Melinda Palacio
a version of this column was originally published in the Santa Barbara Independent
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| Alexandra Lytton Regalado |
Last Sunday, poet Alexandra Lytton Regalado gave a salon style reading and discussion at the Ridley Tree House where she is in residence for the week, thanks to a collaboration with Santa Barbara City College and the Santa Barbara Museum of Art. I’ve had the opportunity to connect with Alex over the years, first at a writing conference and later through Swwim Everyday, an online journal for women-identifying poets where she is an editor.
It is no coincidence that her last name sounds like a regalo. As much as she is honored to reside in a home overlooking the mountains, during one of Santa Barbara’s many good weather weeks, she is a gift to the city. Don’t miss her free workshop on Thursday. I didn’t have much advance notice either or else I would have talked up her reading in previous columns. The salon’s intimate setting allowed the poet to speak to us candidly with what she called, confianza. She said Sunday’s event was like a gathering with friends.
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| Alexandra Lytton Regalado, Melinda Palacio, Michelle Detorie, Emma Trelles |
Alex describes herself as a double agent because she was born in El Salvador, left for Miami as a child during the country’s civil war and moved back to El Salvador as an adult. She has spent 24 years in Miami and 23 years in El Salvador. Now, she finds herself the matriarch of her family. As the adult in charge, she says she is comfortable being displaced.
Her words carry the weight of being the matriarch of her family as well as the eldest sister. With this responsibility comes a grit that Regalado says is natural for Salvadoran women who must have the quality to aguantar. She says being the keeper of memory is the hardest. When her sisters want to throw away old photographs of unknown people, Alex feels compelled to dig into memory and name those unknown faces. She says she has rescued many photographic memories from the garbage. As the matriarch of her family, she is sensitive to the fact that those saved photographs represent a grief for those who are only with us in photographs. For Regalado, grief is always expected. She describes grief as a way of life, an inheritance.
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| Alexandra Lytton Regalado |
Photography and the visual arts are dear to Regalado. She has a degree in visual art and photography. She is still fascinated by visiting museums. I loved the way in which she discussed how we translate a poem or song in the same way we might ascribe meaning to a painting in a museum The idea of honoring personal interpretation makes poetry more accessible to people, yet another form of poetry connection.
Alex said this isn’t her first residency, but her third; however, it is her first in California. “The house is full of light and has amazing views of mountains I can see from my desk window,” she said. It also helps that the Ridley-Tree House is in the same neighborhood as her sister-in-poetry, Emma Trelles, previous Poet Laureate of Santa Barbara. Alex has had a long-standing connection to Santa Barbara via Emma Trelles and the Mission Poetry Series, offering translations for the winning chapbooks for the Alta California chapbook prize; and this year she has served as judge for chapbook contest. “I’m honored that three Santa Barbara poet laureates attended the reading,” she said, “I’m looking forward to Thursday’s free workshop at SBCC from 3 to 5 pm at the Multimodal Lab—I’ve developed writing exercises centered around wonder and loss and a great reading packet of poems to share with the group.“
This week’s Poems feature Alexandra Lytton Regalado.
EL PUENTE QUE NOS UNE
I left red gladiolas on the altar.
Patrón Santiago Apostól, your horse is spattered with mud.
San Alejo, your shoes are worn.
Acompáñanos y líbranos de todo mal.
This bridge is long and rickety.
Rotten planks, rusted nails moan every step.
Who built this?
We’ve had to leap across all that collapsed.
I have no choice.
Can’t stop to ask why.
Can’t rest.
There are people in front of us and people behind us.
The way back would be just as long.
Best to keep going.
We must get to the other side.
Con cada paso mi sombra pierde color.
The dark water offers my face and I say to it:
This is my one and only life.
Already others are pressing up behind me.
And others have moved too far ahead.
When someone falls I cannot stop to help.
Even though some look like papá, but younger.
Mamá, but mixed with my daughter’s face.
An old friend who died long ago.
Patrón, who will save us?
Will I turn into a fish if I fall?
Will I be jolted awake?
THE GIANTESS
After Leonora Carrington’s painting
After Tracy K. Smith
Daughter, you need to grow into your body,
understand its dimensions,
how to move in this world.
I tell her this as she mops up water
from a glass she’s knocked over.
She is constantly bumping, tripping,
leaving frames askew.
She hides in hoodies & sweats,
but the girl is all legs, taller than me
at thirteen. I want her to live in her body,
not padded in layers of fabric, shoulders
hunched, veiled in long hair, behind
glasses. Push it back, I tell her,
I want to see your pretty face,
in the voice of all women, telling all
other women how to be seen.
She talks of feminism, tells her brothers
Mami will disown you if you are not
a feminist; quick to bark, quick to snap,
to claw, to sink in a tooth.
Arrows & daggers at her feet
& her moon head overcast, as she watches
wide-winged geese circle her body. A family
takes refuge between her ankles,
us or her future family. A lumen cape
hangs from her shoulders, but the egg—
all sun—she holds close to her chest.
How to be a tower, a pillar
of confidence, to inhabit that body
at thirteen, still surprised to be on this earth—
how is it that things work? Do you want to play
a game with me? She wants to skate on smooth
streets, go out into the world without someone
shadowing her. She wants to live in her skin.
I bite back my anger at her awkwardness,
show tenderness for the fawn stumbling
to find its legs, mewling kitten. She is far from
these helpless animals. Wolf at the foot
of her bed, she draws or reads, curtains drawn
in a freezing room. She doesn’t belong to me
as much as her body belongs to her.
I look up to her, rising stories
above me, rising above her own body
&—haven’t I seen her
elsewhere & before—she
is what waits to be said.
Alexandra Lytton Regalado is a Salvadoran-American author, editor, and translator. She is the author of Relinquenda, winner of the National Poetry Series (Beacon Press, 2022); the chapbook Piedra (La Chifurnia, 2022); and the poetry collection, Matria, the winner of the St. Lawrence Book Award (Black Lawrence Press, 2017).
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