Michael Sedano
What happens to a culture under attack? It responds one person at a time. Culture is an imaginary construct, your cultura comprises unnumbered gente casí just like you, individually and all at the same time. You are your cultura and You are under attack.
What to do?
You resist by existing, ser and estar. You talk to friends. You convene. You march. You Get Out The Vote.
If you're a poet, you also write poetry. A poem casts spells, forms a shield, expresses a response, charges words with power to charm all whom cultura touches.
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| foto:Charlotte McDonald, Oak Glen, CA 2017 |
La Bloga On-line Floricanto came out of nuestra cultura and the friendship between Francisco X. Alarcón and Michael Sedano. In 2010, Francisco had recently launched the Facebook poetry community Poets Responding to SB 1070. In the Fall that year, USC would hold a 3-day floricanto reuniting readers from the historic 1973 Festival de Flor y Canto. Sedano was organizing the reunion floricanto. Here was a confluence of opportunities.
As with any live event, only a tiny representation of artists were invited to read at USC. I invited the 1973 Veteranos I could locate, and they would have the first day. Through open call and conectas I put together a line-up of contemporary voices to read over two more days. In all, nearly 50 writers would perform for the live audience and video.
La Bloga enjoys access to a widely dispersed audience. Francisco tapped a near-infinite wellspring of poets responding. This created an imperative to be heard. Francisco and I agreed, La Bloga would publish sobresaliente work from Francisco's community.
Francisco's literary heirs, the Moderators of Poets Responding, manage the enormous number of submissions through the year, nominating five poets for a monthly, sometimes semi-monthly, La Bloga On-line Floricanto.
From the rich lode of 2017 On-line Floricanto poems, the Moderators of Poets Responding select ten poets' work as the Best Poems of 2017 La Bloga On-line Floricanto.
La Bloga On-Line Floricanto: Best Poems of 2017
Jolaoso Pretty Thunder, Amara T. Smith, Sonia Gutiérrez, Rolando Serna, Odilia Galván Rodríguez, Arnoldo García, Edward Vidaurre, Donny Jackson, Leticia Diaz Perez, Sharon Elliott
“Chariot” By Jolaoso Pretty Thunder”
“Take my hand” by Amara T. Smith
“From the Shovel to the Guitar” / “De la pala a la guitarra” By Sonia Gutiérrez
“The Wetback Only Wants to be Dry” By Rolando Serna
“Pieces of Dad’s Story” By Odilia Galván Rodríguez
“Quetzalcóatl, la revolución emplumada [excerpts]” By Arnoldo García
“Trouble… the Water” By Edward Vidaurre
“leave’ by Donny Jackson
“Charlottesville, My Place of Birth” By Leticia Diaz Perez
“My Father Was a Fisherman” By Sharon Elliott
To meet the poets scroll down after "My Father Was a Fisherman."
Chariot
by Jolaoso Pretty Thunder
Another one from the archives to share for Domestic Violence Awareness Month ~~
Can I carry on like 500 convicts, 25 to Life
Colder than ice, colder
Strap me down
How many men does it take
“You are vulgar,” they tell me
Requiem from the rivers
Sweet overflow
Dread washed in the sea
Aloes and shea couldn't ever
soften his edges
They took away my husband in chains
He used to bring me flowers that I swear
Were funeral arrangements
Perfume of camphor and
Formaldehyde
He waited too long for me to die
I outlived him
Barely
Slammed and tossed
I was free falling
He tried so hard to be a felon
a thousand times over
And succeeded
Vandalizing my interior first
With his
Steady hands
Moving like an executioner
He was so precise
And kept calling for the guillotine
To roll my head
I wasted away
The antique band vowed
Enslaved me
It hung around my finger, wrist
Then my neck
I stepped out of it one day
They named me feral
Said my prayers won’t reach God
Many said he was so humble
But I saw how he was
always so hungry
Insatiable
He got off easy
Take my hand
by Amara T. Smith
And from the darkness
the place of creation and infinite possibility
through great pressure
extreme pressure
a new reality will be born
take my hand....
From the Shovel to the Guitar
by Sonia Gutiérrez
My father never sat behind
The comfort of a desk,
Surrounded by imperfectly
Positioned books
And photographs,
To write poetry.
Instead, at fifty-three, my father
Understood the language
Of the unruly earth.
He tilled hectares handed down
To him—keeper of the earth.
At sixty, his fists
Loosened the grip
Of the master’s shovel.
His clumsy fingers
Looked at each other
And did what they had always
Wanted to do—
Tame the guitar’s strings,
But vynil strings tamed him.
My father never sat behind
The comfort of a desk,
Surrounded by imperfectly
Positioned books
And photographs,
To write poetry.
But now, at sixty-four
My father
Sings strums songs
of our tomorrows.
De la pala a la guitarra
por Sonia Gutiérrez
Mi padre nunca se sentó
Detrás de la comodidad de un escritorio,
Rodeado de libros
Y fotografías
Imperfectamente posicionadas,
Para escribir poesía.
En vez, a los cincuenta y tres, mi padre
Entendió el lenguaje
De la tierra revoltosa.
Araba tierras hectáreas heredadas
A él—cuidador de la tierra.
A los sesenta, sus puños
Soltaron el apretón
De la pala del patrón.
Sus dedos toscos
Se observaron uno al otro,
Y hicieron lo que siempre
Quisieron hacer—
Domar las cuerdas de la guitarra,
Pero las cuerdas de vinilo lo domaron a él.
Mi padre nunca se sentó
Detrás de la comodidad de un escritorio,
Rodeado de libros
Y fotografías
Imperfectamente posicionadas,
Para escribir poesía.
Pero ahora, mi padre
A los secenta y cuatro
Canta rasguea las canciones
de nuestros mañanas.
The Wetback Only Wants to be dry
by Rolando Serna
The wetback only wants to be dry
Their minds that are drowning
With the news
Of the felony, they have committed
What felony?
Well the illegal crossing of the Rio Grande River
More grave
Than the Italians, Germans, Japanese, Chinese, and Arabs.
That crossed an entire ocean
When will the day come, that they will finally dry?
It is not possible that the documents that my government gives them
Will be made from terrycloth
So, they can use it to dry themselves
The magic day of five years so they can finally begin to dry
Only four years is not enough time
Because the river water is permanently attached
To their backs for five years and nothing can dry it
The government, has trained the dogs
At the Falfurrias check point, to alert the immigration officers
When there is an illegal hiding. The dogs
Can tell the difference a Mexican American and an Illegal Mexican
Can that be possible? That an American military uniform be made
Out of magic cloth that will dry the wet-back?
This magic cloth will only dry their back after they return.
Return from where? Today they did not send you back to Mexico.
If you wear that uniform, they will send you to another country.
The wetback will dry their body and wet their minds with the bloody memories of
Assassins and if they sign the dotted line they won’t send them back home where it is safe.
I don’t remember if it is proper for a wetback to use the uniform of
My country that convicts them of being wetbacks
They rounded them up and gave them work
That pays $.12 cents an hour, $.88 cents per day
$19.20 per month
Minus 50% COST OF INCARCERATION
Minus cost of bar of soap
Their shoes, their exercise cloth, tooth paste
Cologne and food to survive during lock down
The prisons remind me of the old southern plantations where
White men would dictate what the blacks would do
What did they call the blacks in those days, was it slaves?
Because they worked all day
And when night fell they had not earned a single coin
To send their families, this government
Has not mentioned that no wetback can earn more than $.12 cents an hour
$.88 cents a day, $19.20 a month
If they can put all the wetbacks into prison
It will be possible too pay 48 wetbacks too work for a whole day
For what it would cost to pay a single person to work for one hour at $5.75an hour.
How can our government require all employers?
to pay their employees a minimum wage?
They should be leading by example
And start paying their new slaves the legal minimum wage.
The wetbacks that have been made into government slaves
When will they explain to the American citizens who are the owners of these companies?
Why don’t they have to follow the law of our country?
They should be fined $5000.00 for hiring wetbacks
And not paying them a fair and legal wage for their work.
how is it possible?
Those wetbacks are now responsible for terrorism.
When the terrorist entered through Canada
They also entered through airports in New York
And some we don’t know they entered through where ever they entered
And they blame the wetbacks
Because my people come to work
When was the day that we started?
To look like terrorists and when was
The day that we were implicated
In the deaths of our friends in those two towers?
When did they prepare to convert my people?
Into slaves for Unicore
The great corporation in all Federal Prisons, who demands that,
All prisoners will work or get acquainted with solitary confinement
When did the day come? That being a wetback?
Was converted into being a Slave?
It is not possible for me, not to be heard
It is also impossible not to take the truth into account.
A Fairytale maybe, but all this info is online under B.O.P.
There to read for you and me.
Pieces of Dad’s Story
by Odilia Galván Rodríguez
when you were told
leave or be taken out
at the threat
of a police baton
after you came home
a decorated soldier
from the Korean War
called a conflict
and you couldn’t find
a place to live
No Mexicans Allowed
in White neighborhoods
you protested
this was some years after
you loved
a woman you met
when she
was but a girl of 11
and said
she’s going to be my wife
one day
the same day
you walked away
from Brownsville at 13
an orphan
you met a trailero
called Gavilan
whom you’d seen before
(in a border bar
where every night
since your mother died
when you were 5
you and your brother
would pick up
your father
who’d get dead drunk
and drag him home
from there)
Gavilan stopped for you
on the road
listened to your story
took you
to Rancho La Yegua Alazana
where his mother
would raise you up
with two other orphan
grandsons of hers
until you would lie
about your age
enlist in the army
you were the son
of a beautiful woman
who played and taught
piano and school
she left you too early
then seven years later
your father
was found face up
in the Rio Bravo
you became a runaway
then a soldier
then a trainman
then a father
then a husband
then an ironman
un hombre de acero
you were haunted
by death and killing
you loved your four
children mothered
by a fierce woman
who had problems
you couldn’t solve
no matter how much
you loved her
you were thrown
far from them
but never forgot
you were a father
Quetzalcoatl, la revolución emplumada [excerpts]
by Arnoldo Garcia
I
Quetzalcóatl
regresó
este año
de turista
y se le expiró la visa
ahora es considerado
terrorista.
500 años sin
serpientes emplumadas
500s sin cielo
terrenal
Ahora sí tenemos
un quetzalcóatl
que es una bomba sagrada
que sólo quema
semillas
serpientes verdes
gusanitos
flores
y no humanos
ofrendas
de paz
y amor
entre los pueblos desarmados.
II
Quetzalcóatl
nació
en un hospital
sin esperar
a la partera
emergió
de su mamá
y luego luego
exigió
que cesara
el tiempo
porque ya llegó
el nuevo sol
III
Quetzalcóatl
pregunta
qué ritmo escogemos?
octubre
noviembre
cipactli
olin
ce atl
katún
qué raíz estiramos
qué color pintamos
dónde estea el centro
de la tierra
el downtown de la naturaleza
la X de xoxipili
el machete lunar
el ombligo sembrado
la esperanza
la semilla
para todas y
todos
o se marchita
nuestro tiempo?
IV
Quetzalcóatl
dice:
dónde están
los elotes explosivos
los frijoles fanáticos
el chile que chilla: "Organícense!"
los jacales de la ternura
la milpa ancestral
la montaña de agua
las malinches
verdes
aztlán guadalupana
dónde están
mis plumajes
mis lenguajes
guerrilleros
dónde
mis pueblos emplumados?
V
Quetzalcóatl
pregunta:
quién puso zapatos sobre la tierra?
quién construye un ataud de cemento
sobre las labores, la naturaleza?
quién bebe el agua de la vida
de los que no han nacido?
quién usa
los huesos,
las pieles,
las hojas
ancestrales
para gasolina?
y quién contamina las venas
con las penas industriales?
quién cortó las venas de la naturaleza
que inundaron y ahogaron
los pueblos lenguajes
las comunidades de lenguas
que con sus manos
pulieron troncos
para travesar mares estrellales.
O Aztlán, punto migrante
en la gran migración cósmica
de echar raíces
para crear tierras amplias
como corazones el tamaño de soles
ahora nosotras y nosotros
las y los que nacimos del movimiento terrenal
la comuna hecha de tierras y cielos
encontramos una tierra movil, migrante
para un pueblo migrante, cósmico
para un reino ingobernable
porque es inalterable
porque somos inalterables
el reino de la naturaleza
para desatarnos del ombligo lunar,
las cavernas del ser
el lugar de las garzas blanquísimas como el lodo
banderas móviles del viento
los corazones emplumados
con maizales
VI
Quetzalcóatl dice:
no todos los días aparezco
Hay semanas, sazones y generaciones enteras
que soy invisible
nadie me ve nadie me reconoce nadie me busca
mi existencia no califica
ni de colador de vientos
pero cuando llego a la frontera
me piden documentación
para verificar que existo
y que no soy invisible, ilegal
aparecido
mojado por la ciudadanía imperial
desplumado
deportado
desplazado
desnudo
destituido
desarmado
desesperado
nunca
derrotado
debilitado
desparramado
despachado
Quetzalcóatl
hoy es indio
vendedor ambulante
jornalero
trabajadora doméstica
madre soltera
zapatista
mam
pandillero
pistolero
preso
drogadicto
maestra de escuela secundaria
campesino
tatuajista
jaranero
migrante muerto en la frontera
todas y todos
somos
Quetzalcóatl...
Trouble... the Water
by Edward Vidaurre
When a poor kid sees clean clear water
he envisions a treasure, a hope
have you ever seen a murky
opaque wishing well?
When a woman kneels
along rivers edge to wash her sheets,
she thinks, a new beginning, a cleansing,
when was the last time you washed your clothes in oil?
When a thirsty stray dog walks for miles
along the gutters of this nation
wishing to quench his thirst
where does he find relief?
When have you seen
dogs or cats, blood dripping
from their jaw hair
laying on your front porch content?
It happens, blood and oil mix with mother earth’s tears, and
we watch as it happens. Soon we'll be drenched in oil
or blood, and water will be what we search for
at the bottom of our wishing wells.
leave
by Donny Jackson
thank you open window for this breeze laced with living it is not noise or music i like the exhale of tie-dyed sapphire and bruise indigo through the branches the most i was born here here in the swaddling dark even though my mother did not give birth to me here happy invention i am there is a dog just now i make a wish on its howl such a ringing chariot it is i must imagine ways to go because they want me gone because my mother didn’t bleed me here first
the pond in my room is called a mirror and i do not see a foreign object i see woman but i have never been a lucifer who relishes his story but forgot his name also means bringer of light he doesn’t want me here anymore the snap in the woods is something moving to where it wants to go i like this sound too i am not afraid even if it is coming toward me i have learned here how to be a home
there are two scents both remind me this is a forest one is the sweat of bolting animals the other gunpowder the devil is a hunter the devil is beginning to count us it should be funny because we did not count before it is not funny but the creek is giggling anyway each second it is a different creek with almost the same giggle because the rocks it licks across are the same except over time they slightly aren’t because the creek takes a little bit of rock with it each second eternal virgin maybe i can teach this breeze or my hair the language of creek spoken rush teach this breeze to take me with it little by little so i might steal away sand is a hidden where the devil can’t find me
and i say me when i mean we because with me here is my baby girl i say me meaning we as if she is the only thing i ever fully am wait i’m sure they were always already here but i’m only now hearing crickets but more than insects they echo like an exhausted clock whose wheezing tick puts me in mind of my father’s waning heart which is a failing close to death and that a yes to die the end i think of when my chest forgets its entire rise i know then i can be an inadequate breast if i don’t take in my faith deeper so as to push away the dizzy that i may see a night sky in my daughter she a sleeping promise a map of how to escape a forest her infant hand there open like window new as breath her tiny nails as clean and bright as nesting stars
Charlottesville, My Place of Birth
by Leticia Diaz Perez
Charlottesville
my place of birth
what have you done?
burning crosses 1963
white
colored
drinking fountain
mamá stands in line
--change lines!
change lines ma'am
you're in the wrong line, ma'am!-
everyone is staring at mamá
everyone is staring at her
confused
scared
new language
new country
she just looks down
trying hard not to make eye contact
several people chiming in
louder and louder
--change lines
change lines ma'am
you're in the wrong line, ma'am!-
everyone is staring at mamá
everyone is staring at her
Charlottesville
my place of birth
what have you done?
My father was a fisherman
by Sharon Elliott
My father was a fisherman
he could gut a rainbow trout
from stem to stern
fry it in butter
in a cast iron skillet
make you forget the bones
I do not call his name
My father was a carpenter
crafted tongue-in-groove decks from Douglas Fir
intricate boxes
bookshelves
playpens
and broken spirits
I do not call his name
My father was a lawyer
believed in truth
justice
the American way
could not leap anything
in a single bound
I do not call his name
My father was a dancer
taught me the foxtrot to Benny Goodman
my little feet standing on his shoes
sang me lullabyes
in sweet Spanish syllables
played no instrument but the radio
I do not call his name
My father was a war hero
returned smashed
grief stricken
terrified
his love of the sea intact
love for children impossible
I do not call his name
My father broke
his own heart
on the back of a
small being
who only wanted
to be cared for
Those more powerful and wise
have schooled me
I wish him well in the other world
that he created
I hope he learns his lessons
there will be no reentry
I do not call his name
La Bloga On-line Floricanto Best of 2017: Meet The Poets
“Chariot” By Jolaoso Pretty Thunder”
“Take my hand” by Amara T. Smith
“From the Shovel to the Guitar” / “De la pala a la guitarra” By Sonia Gutiérrez
“The Wetback Only Wants to be Dry” By Rolando Serna
“Pieces of Dad’s Story” By Odilia Galván Rodríguez
“Quetzalcóatl, la revolución emplumada [excerpts]” By Arnoldo García
“Trouble… the Water” By Edward Vidaurre
“leave’ by Donny Jackson
“Charlottesville, My Place of Birth” By Leticia Diaz Perez
“My Father Was a Fisherman” By Sharon Elliott
Can I carry on like 500 convicts, 25 to Life
Colder than ice, colder
Jolaoso Pretty Thunder
And from the darkness
the place of creation and infinite possibility
Amara T. Smith
-30-
My father never sat behind
The comfort of a desk,
Mi padre nunca se sentó
Detrás de la comodidad de un escritorio,
Sonia Gutiérrez
Currently, she is moderating Facebook’s Poets Responding, working on her manuscript, Sana Sana Colita de Rana, and completing her novel, Kissing Dreams from a Distance. Her libro artesano for children, El Lugar de los Alebrijes / The Place of Alebrijes (Nódulo Ediciones and *Asterisco Editora de Poesía) is forthcoming. Her poem, “Study Skills” / "Técnicas de estudios" / "Skills de Studying" appear in her manuscript, Legacy / Herencia. Francisco J. Bustos and Sonia Gutiérrez participated in Ilan Stavans's Don Quixote en Spanglish reading at the CECUT in Tijuana, Baja California.
The wetback only wants to be dry
Their minds that are drowning
Rolando Serna
when you were told
leave or be taken out
Odilia Galván Rodríguez
Galván Rodríguez has worked as an editor for various print media such as Matrix Women's News Magazine, Community Mural's Magazine, and Tricontinental Magazine in Havana, Cuba. She is currently, the editor of Cloud Women’s Quarterly Journal online; facilitates creative writing workshops nationally, and is director of Poets Responding to SB 1070, and Love and Prayers for Fukushima, both Facebook pages dedicated to bringing attention to social justice issues that affect the lives and wellbeing of many people and encouraging people to take action. Her poetry has appeared in numerous anthologies, and literary journals on and offline.
As an activist, she worked for the United Farm Workers of America AFL-CIO, The East Bay Institute for Urban Arts, has served on numerous boards and commissions, and is currently active in Women’s organizations whose mission it is to educate around environmental justice issues and disseminate an indigenous world view regarding the earth and people’s custodial relationship to it. Odilia Galván Rodríguez has a long and rich history of working for social justice in solidarity with activists from all ethnic groups.
foto:Eldrena-Douma
Quetzalcóatl
regresó
Arnoldo Garcia
When a poor kid sees clean clear water
he envisions a treasure, a hope
Edward Vidaurre
thank you open window for this breeze laced with living
Donny Jackson
Charlottesville
my place of birth
Leticia Diaz Perez
My father was a fisherman
he could gut a rainbow trout
Sharon Elliott
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