in meat lockers
and now a man earns a decent
living." "And women, teachers,
nurses, Teamsters," I add.
He holds my impudent gaze- "Yeah,
women too, that's right, we all
got families, we all
got to work for a livin',
so we got the bastards out,
got the unions in, and it
wasn't easy, someone your
age (you slice an angry glance
at your son) wouldn't
know." You pour me more
whiskey, I sip, your son
doesn't dare ask for more, he
will take off for a week or
two and drink, if I'm lucky
I'll beat him to the pay
check, I'm twenty-four with
three children, going to community
college- "You got to know the wind,
ya get me?" Years later you would
weave a blanket of beautiful design,
after you retired, your wife gave
it to me, a gift from you.
I gave it to my son, your youngest
grandchild, a gentle man, a man
of heart- I've not ever crossed
a picket line, my older children
joined me with the Farm Workers on
the streets of San Francisco years
later, still they struggle, still
the racism, and today Wisconsin's
governor stripped its unions of bargaining
rights, Arizona/Colorado with
their racist laws- but I remember
you, a man who wove
the first bloody union
blanket, ferociously fought
for with human lives, that
families wouldn't starve as
the no good bastards chose
the youngest, the strongest,
to work that day, fuck
the rest- yes, I get you,
Remie Goulet, I really
get you, the way the wind
blows, lean into it, carry a
warm blanket.
*In memory of the General Strike,
Bloody Thursday, July 5, 1935,
the Mission, San Francisco.
Remie Goulet worked on the Golden
Gate Bridge, where he also said
Ironworkers fell to their deaths
building it, that wind. And to the
demonstrations in Wisconsin, now.
Alma Luz Villanueva
(From the Mission District)
San Miguel de Allende, Mexico
March 2011
A Poem for the Upcoming Anniversary of the War
I’m a mother and an old Vietnam war protestor, and when we invaded Iraq, it was like a rerun. I’m doing research now for a novel on that war at home and in Vietnam, and watching documentaries has been horrifying to hear the exact same rhetoric, same exact words and everything. Two years ago, we faced the sixth anniversary of the war. I wrote this poem. In eleven days, we’ll face the eighth anniversary of the war and still going on as if nothing were happening.
MARCH 19, 2009
by Linda Rodriguez
The sun is out. The naked ladies are up.
Tulips are trying to tell me winter is over.
I know better. I know how unstable this time is,
an untimely freeze always imminent.
Death is always waiting in the deep shadows
or where there are no shadows in the sun and sand
except those thrown by boys who want to hide in them
from the broiling heat and sullen stares and suicide bombs.
In home gardens, birds are descending after rainstorms.
Worms are being killed. It is the nature of things.
Something is being told in the woods.
If you listen, the wind will tell you,
the same wind that flings stray newspapers
and plastic bags around the neighborhood.
No one wants to hear the wind.
No one wants to hear that wind.
There is a chill edge to the wind
as it chatters through the trees.
Even on new spring days,
bad news travels through the air.
There are boxes draped in flags coming
through the air
and boys with hands and feet blown off.
No one wants to hear the wind.
No one wants to hear that wind.
Everything’s betrayed and traded.
Listen.
Something is being told in the woods.
The dark is always waiting.
You have to know the sun is there
before it exists. You have to bring it into being.
Stand in the cold dark and offer corn
to the four sacred directions,
east and blue and morning,
south and red and summer,
west and yellow and wisdom,
north and white and death.
Sing hey ya. Let the wind carry your song
to the east to welcome the dawn.
That wind, pure and crisp.
No whisper of blood oiling sand.
No smell of ammunition and fuel.
That wind on which the dawn comes riding.
The world is waiting for you to know.
The sun is there. Bring it into being.
Listen to the blue wind.
Listen to that wind.
Something is being told in the woods.
All On-Line Floricanto poems © the respective poets unless stated otherwise.
BIOS
1. "Inmigrantes" by Don Newton
2. "Finally" by Leslie Ross-Cantu
3. "Absence" by Tom Sheldon
4. "Leaning Into The Wind" by Alma Luz Villanueva
5. "March 19, 2009" by Linda Rodriguez
DON NEWTON, poeta
- Publication of individual poems in small magazines from 1960s on
- 1980s-1990s: Poetry readings at Arroyo Books in Highland Park, under auspices of CON SAFOS Magazine, which we were trying to revive
- 1980s on: Poetry readings at Centro Aztlan, Ave. 50 Studio, Rock Rose Gallery, Imix Bookstore, 33 1/3 Books as well as Brand Books (Glendale).
- 1995: Publication of THE BEGINNING OF THE WORLD, a book of picture-poems based on myths and legends of the Tongva (Gabrielino) people…
1995-2004: Showed slide-show of my book at libraries throughout L.A. County
- 2004: Participated in Printmaking Workshop at Self Help Graphics in East L.A., where I began printing hand-made books
2004; Self Help Graphics Advanced Poetry Workshop
2005-2010: La Palabra poetry readings at Avenue 50 Studio, Highland Park
Leslie Cantú
A second generation Mexican-American growing up along the Texas-Mexico
border, Leslie Cantú is a fairly young writer. She is inspired to
write by women; powerful women like Gloria Anzaldua, Sandra Cisneros,
Laura Esquivel, Lorna Dee Cervantes and Carmen Tafolla who have
significantly contributed to Mexican-American literature. Cantú is a
poet and fictional writer whose work draws on the power from
political, economic and societal issues that plague Latin@s surviving
in America today. It is clearly evident through her writing that she
is constantly searching to give meaning and definition, through her
writing, to what life is like growing up and surviving as a double
minority-a women and a Latina.
Cantú is months away from obtaining a Bachelor’s degree in English at
the University of Texas Pan American where she also holds a minor in
Sociology and Mexican-American studies. She remains active on campus
by serving as an officer of the Mexican-American studies club. In the
near future, Cantú will work towards a law degree and specialize in
immigration law.
Tom Sheldon
I’m Tom Sheldon, I was born in New Mexico on 9 Dec 1958, and come from a large Hispanic family. As far as my own personal history in Art goes, it is brief. I have always appreciated the gift of creating since I was young. I like all mediums and love (Southwestern) nature and organic based topics. While I have had little in the way of formal training and education, I've enjoyed a modicum of success, mostly in drawing/drafting. I enjoy photography and now I'm beginning to see photography as a medium rather than just a tool.
My work has shown in local galleries, as well as the Museum of Natural History here,and I have won art competitions at the State Fair level. I also love to write poetry.
Alma Luz Villanueva
Alma Luz Villanueva was raised in the Mission District, San Francisco, by her Yaqui grandmother, Jesus Villanueva- she was a curandera/healer from Sonora, Mexico. Without Jesus no poetry, no stories, no memory...
Author of eight books of poetry, most recently, 'Soft Chaos' (2009). A few poetry anthologies: 'The Best American Poetry, 1996,' 'Unsettling America,' 'A Century of Women's Poetry,' 'Prayers For A Thousand Years, Inspiration from Leaders & Visionaries Around The World.' Three novels: 'The Ultraviolet Sky,' 'Naked Ladies,' 'Luna's California Poppies,' and the short story collection, 'Weeping Woman, La Llorona and Other Stories.' Some fiction anthologies: '500 Great Books by Women, From The Thirteenth Century,' 'Caliente, The Best Erotic Writing From Latin America,' 'Coming of Age in The 21st Century,' 'Sudden Fiction Latino.' The poetry and fiction has been published in textbooks from grammar to university, and is used in the US and abroad as textbooks. Has taught in the MFA in creative writing program at Antioch University, Los Angeles, for the past twelve years. And is the mother of four, wonderful, grown human beings.
Alma Luz Villanueva now lives in San Miguel de Allende, Mexico, for the past six years, traveling the ancient trade routes to return to teach, and visit family and friends, QUE VIVA!! And taking trips throughout Mexico, working on a novel in progress, always the poetry, memory.
www.almaluzvillanueva.com
Linda Rodriguez
Linda Rodriguez has published two books of poetry, Heart’s Migration (Tia Chucha Press, 2009), winner of the 2010 Thorpe Menn Award for Literary Excellence, and Skin Hunger, (Potpourri Publications, 1995, Scapegoat Press, 2007). Her novel, Every Secret Thing, is a finalist for the Malice Domestic First Book Award. She received the 2010 Inspiration Award from the KC Arts Fund, the 2009 Elvira Cordero Cisneros Award from the Macondo Foundation, and the 2009 Midwest Voices and Visions Award from the Alliance of Artists Communities and the Joyce Foundation and has been both a Ragdale Fellow and a Macondo Fellow. She is the vice-president of the Latino Writers Collective, founder/co-coordinator of the Kansas City Women Writers Reading Series, a founding board member of The Writers Place, and has published poetry and fiction in numerous journals and anthologies. Her poems have been broadcast on The Writers Almanac with Garrison Keillor (NPR), Arts Round-Up KCUR-FM in Kansas City, and she has been interviewed and read her poetry on Proyecto Latina (http://proyectolatina.org/?p=707), KC Connections KCUR-FM, Talking Earth KBOO-FM in Portland, and New Letters on the Air (NPR). She is currently working on a book of poetry based on teachings from her Cherokee grandmother, a novel, and a co-edited collection of essays by mixed-blood women writers.
2. "Finally" by Leslie Ross-Cantu
3. "Absence" by Tom Sheldon
4. "Leaning Into The Wind" by Alma Luz Villanueva
5. "March 19, 2009" by Linda Rodriguez
INMIGRANTES
by Don Newton
i. inmigrantes
underlying murmur,
in Spanish but also,
(trying to listen across
noise of the marketplace),
in Armenian, Korean, Russian
perhaps Aramaic?
the class struggle happening
right here out in the light of day
-- perfectly clear & sunny,
in spite of predictions of rain.
underlying gestures, glances,
her eyes brush past mine
as we turn a corner, each of us
following out our delimited path,
by law/ which side of the street
which lane to turn from…
“Down by Law” (whose laws
are these?) …determined by law
STEP ON A LINE YOU
BREAK YOUR MOTHER’S SPINESTEP ON A CRACK
BREAK YOUR MOTHER’S BACK
the caverns of the body trembling
haunted by these ordinances.
when they’d had enough of the
Chinese laborers,
nothing stopped their deportations,
banned after the railroads
were finished…
when the braceros
finished with their harvest,
off they went, no law protected them.
it’s happening today, even if
denials & evasions write
the text for so-called
news: at Pilgrim’s Pride,
at the tuna canneries
sudden raids come
just before payday:
no law defends our
working people, any statement
can & will be used against you…
crossing from wet to dry, over or
under the walls, carrying everything
in a bulging sack…
got my stuff in a brown paper bag,
hurrying down along the line,
dreaming back to the stories we told
over the fire at suppertime…
“why did you come here?” they ask:
better than all the trouble over there.
leaving our manifestoes aside,
here we are looking for dictionaries.
here we hide within chaos & corruption,
hoping that another kind of ear
will listen to us now.
when there is work to be done,
always more than enough of us
pushing & shoving in line,
putting on confident grin,
anxious to please…
ii. crossing borders
mosquitoes & fleas
distracting Basho
from his thousand years'
contemplation, crossing
barriers toward the north,
remembering all the
old soldiers’ dreams.
or traveling north in 1781,
with Capitán Rivera, the
original inhabitants of L.A.
all got across the desert, the
deadly boundary… came to
San Gabriel Mission & walked
to the site of the new pueblo.
this border crossed
for thousands of years,
open to trade, to wanderers
across the continent:
artifacts from Gulf of Mexico
found among remains
of Chumash & Tongva rancherias…
this border where
(in groups or alone)
thousands hide out in
dry brush & burning sand,
in hostile desert land,
avoiding Border Patrol &
Minuteman fanatics
hurrying north to the city:
becoming workers, part of
our community.
we’d cross at Laredo & then
at Brownsville, when I was
a child on tourist visa, every
6 months a long ride to the
border from the Mexican
interior, we often crossed at
night, the Rio Bravo far below
& entering the strange U.S.A.
for a few days, it was always
for a few days, it was always
a pleasure for me to return
to the south, the loosening
of my breath, the lightening
of my mind…
from Gaza they have crossed
en masse into Egyptian towns
from Haiti crossed in starving
crowds into Dominican
hostility, from Africa to Spain,
from Tibet into Nepal,
from Hungary to Austria,
from Guatemala into Chiapas,
from Russia into China…
in 1689, Matsuo Basho, one of
the great Japanese haiku poets,
undertook a journey north,
to the interior… he and a
companion crossed many barriers
designed, apparently, to keep out
invaders from the north.
but guards took precautions against
people coming from the south, too.
“Beyond Narugo Hot Springs,
we crossed Shitomae Barrier and
entered Dewa Province. Almost
no one comes this way, and the
barrier guards were suspicious,
slow, and thorough. Delayed, we
climbed a steep mountain in
falling dark and took refuge in
a guard shack. A heavy storm
pounded the shack with wind &
rain for 3 miserable days
Eaten alive by lice & fleas
now the horse
beside my pillow pees.”
iii. exile
“What exile fleeing from his native
land would ever flee his own mind?”
Horace, quoted by Benjamin
crossing the delicate filigree borders
of sanity, coasting along impossible
corridors, tunnels: searching for
new continents.
caught in an environment which
resists him, a victim instead of prime
mover, having crossed from relative
influence into isolation, from
familiarity into confusion.
all of the stories & multiple proof
of the refugee’s correctness falling on
eaf ears, mostly nobody cares, not
able to imagine what he sees so clearly,
over the years it fades into parables &
outlines.
crossing from health into mystery, no
guarantees in the night of exile, false
comforts better than fear and its
physical component.
crossing from health into mystery, no
guarantees in the night of exile, false
comforts better than fear and its
physical component.
no longer able to seek comfort in old
documents, old books, piled-up
treasures & mementoes, all of it left
behind, turning vague in memory.
living in occupied territory, California,
the whole southwest U.S., along with
the lands of my ancestors, Canada,
Scotland, Ireland all subjugated lands,
the look over the shoulder, the glance
in the mirror, special laws for special
people.
iv. drawing lines
drawing our lines,
surveys, initiatives,
the boundaries of
personal relationships…
dreamt of maps
cutting up headlands,
narrow plots running from
sea up to the mountains,
dividing up public land.
the personal divided-up,
work vs. political vs. married
vs. drinking vs. poet…
transformations, metamorphoses
surveillancing, following
each change, reporting,
drawing conclusions with
charts & graphs,
records of tapped phone-calls,
brain scans, x-rays,
alpha-rays, comparative
development, behavioral
statistics…
the refugees pouring across
borders, breathing heavy
in relief, burst into
new songs,
as people in the ancient
darkness huddled together
holding onto each other,
awaiting the first dawn,
propped up the sky out of
the darkness, opened up
the border between
earth & heaven.
v. limits
I’ll sing all the songs
because all of the people
are inside of me now,
crossed all of the borders
opening the way…
& we know about strange leaves
& trees & certain kinds of
water which don’t exist
on earth, as oxygen from
meteors is differe
our oxygen…
the borders of sleep, of
the dream. the borders
of climates, of altitudes.
gathering all data in
a net, fishing in the
waters of mystery.
crossing borders as
birds & beetles do.
machines, the parts &
wheels of the social
machine trundled across
bridges & the borders
of perception, limits of
intelligible life, so small
it can’t be seen in microscope,
so big it’s something other than
alive…
vi. arriving
that they were always wandering
across borders to get here,
mountain people, adventurers,
coming in across the desert, finding
the San Gabriel Valley’s ranchos
just in time to keep from dying of
thirst or hunger, coming through
raging heat Mojave & Sonora deserts
into fields & forests, California,
the golden valleys…
so that they kept on coming,
one by one, over all the years before
I got here, 30 years or so ago, when
they were still coming, getting off the
boxcars in the big wide yard there
next to the L.A. River, up into
the light of the Tip Top Liquor Store
at San Fernando Road and Verdugo,
eyes bent away from our faces,
brushing the dust off of their clothes,
pushing their hair back away from
their faces, asking for directions
or a little bit of spare change to
make a telephone call or buy a
drink to celebrate their arrival.
FINALLY
A poem for Dr. Stephanie Alvarez
by Leslie Ross-Cantu
I grew up last year
At Autumn’s death
Just before Winter’s breath
In a formidable nation
I grew up last year
In the middle of class
Talking about Gregorio Cortez
Cesar Chavez and Dolores Huerta
I grew up last year
Understanding
My people
My people-shouldn’t settle for crumbs
I grew up last year
Stephanie brought me to life
From a dark silent grave
In stolen lands
I grew up last year
When I figured out
I am La Mestiza
The pocha that barely gets by
I grew up last year
When I heard la voz de Aztlan
Talking about Latinos
Rising up from the barrios
I grew up last year
Putting the puzzle together
Patching up old wounds
With a lump in my throat
I grew up last year
No longer able to ignore reality
And now I just can’t tame
This wild tongue
I grew up last year
With a barbed wire
Splitting my heart in half
Dissection. Introspection. Coevolution.
I grew up last year
When I realized
My life is worth so much more than theirs
Because of that existential border
I grew up last year
Realizing that we’re all the same
People
Gente de sangre Malinche
I grew up last year
Overcoming boundaries
And cycles of inequality
I grew up last year
…and found my identity
Absence
by Tom Sheldon
Your silhouette fades into the woods
Tracks evaporate in a swale of snow
Dissolving like air or water
Silence tied to your hair
Lingering in a drum beat of wings
Leaving an imprint
A labyrinth of words wash me
a river winding on.
A memory now a shadow,
rest your dream in mine.
Buried in the past
but here I am again.
Remembering your simplicity
your memory becomes my sanctuary
I have the gift of fate
of your sweat stained sage,
2/1/11© Copyright
Tom Sheldon February 2011
LEANING INTO THE WIND
by Alma Luz Villanueva
Old union organizer, president
of the Ironworkers, your son
(my first husband, teenager) was
terrified of you- the night
we came to dinner, my three children,
your son, after the gourmet
meal cooked by your non-
complaining wife (who tied your
boy with clothesline, gagged, for
hours, too much trouble), you
sat by yourself, your favorite
chair, your wife bringing your
whiskey on the rocks, you
sat alone, your son watching
something on TV quietly, in awe
of your presence, my kids teasing
each other, undisciplined monsters
(your hooded eyes say)- I can't
help myself, I come and sit
next to you, the other chair
(reserved for men, clearly),
silence, shock, especially your
twenty-six year old son, also
an Ironworker, who walks
those high wind beams, leaning
into the wind to not fall, sensing
when the wind will change direction,
but your son is not the president,
you are, so I ask the obvious-
"How did you become president of
the Ironworkers?" You glare at
me, I hold your gaze, waiting-
"Mary, bring another whiskey, the
bottle!" She brings it, confused-
"Give it to her, she wants to talk,"
you laugh loudly, no kindness.
"Do you drink whiskey?"
"I think your son would like one," I
see he's edged close on the couch,
silently, a beaten dog/boy/dog.
"He can get his own." The bottle
between us- refills his glass,
I sip mine- "Before unions men
just lined up for work, the bosses
picking only the youngest, the strongest,
and if you worked your youth out
for them, what did they care,"
you boom, drowning out the TV,
my three kids stop to listen,
especially the older two. "I saw
men of thirty with families, no job,
kids starving, so when I came
to this West Coast, I got into
construction, Ironworkers, bad pay,
bad hiring, the bosses still in
charge, the no good bastards."
Your eyes dare me to correct
your language, my kid's eyes
wide- I stand to refill my glass-
"Bring more ice, Mary!" you command,
and pick up the bottle, motioning me
to sit- the ice in a bowl, you refill
my glass. "So me, a French Canadian
who loved the high beams, my
Cree grandma said us Indians
know the wind... (edge of gentleness,
memory) ...I got good being an
Ironworker here on the West Coast,
got to know the Longshore Harry
Bridges..." Your son stands up to
fill his glass, you let him, not
looking at him once- "I saw
men beaten bloody, some
dead, the bosses hired
thugs when we tried to
unionize and when the scabs
came through our lines we
beat them bloody, some
dead, they had families, too
bad, time for unions, real
pay for real work no matter how
old you are, ya get me?"
I nod yes, sip my whiskey.
"The no good bastards wouldn't
be picking and choosing who would
work, who wouldn't work, so
Harry Bridges, the Longshoremen,
the unions took over
San Francisco, the West Coast,
damn right, shipped those
scabs home in meat lockers
and now a man earns a decent
living." "And women, teachers,
nurses, Teamsters," I add.
He holds my impudent gaze- "Yeah,
women too, that's right, we all
got families, we all
got to work for a livin',
so we got the bastards out,
got the unions in, and it
wasn't easy, someone your
age (you slice an angry glance
at your son) wouldn't
know." You pour me more
whiskey, I sip, your son
doesn't dare ask for more, he
will take off for a week or
two and drink, if I'm lucky
I'll beat him to the pay
check, I'm twenty-four with
three children, going to community
college- "You got to know the wind,
ya get me?" Years later you would
weave a blanket of beautiful design,
after you retired, your wife gave
it to me, a gift from you.
I gave it to my son, your youngest
grandchild, a gentle man, a man
of heart- I've not ever crossed
a picket line, my older children
joined me with the Farm Workers on
the streets of San Francisco years
later, still they struggle, still
the racism, and today Wisconsin's
governor stripped its unions of bargaining
rights, Arizona/Colorado with
their racist laws- but I remember
you, a man who wove
the first bloody union
blanket, ferociously fought
for with human lives, that
families wouldn't starve as
the no good bastards chose
the youngest, the strongest,
to work that day, fuck
the rest- yes, I get you,
Remie Goulet, I really
get you, the way the wind
blows, lean into it, carry a
warm blanket.
*In memory of the General Strike,
Bloody Thursday, July 5, 1935,
the Mission, San Francisco.
Remie Goulet worked on the Golden
Gate Bridge, where he also said
Ironworkers fell to their deaths
building it, that wind. And to the
demonstrations in Wisconsin, now.
Alma Luz Villanueva
(From the Mission District)
San Miguel de Allende, Mexico
March 2011
A Poem for the Upcoming Anniversary of the War
I’m a mother and an old Vietnam war protestor, and when we invaded Iraq, it was like a rerun. I’m doing research now for a novel on that war at home and in Vietnam, and watching documentaries has been horrifying to hear the exact same rhetoric, same exact words and everything. Two years ago, we faced the sixth anniversary of the war. I wrote this poem. In eleven days, we’ll face the eighth anniversary of the war and still going on as if nothing were happening.
MARCH 19, 2009
by Linda Rodriguez
The sun is out. The naked ladies are up.
Tulips are trying to tell me winter is over.
I know better. I know how unstable this time is,
an untimely freeze always imminent.
Death is always waiting in the deep shadows
or where there are no shadows in the sun and sand
except those thrown by boys who want to hide in them
from the broiling heat and sullen stares and suicide bombs.
In home gardens, birds are descending after rainstorms.
Worms are being killed. It is the nature of things.
Something is being told in the woods.
If you listen, the wind will tell you,
the same wind that flings stray newspapers
and plastic bags around the neighborhood.
No one wants to hear the wind.
No one wants to hear that wind.
There is a chill edge to the wind
as it chatters through the trees.
Even on new spring days,
bad news travels through the air.
There are boxes draped in flags coming
through the air
and boys with hands and feet blown off.
No one wants to hear the wind.
No one wants to hear that wind.
Everything’s betrayed and traded.
Listen.
Something is being told in the woods.
The dark is always waiting.
You have to know the sun is there
before it exists. You have to bring it into being.
Stand in the cold dark and offer corn
to the four sacred directions,
east and blue and morning,
south and red and summer,
west and yellow and wisdom,
north and white and death.
Sing hey ya. Let the wind carry your song
to the east to welcome the dawn.
That wind, pure and crisp.
No whisper of blood oiling sand.
No smell of ammunition and fuel.
That wind on which the dawn comes riding.
The world is waiting for you to know.
The sun is there. Bring it into being.
Listen to the blue wind.
Listen to that wind.
Something is being told in the woods.
All On-Line Floricanto poems © the respective poets unless stated otherwise.
BIOS
1. "Inmigrantes" by Don Newton
2. "Finally" by Leslie Ross-Cantu
3. "Absence" by Tom Sheldon
4. "Leaning Into The Wind" by Alma Luz Villanueva
5. "March 19, 2009" by Linda Rodriguez
DON NEWTON, poeta
- Publication of individual poems in small magazines from 1960s on- 1980s-1990s: Poetry readings at Arroyo Books in Highland Park, under auspices of CON SAFOS Magazine, which we were trying to revive
- 1980s on: Poetry readings at Centro Aztlan, Ave. 50 Studio, Rock Rose Gallery, Imix Bookstore, 33 1/3 Books as well as Brand Books (Glendale).
- 1995: Publication of THE BEGINNING OF THE WORLD, a book of picture-poems based on myths and legends of the Tongva (Gabrielino) people…
1995-2004: Showed slide-show of my book at libraries throughout L.A. County
- 2004: Participated in Printmaking Workshop at Self Help Graphics in East L.A., where I began printing hand-made books
2004; Self Help Graphics Advanced Poetry Workshop
2005-2010: La Palabra poetry readings at Avenue 50 Studio, Highland Park
Leslie Cantú
A second generation Mexican-American growing up along the Texas-Mexico
border, Leslie Cantú is a fairly young writer. She is inspired to
write by women; powerful women like Gloria Anzaldua, Sandra Cisneros,
Laura Esquivel, Lorna Dee Cervantes and Carmen Tafolla who have
significantly contributed to Mexican-American literature. Cantú is a
poet and fictional writer whose work draws on the power from
political, economic and societal issues that plague Latin@s surviving
in America today. It is clearly evident through her writing that she
is constantly searching to give meaning and definition, through her
writing, to what life is like growing up and surviving as a double
minority-a women and a Latina.
Cantú is months away from obtaining a Bachelor’s degree in English at
the University of Texas Pan American where she also holds a minor in
Sociology and Mexican-American studies. She remains active on campus
by serving as an officer of the Mexican-American studies club. In the
near future, Cantú will work towards a law degree and specialize in
immigration law.
Tom Sheldon
I’m Tom Sheldon, I was born in New Mexico on 9 Dec 1958, and come from a large Hispanic family. As far as my own personal history in Art goes, it is brief. I have always appreciated the gift of creating since I was young. I like all mediums and love (Southwestern) nature and organic based topics. While I have had little in the way of formal training and education, I've enjoyed a modicum of success, mostly in drawing/drafting. I enjoy photography and now I'm beginning to see photography as a medium rather than just a tool.My work has shown in local galleries, as well as the Museum of Natural History here,and I have won art competitions at the State Fair level. I also love to write poetry.
Alma Luz Villanueva
Alma Luz Villanueva was raised in the Mission District, San Francisco, by her Yaqui grandmother, Jesus Villanueva- she was a curandera/healer from Sonora, Mexico. Without Jesus no poetry, no stories, no memory...Author of eight books of poetry, most recently, 'Soft Chaos' (2009). A few poetry anthologies: 'The Best American Poetry, 1996,' 'Unsettling America,' 'A Century of Women's Poetry,' 'Prayers For A Thousand Years, Inspiration from Leaders & Visionaries Around The World.' Three novels: 'The Ultraviolet Sky,' 'Naked Ladies,' 'Luna's California Poppies,' and the short story collection, 'Weeping Woman, La Llorona and Other Stories.' Some fiction anthologies: '500 Great Books by Women, From The Thirteenth Century,' 'Caliente, The Best Erotic Writing From Latin America,' 'Coming of Age in The 21st Century,' 'Sudden Fiction Latino.' The poetry and fiction has been published in textbooks from grammar to university, and is used in the US and abroad as textbooks. Has taught in the MFA in creative writing program at Antioch University, Los Angeles, for the past twelve years. And is the mother of four, wonderful, grown human beings.
Alma Luz Villanueva now lives in San Miguel de Allende, Mexico, for the past six years, traveling the ancient trade routes to return to teach, and visit family and friends, QUE VIVA!! And taking trips throughout Mexico, working on a novel in progress, always the poetry, memory.
www.almaluzvillanueva.com
Linda Rodriguez
Linda Rodriguez has published two books of poetry, Heart’s Migration (Tia Chucha Press, 2009), winner of the 2010 Thorpe Menn Award for Literary Excellence, and Skin Hunger, (Potpourri Publications, 1995, Scapegoat Press, 2007). Her novel, Every Secret Thing, is a finalist for the Malice Domestic First Book Award. She received the 2010 Inspiration Award from the KC Arts Fund, the 2009 Elvira Cordero Cisneros Award from the Macondo Foundation, and the 2009 Midwest Voices and Visions Award from the Alliance of Artists Communities and the Joyce Foundation and has been both a Ragdale Fellow and a Macondo Fellow. She is the vice-president of the Latino Writers Collective, founder/co-coordinator of the Kansas City Women Writers Reading Series, a founding board member of The Writers Place, and has published poetry and fiction in numerous journals and anthologies. Her poems have been broadcast on The Writers Almanac with Garrison Keillor (NPR), Arts Round-Up KCUR-FM in Kansas City, and she has been interviewed and read her poetry on Proyecto Latina (http://proyectolatina.org/?p=707), KC Connections KCUR-FM, Talking Earth KBOO-FM in Portland, and New Letters on the Air (NPR). She is currently working on a book of poetry based on teachings from her Cherokee grandmother, a novel, and a co-edited collection of essays by mixed-blood women writers.
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