Askew Poetry Recorded Video Footage of VCM Performance

 Melinda Palacio

Today's post is brought to you by Askew Poetry's YouTube channel. Check out the careful archive by Poet Laureate Phil Taggart. You'll be treated to poets who have read in Ventura County. In a previous post, I mentioned that I wrote a song for my poem How Fire Is a Story, Waiting, the title poem for the book by Tía Chucha Press. Margaret Garcia painted the cover portrait. When she included the portrait in her one woman retrospective at the Ventura County Museum, I knew I wanted to write a song for the work to be performed at the museum, alongside the vibrant paintings. Turning a poem into a song is trickier than it seems. What I had in mind was to write an original song on guitar, based on the poem. Poets sometimes add musical accompaniment to their poems, but this situation was different because the song is its own entity. Some of the themes and verses are taken from the poem, but the song follows rules that make it a song, just as the poem follows rules that make it a poem. Thanks to the video footage, you can hear and see the song on guitar and then the poem performed in front of some of Garcia's fire paintings. When I originally, approached Margaret for a cover image for my poetry book, I had some of her fire paintings in mind. However, she graciously insisted on painted an original portrait for my book because the poems were for my poetry and she felt a portrait of myself was appropriate; this is how I became a cover girl. 

Flashback for Plague-Time: Public Poetry Sin Cubrebocas. Membrillo. On-line Floricanto

Plague-time Fatigue brings on feelings of quiet desperation that now have a soupçon of sweetness two months hence, inauguration day. If we're lucky, we're halfway into the forest, so any which way we turn, we're on our way out. Today, La Bloga-Tuesday relives the first Tuesday in December from a long time ago.

 
December 2013 brought a La Bloga visit to Los Angeles' General Pershing Square, where arts activist Jessica Ceballos and friends brought typewriters to the cement plazas to the delight of poetry customers.

Whether it's 2013 or 2020, December is quince season. That's an English word, "quince," a fruit not a party. 'Tis the season and the Gluten-free Chicano recommends cooking up some membrillo. 

 
Finally, the first Tuesday of December 2013 closed with timeless poetry and a provocative prose piece. Most touchingly, the floricanto drew a comment from Francisco X. Alarcón, the co-founder of the On-line Floricanto. QEPD, Francisco. Carpe Diem, gente. 

Speaking of Quince, the party, La Bloga reached its 16th year of blogging on Chicana Chicano Literature y más, on November 28. At first, Rudy Ch Garcia, Manuel Ramos, and I were the first readers. Recently, our click-counter registered the 4,823,785th visitor to La Bloga. Thank you for visiting La Bloga, do invite your gente to join us. We welcome Guest Columnists.

Looking Back: December 3, 2013
Poesia Para La Gente Fundraiser: One Dollar, One Poem
Michael Sedano

Calliope, the muse of poetry and rhetoric, wandered through the parking lot near the stadium in Los Angeles' Elysian Park, looking for someone to inspire. She was on the verge of giving up hope when Calliope recognized a kindred soul whose love and need for poetry matched her own. With that, Calliope semi-retired, appointing Jessica Ceballos the muse of Los Angeles’ street corners, subways, and public parks.

There’s no other possible explanation, other than divine inspiration, for the energy and passion that drives Jessica Ceballos’ enchanting forays into poetry in Los Angeles’ public spaces: monthly Bluebird Reading Series at Avenue 50 Studio; regular Poesia Para La Gente events taking poetry to subways, street corners, and other exceptional sites. LA is Poesia City owing to Calliope Ceballos.

Last weekend, Ceballos and Calliope were seen hanging around Los Angeles’ Pershing Square, Ceballos pushing a grocery basket filled with give-away books, being interviewed by a crew from an NBC O&O, and organizing poets to stop passersby, and in exchange for a dollar, compose a poem on-the-spot.

Jessica Ceballos and Peggy Dobreer help kids choose a free book.

Urban Voodoo works from memory. He writes the words as aide-memoire.

Brandon Brown and Karineh Mahdessian canvass the ice skating crowd to come buy a poem for a dollar.

I chatted up the NBC crew and pointed out Iris de Anda as one of the city's finest poets and a
top-notch reader. They filmed her first, then caught footage of several others.
The interviewer bought herself a Brandon Brown disco poem.

Yago Cura reads for teevee while Urban Voodoo works on his memory.

F. Albert Salinas, sponsor of Ventura's Laureatepalooza, writes.

Elena Secota reads for teevee.

Urban Voodoo reads for teevee.

Brandon Brown writes on repurposed vinyl; que groovy.

Iris de Anda's incandescent blue ink and feather quill with poem-in-process.

Delight, puro delight, that’s how gente responded when they accepted the invitation to spend a dollar for their own poem. One woman, a German tourist, burst into tears when she received her poem. A pair of girls noticed the sign announcing the event as a fundraiser for Para Los Niños and yelled excitedly, "that's our school!"

For me, the highlight of the event was a local family entertaining a guest from the eastern edge of California. Drawn to Pershing Square Park by its seasonal ice skating rink, I approached the familia as they waited for a child to come off the ice. Stop, have a poet write you a poem, I invited. And they did.

The family circulated among the poets scattered about the cement, chatted with poets, received their verse and read with quiet delight. Perhaps they stopped out of courtesy, but they became involved in the experience and the friendliness of the poets and lingered, taking at least three poems home with them.

Abram Gomez reads the poem he's written for Daisy de Leon from El Centro Califas.
Daisy posed for a portrait with Abram and his skateboard. That's Calliope on Abram's shoulder.

I asked the girl if she'd read Daisy's poem aloud. She elected not to, but
reads to herself as her mom shares the delightful novelty of custom-made poetry.

Calliope eavesdrops as Karineh Mahdessian chats with Daisy's tia. What a fabulous day, come for the skating, meet a poet.

Daisy's prima and Iris de Anda chat preliminary to Iris' composition on a
picture postcard.

 Parents read Iris' poem for and about their daughter. What a
well-spent dollar. This familia took home three poems.

Her own Iris de Anda poem delighted the girl. Her parents eagerly supported
the girl's delight and got so involved in the experience
they forgot they'd already paid their dollar and offered a second.

Brandon Brown's innovative approach to writing media delights another family. Calliope appears in a flash of light between them.

June Kim reads her just-composed poem while bubbles float about.

Sean Hill reads his just-completed poem.

This is what Poesia Para la Gente looks like.

For Jessica Ceballos, the event marks yet another in a series of triumphs. Such nearly complete satisfaction to see an idea blossom and bear a cosecha of poetry, relationships, and a few dollars for a worthy school.

Yet, there’s a frustration. Ceballos is a poet--a good one--but so often finds herself locked up in meta-poetry, administering and organizing events about poetry but not doing her own poetry.

La Bloga intends to alter that course next week, when our La Bloga Online Floricanto will feature the poetry of Jessica Ceballos.

The Gluten-free Chicano Cooks

Cajeta de Membrillo

Many a Unitedstatesian has little use for Quince fruit. It's misshapen, fuzzy, hard, dry, bitter, grainy, and not often found in grocery stores. Yet, when prepared as cajeta de membrillo, Quince is one of nature's most delicious preserved fruit.

Membrillo is right up at the top of The Gluten-free Chicano's autumn shopping list when his back-yard membrillo tree doesn't produce bumper crops of that misshapen, fuzzy, hard, dry wondrously flavored fruit.

A quince fruit starts as a delicate lavender-pink simple blossom in Spring.

Bees carry pollen from flower to flower and in a few weeks the petals dry and waft away in a breeze, leaving behind the tiny beginnings of the cosecha. Thriving in the Summer heat, the fruit grows under leafy cover. It's a hardy tree that doesn't require a lot of water, and unlike apples, grows at all elevations.

Wash the fruit well to scrub off the fuzz. Use a potato peeler to scrape the skin away. I squeeze lemon juice on the fruit to retard discoloration, just like apples.

I steam the fruit in a small amount of water until a fork easily passes through to the core. Cut the fruit away from the small seed pocket, trim off any shiny cellulose sheathing, and the woody parts from the stem and blossom end.

Return the chunks of fruit to the water and set to boil. Add a cup of sugar. You can always sweeten it with more, so go easy on the "cup to a cup" dictum of jam and jelly makers. Really sweet membrillo spoils the flavor of the fruit.

After a few minutes you can use a potato masher to pulp the fruit into a rough paste. You don't have to stir constantly, but make sure you stir frequently.

As the membrillo cooks it begins to take on a rich caramel color. When the potato masher no longer does any good, use a hand blender (or a stand-alone processor) to turn the fruit into an applesauce consistency.

Now begins the constant stirring as the fruit boils. Membrillo forms big lazy bubbles as the thick paste cooks and develops some body. Taste it now. Put a dollop in ice water because this stuff is incredibly hot! If it's not sweet to your taste, add a little more sugar, stir, taste.

I suppose a candy thermometer would be useful. I learned to make membrillo from my grandmother and Uncle Pete. My Uncle Pete was a cook and baker extraordinaire who cooked entirely by look and feel. Pan dulce, piña sauce, leche quemada, you name it, Uncle Pete could teach you how to make it. Leche quemada, for example, is almost ready when it gets thick like baby spit.

Membrillo calls for constant stirring on medium heat until the membrillo se agarre, it begins to stick to itself and forms a sticky mass that doesn't flow back onto itself when stirred.

Use the candy maker technique of dropping a dollop into iced water. When the membrillo attains soft ball stage, cook it a few more minutes until it's good and stiff. The foto above is after half an hour's stirring at medium flame.

I cook my membrillo to a stiff paste, and stop. Keep cooking and stirring another five or ten minutes if you want to produce a loaf of sliceable candy.

Transfer the membrillo to a container. Let it cool.

Wheat-eaters spread membrillo on toast or waffles, and make empanadas. The Gluten-free Chicano loves a membrillo taco. He serves membrillo where applesauce goes well, like pork chops or roasted pollo.

Provecho, gente.

December's First of Five: On-line Floricanto
Frank de Jesus Acosta, Mario A. Escobar, John Martinez, Andrea García Mauk, Christopher Carmona


A five-week month is a commissioned sales professional's favorite type of month because last year's same month was a four-week month. That means an extra week to write orders and make goal.

It's a similar pleasure in On-line Floricantos. 2012's December brought four Tuesdays and four On-line Floricantos. 2013 brings us a bonus week and we'll have the opportunity to close the year with five fabulous floricantos.

Kicking off the month, the Moderators of the Facebook group Poets Responding to SB1070: Poetry of Resistance selected four poets and one prose writer who bring six pieces to the month's first On-line Floricanto.

Frank de Jesus Acosta

Frank de Jesus Acosta is the principal of Acosta & Associates, a California-based consultant group that specializes in professional support to public and private social change ventures in the areas of children, youth, and family services, violence prevention, community development, and cultural fluency initiatives. In 2007, Frank authored, The History of Barrios Unidos, Cultura Es Cura, Healing Community Violence, published by Arte Publico Press, University of Houston. Acosta is a graduate of University of California, Los Angeles (UCLA). Acosta’s professional experience includes serving in executive leadership tenures with The California Wellness Foundation, the Coalition for Humane Immigration Rights of Los Angeles (CHIRLA), Downtown Immigrant Advocates (DIA), Center for Community Change, and the UCLA Community Programs Office. He is presently focused on completing the writing and publishing a two book series for Arte Publico Press focused on best practices to improve the well-being of Latino young men and boys. He most recently co-authored a published “Brown Paper” with Jerry Tello of the National Latino Fatherhood and Family Institute (NLFFI) entitled, “Lifting Latinos Up By Their Rootstraps: Moving Beyond Trauma Through A Healing-Informed Framework for Latino Boys and Men.” Acosta provides writing and strategic professional support in research, planning, and development to foundations and community focused institutions on select initiatives focuses advancing social justice, equity, and pluralism. Acosta is also finalizing writing and editing a book of inter-cultural poetry and spiritual reflections.

Salmon Spirit Song
by Frank de Jesus Acosta

I am the salmon spirit
child of the great rivers
Born to toil up stream
an ancient calling deep inside
Perennial motion as I swim
timeless currents to the sea
I become the grizzly and the eagle
in this balance dance of life & death
Nourishing those who take in temperance
a sacred covenant of being
The waters tell me of their suffering
poisoned dark and robbed of freedom
I grieve with scarred & ravaged lands
wounded from the carnage of greed
As I journey river valleys & mountain cascades
the ancient stones implore us to pray
Our mother suffers, wails, & shakes
a desperate plea to humankind
I am the salmon spirit of the great rivers
sibling to the seas, snow & rain
The circle we share grows septic & fractured
an ever fragile balance of life
Let us share the waters, earth, and sky
in a spirit dance and song of harmony


Mario A. Escobar

Mario A. Escobar (January 19, 1978-) is a US-Salvadoran writer and poet born in 1978. Although he considers himself first and foremost a poet, he is known as the founder and editor of Izote Press. Escobar has stated that his exposure to “poetic sounds” began during his childhood and that his foundation in poetry stemmed from what he witness during the Salvadoran Civil War. Escobar began his writing career by the age of 13 as a poet. He cites Roque Dalton, Tato Laviera and Jaime Sabines as some of his early poetic influences. Escobar’s work has been feature in UCLA’s publication Underground Undergrads which recognizes the poet as an activist for the undocumented Student Movement. In 2004, Escobar was placed under arrest and was scheduled to be deported. In 2006, Escobar won his case for political asylum making him one of the last Salvadorans to win a political case fourteen years after the Salvadoran Peace Accords were signed in 1992. Escobar currently lives in Alhambra. Escobar has been featured in documentaries like Mimoun en Mario, studenten met een missie and in The healing Club. Some of Escobar’s works include Al correr  de la horas (Editorial Patria Perdida, 1999) Gritos Interiores (Cuzcatlan Press, 2005), La Nueva Tendencia (Cuzcatlan Press, 2005), Paciente 1980 (Orbis Press, 2012

La voz del inmigrante / Immigrant Voices
by Mario Angel Escobar

La voz del Inmigrante
por Mario Angel Escobar

Yo soy la espina dorsal
El canto al final del día
El que acaricia
la voluptuosa tierra
Ella y yo somos uno
Las manos que arrancan
y recogen
el fruto
para satisfacer
tu hambre
Yo soy el tierno callo
el viento desnudo
la nueva lengua
la sangre buscando paz
Yo soy el labio silente
y la mirada que grita.


Immigrant Voices
by Mario Angel Escobar

I am the backbone
An equal to any
The chant at the end
of the day
I am the caresser
of voluptuous earth
Her and I become one
The hands that pluck and pick
to satisfy your hunger
I am the tender callus
The naked wind
The new tongue
Flesh seeking peace
I am the silent lip
The gaze that shouts


John Martinez

John Martinez. I began writing poetry again after the death of my brother. Every published poem, prior to this, is either forgotten, or written so long ago, I no longer feel that it is necessary to discuss. Only that, I studied poetry, at Fresno State, as a child and then abandoned it, entirely, to seek a career and family. My brother was a writer, a poet, a novelist. The best times of my life, was when we got together to talk poetry. In those days (late 70's-early 80's) we both read everything we can get our hands on; the Italians, the Spanish, the Swedish, Hungarian, everything that was relevant at the time. We argued about who was great, who was not, how they compared to the Americans, etc., etc.  We were poetry nerds. The feeling of being touched by words, being elevated into my subconscious, with the specialized surrealism of Vallejo, sent to darkness, with the grim existential landscapes of Ungaretti. I was already into the ghostly feeling of being a poet at an early age, thanx to my Brother, Victor. So, when he died, three years ago, he scolded me for being a "fool." "You are a fool and now you have years to catch up, now go write" he said. And I listened to him, like that young boy, who loved him so much, who listened, intently, to his teaching. 30 years later, I find myself writing, in this new cyber world...and I won't stop, until I catch up. Thank you, Vic.

Abuelita Raquel y La Llorona Maria
by John Martinez

Abuelita Raquel said
She felt like a dark tree
In the wind,
Brown,
Alone
In her own
Ugliness,
So she scrubbed
Her face with Clorox,
Got sick,
Blistered,
And hobbled
Like a monster
To the river
To wash it off

There she saw
La Llorona Maria,
Bunched in her infinite
Weeping,
Fondling
Her hair
Of ragweed,
Veins,
Like dried grape vines
Protruding,
Her eyes hollow,
Eaten by June bugs

There, La Llorona Maria
Told Abuelita Raquel,
Something she should have known

And as the stars burned
Light into the darkness,
The silver clay moon,
Watching,
While the crickets
Sang and stopped,
Abuelita Raquel told
The succinct story of

Abuelita Raquel y La Llorona Maria

Shirtless,
Like small brown
Salamanders
On the wooden porch,
We listened,
Watching her lips
As she described in detail;

“La Llorona Maria,
With her dead horse body,
Her nails curled,
Lifeless as drift wood,
Her nose, a snout,
Two key holes,
Her mouth, a hole
From a missing
Door knob,
She howled like
An animal at me”

“Usted, Raquel, eres la Más Bonita en todo el mundo,”
La Llorona Maria said with a sigh

And as La Llorona Maria
Dragged her true Ugliness away,
Down that
Disappearing river bank,
Abuelita Raquel
Made her own way
Back to her love,
Lit by gasoline lamp,
To her home
At the edge
Of the campo,
Back to her children,
To a blanket she stitched,
To her husband,
Strong as a man
Can ever be,
His hand
Cupped on the seam
Of a Bible,
And as she felt her
Face healing,
The kissing wind,
The magic of the stars
Turned her back,
Into the beautiful brown
Abuelita Raquel
Who we all knew
And loved


Andrea García Mauk

 Andrea García Mauk grew up in Arizona, where both the immense beauty and harsh realities of living in the desert shaped her artistic soul. She calls Los Angeles home, but has also lived in Chicago, New York and Boston. She has worked in the music industry, and on various film and television productions. She writes short fiction, poetry, original screenplays and adaptations, and is currently finishing two novels. Her writing and artwork has been published and viewed in a variety of places such as on The Late, Late Show with Tom Snyder; The Journal of School Psychologists and Victorian Homes Magazine. Both her poetry and artwork have won awards. Several of her poems and a memoir are included in the 2011 anthology, Our Spirit, Our Reality, and her poetry is featured in the 2012 Mujeres de Maiz “‘Zine.” She is a regular contributor to Poets responding to SB 1070. Her poems have been chosen for publication on La Bloga’s online Tuesday Floricanto numerous times. She has also been a moderator of Diving Deeper, an online workshop for writers, and has written extensively about music, especially jazz, while working in the entertainment industry. Her production company, Dancing Horse Media Group is producing a unique cookbook, Corazón en un Platillo: Recetas y Poesia de Amor,  that blends healthful recipes with poetry and prose from the community. She publishes a monthly online poetry journal that is associated with the cookbook’s website. You can visit the cookbook’s website at http://www.corazonenplatillo.com

The Complexity of the Human Condition
by Andrea Mauk

We have a need to press our hands together,
light candles, sing and praise,
hold incense to our foreheads,
turn to the four directions,
raise palms to the sky,
give offerings, build altars,
speak to the ancestors,
read the book as gospel,
believe in
miracles,
in reindeer and Santa Claus,
in good,
see heaven illuminating edges of clouds.
We have the need to bow,
stand low, kneel, hunker down,
before the ultimate force,
immense, almighty.
We have a need to subordinate.

We have a desire to have faith
in thy lover whom shalt not wander
(though science has proven that monogamy
is not natural for the male
of the species),
in thy neighbor, who we must
turn to in time of need,
to help those in far worse conditions
than our own
(and who decides?)
We know that our problems are real
and put upon us,
mostly unfairly,
that our illusion is what
we believe it to be.

We have a need to be right,
(even when we speak of controlling the ego)
to be acknowledged,
be recognized,
be better than,
to instruct,
pass knowledge down
like a well-worn garment,
to stand on a soap box,
to preach and convert,
to prove beyond a reasonable doubt,
to enlighten,
filibuster,
to be wiser, smarter, cooler,
better dressed,
to be omnipotent.

We have a desire to love, to be tender,
an instinct to hug and hold,
cuddle and touch,
smile and flirt and attract,
and procreate.
We have the ability to find perfection
in fleeting moments
and want to hold on
forever,
to answer the question
of life after death.

We have a tendency to
seethe just below fault lines,
grit teeth,
blow steam,
percolate, explode, rage,
attack boldly,
or on tiptoes,
wearing masks,
or openly, with a smile,
brazenly,
calculatedly,
by invitation
or without notice. We have a tendency to
wage war.

We have a need to organize and label,
categorize things that are alike,
homogenize,
like milk,
separate,
alienate,
regulate,
colonize,
lord over,
compare and contrast,
let in, keep out,
find comfort in familiarity
and fear in difference,
as if different was unknown.

We have a penchant for crying,
sniveling, groveling,
drowning sorrows,
looking back
(though we rarely ever turn to salt
in modern times)
making amends,
mending ways
like knees of jeans,
restoring the old,
fixing what's beyond repair,
mourning the end before it comes,
loving the good old days
over an icy glass of lemonade.

We are f'ing complex.

Christopher Carmona

Christopher Carmona is a Chican@ Beat poet from the Rio Grande Valley of Deep South Texas.  He was a nominee for the Alfredo Cisneros de Miral Foundation Award for Writers in 2011 and a Pushcart Prize nominee in 2013. He has two books of poetry, beat and I Have Always Been Here. Currently editing The Beatest State In The Union: An Anthology of Beat Texas Writings with Chuck Taylor and Rob Johnson and is the Artistic Director of The Coalition of New Chican@ Artists (CONCA).

My Language/Mi Lengua
by Christopher Carmona

When I was seven years old, I remember sitting outside of my elementary school’s principal’s office. My parents inside discussing my behavior. You see, I only spoke Spanish when I was a kid. When they came out they didn’t look angry at me, they simply looked perturbed. After this moment I remember they only spoke to me in English. The principal had explained to them that the only way to succeed in this country is if you speak English and my parents took that to heart. It was from this point on that my ability to speak Spanish began to die and almost forgotten.

Language is the most recognizable transmission of culture.

I never really lost touch with my Spanish language. It was my grandparents’ (both my mother’s and my father’s) first and most frequently used language. They spoke it to me and my brothers and sisters constantly. I grew up along the Rio Grande river in deep South Texas where there were three dominant languages: Spanish, English, and Tex-Mex. Tex-Mex dominated most of what was spoken in the area. Words like “yonque” and “parquer” were and still are commonly used. So as much as the public school system tried to erase Spanish from my brain and tongue, my environment lived and breathed Spanish. But as I grew up I became more and more pochofied. I only listened to English language music, watched only English language TV television and movies and dreamed of having the “American” dream of being “white” middle class. But I always knew I wouldn’t be. I just hoped I would be accepted in the“white” middle class world. But my dark skin and Spanish last name wouldn’t allow it.

When I was in high school I swore to my mother that I would become a doctor, not a medical doctor but a PhD and here I am holding a PhD in English. Not in literature or grammar but in Rhetoric and Poetics, in essence: writing. What does that mean? It means I study the art of persuasion. I study the importance and power of words. What they do. How they are used. And how they can shape the way we see the world. I have always had a fascination with words, I suppose that is why I am a poet and a writer.

Words are the basic building blocks of a language.

In high school I wanted to get as far away from Spanish as possible. My brother and sister had taken it and my father had always corrected their pronunciation. They were just as pochofied as I was. I didn’t want that, I wanted to do something different, to escape the fact that I couldn’t speak Spanish, so I took French. That was a sophisticated language. The language of the great thinkers and artists of our time. That is what I told myself but in reality I was hiding from the fact that I couldn’t speak it anymore, the muscles in my mouth wouldn’t form the words anymore. They were atrophied. I was terrified that the other kids in the class who were just taking it because it was an easy A for them because they spoke Spanish fluently would laugh at me, so I escaped. I hid in another language. I even started to reject everything Mexican, except for the food of course. I didn’t want to be Mexican not because being Mexican was shameful but because I couldn’t even speak the language. I was an outcast. I wasn’t quite Mexican and I wasn’t quite American, I was somewhere lost in translation.

Once you learn a language it is always a part of you, it shapes the way you speak about bread because now it has a new name.

The first job I ever had was a security guard in a hospital and in that job I had to deal with lots of patients and families that did not speak a word of English and so I had to relearn Spanish or so I thought. When I began to listen to them I realized I understood them. As much as I only chose to speak in English, I still heard Spanish all around. So I practiced in private canned responses to their questions about where things were in the hospital. vaya derecha. izquierda. este pastillo. Hand gestures always help too. I regained a bit of control over some of my lost Spanish. But when I left the Rio Grande Valley and moved away to Austin and then to Texas A&M University in College Station my Spanish atrophied again. Not enough Spanish around to keep it going. I never really spoke it well anyway. That always terrified me and still does. It was at A&M that something extraordinary happened. I was introduced to Cherokee. There was a professor there, Qwo-li Driskill that offered an informal class in learning the Cherokee language and for a year I was exposed to the language, learning enough to know greetings, colors, numbers, food, and simple exchanges. Osiyo? (Are you well?) became a common greeting amongst the five of us who took the class. We were all given tsalagi names (Cherokee). I was given Soquil (horse) and I used it several times throughout our sessions.

Learning a new language not only gives you access to new words and sounds but also to a different way of thinking and seeing the world.

The more I learned about the Cherokee language, the more I appreciated the fact that many Cherokee peoples don’t even know their own language. Native peoples have been decimated in more ways than just genocide and exile for their own lands. No, native peoples have had their language washed from their memories, replaced by Spanish and English. This changed my view on language forever.

Language allows someone to touch another culture, sometimes our own forgotten cultures, and allows us to reconnect to others like me. I have always struggled with my native language of Spanish—replaced by English—but then I realized Spanish replaced the native languages of the Americas. They are both colonizing languages. This is a hard truth that many of us have to face. That does not deter or minimize my journey to regain my Spanish tongue but it set me on a path to relearn native languages as well. Spanish is the language of my grandparents and my parents and the people around me, but the languages that have been mostly erased, those languages are my people’s languages too.

Whenever we speak a language that was once cut out of ancestor’s tongues, we give life to that long lost culture and reconnect who we were with who we are now.


La Bloga welcomes your comments and observations. Poets deeply appreciate feedback on their efforts. Click the Comments link below to join the conversation. Be sure to check the box to be notified when others join the conversation.

Free Poetry. Print Reports. On-line Floricanto.

Free Poetry on Bunker Hill
Michael Sedano

The land rises steeply up Los Angeles' Bunker Hill, a green space flanked by massive cement government buildings. The terrain makes it a walk of multiple stairs and gently sloping ramps to land on wide paved terraces and sprawling lawns. Landscaping, and the gente at today’s Grand Park Downtown Bookfest, keep my attention on the ground, then I look up. All I could see from where I stood was the Music Center at the top of the hill. I turned and looked the other way and saw City Hall tower. Then I go in search of free poetry.

Grand Park Downtown Bookfest signals Los Angeles’ ongoing support for literacy—there are never too many bookfests--and the region’s renascence of poetry as a public activity. Today, poets will both read and compose on-the-spot poems; for free, just stop and chat.

Bookfest organizer Writ Large Press occupies a large space where books and authors invite passersby into the display. Next door is a tent where anyone can type a story on a real typewriter and publish it into their own book.  I watch amused as a teenager types a line then looks up wondering how to get to a new line. “I don’t know how it works.”

Saturday’s quest begins Thursday afternoon in Highland Park, at Avenue 50 Studio where Jessica Ceballos, Los Angeles’ indefatigable poetry promoter via Poesía Para La Gente, assembles a sign-making crew.

Starting with the rawest materials, Scott Doyle, Naomi Molinar and Lucy Delgado craft “Free Poetry” and “Poema Gratis” signage for Saturday’s event.

Saturday, I spot Doyle working 826LA’s display, urging passersby to contribute to the world’s longest story. Write, post, join in. It’s the best kind of yellow journalism from the grass roots.

826LA makes effective use of its prime location to draw people to stop for long periods, to read the world’s longest story, to ask a question of the writing and tutoring center’s volunteers. Visit 826LA’s website to learn its mission  “supporting students ages 6 to 18 with their creative and expository writing skills, and to helping teachers inspire their students to write.”

Red Hen Press has another prime spot, a pair of eight foot tables at a main intersection. Billy Goldstein answers questions while author Nicelle Davis dresses like a cloud as a marketing gimmick for her book, Becoming Judas.

The Shakespeare Center Los Angeles tent occupies the corner diagonally from Red Hen. Marina Oliva explains her mission includes producing full-length plays. Assisted today by Giovanni and Noemi, they were giving away editions of Richard II. Marina explains the play is not on the bill this summer, Romeo and Juliet and Midsummer Night’s Dream are ideas. Shakespeare Center supports Veterans and proposes an interesting drama program for returning Veterans here. 

Ceballos introduces me to Victor Robert, whose wordless book encourages a kid’s storytelling unconstrained by what words the author might put on the page, or a writer’s frustration at all the words not used instead. You can learn more about the book, Brian Wonders, at the author’s website here.

I introduce myself to Roxy Morataya, who occupies a table at the ‘Zines tent. I used to think ‘Zines an internet phenomenon that got supplanted by the blog. It’s a treat seeing contemporary ‘Zines. Exhibitors have covered two eight foot tables with ‘Zines. A 3-skein clothesline sways and frees some exemplars to a whirling wind that catches printed documents in a climatologic metaphor for literary ephemera.

 ‘Zines, like other literary ephemera, come in various forms, from multi-page saddle-stitch chapbooks to documents committed to a single sheet. Roxy traded me two quarters for an accordion-folded eight page handmade book she makes from a single sheet of typing paper.

Entertainment for the familia means kids’ entertainment. My eye is attracted by the plastic shakers I spy with my little eye on a table near the stage where Story Pirates keeps kids engaged and attentive. Sadly, I’ve missed Birdie’s performance, the ebullient woman at the table tells me. On video, I catch up with Birdie’s Playhouse on Birdie’s website.

 I catch up with the free poetry signs along the grassy knoll overlooking the stage, and the picnic lawn sloping down to the stage esplanade. Poets to the left of me, poets to the right. I see Karineh Madhessian emcee of La Palabra Reading Series, and Victor Avila, a regular On-line Floricanto contributor, greeting visitors.

I spot Brandon Brown and a beaming Lucy Delgado with her poem on a vinyl album.



Visitors are delighted to talk to real poets and take in the sight of so many in one place. Poets create on typewriters, with Sharpie pen on vinyl 33 1/3  rpm records, stuff handwritten cards in rubber gloves, find poetry on random pages of pulp novel, send along a linocut postcard with a poem.

Dane F. Baylis chooses flip chart paper and chalk crayon that needs a spritz of fixative before the poet scrolls the poem for visitors like the delighted Sofia.

Grand Park Downtown Bookfest makes a friendly warm-up for the upcoming gargantuan LA Times book festival that sprawls across the nearby USC campus. The only dour note are the white-shirted County cops. All whom I ask if they’d like a poem erect a wall of hostility. An LAPD cop is an exception, laughing with me that maybe later.

Other than those sour deputies, this year’s Writ Large Press and Jessica Ceballos and crew do everything possible to have a completely enjoyable show. As word of mouth spreads, I foresee visitors to next year’s Grand Park Downtown Bookfest looking forward to another comfortable and free-spirited afternoon with books and poetry.

Print Start-up
Art! The Magazine In New Edition

Print continues to challenge the marketing efforts of anyone with the ganas to launch a print product. Art! The Magazine this month reaches a milestone fourth issue.

Printed on coated paper in rich colors, the visual quality alone of Art! The Magazine makes every issue a collector's item. Text content adds richness to the already dazzling graphics and layout. The current issue's story on muralist David Botello comes with luxurious close-ups. The cover story on how gente are updating the calavera look is a timeless addition to DDLM lore.

Underpriced at $6.95, the magazine has yet to hit its advertising stride. That makes each issue content-rich, but limits the ability of the publisher to reach for ever more ambitious editorial content and more pages. Click here for availability and access.


Print Media Report
Brooklyn & Boyle Hitting It Bigger

A successful commercial print publication needs a fifty percent ad hole to begin to meet publisher needs and goals. Getting there offers immense challenges to any print publication. Brooklyn & Boyle's current edition comes with a satisfying ad volume. That's encouraging to anyone who roots for community media.

With continued ad expansion, Editor-Publisher and La Bloga friend Abel Salas may have built the momentum with advertisers to expand Brooklyn & Boyle circulation and coverage. It's already a highly admired community resource with a high pass-along endorsement. People talk about what they read in Brooklyn & Boyle.

Other weeklies still hold the lion's share of SoCal advertiser dollars, but they're missing the boat. Like Art! The Magazine, Brooklyn & Boyle's readers tend to be community opinion leaders. Advertisers and marketers wisely value word of mouth because a friend's recommendation is among the more powerful motivators. Word of mouth begins with opinion leaders, Brooklyn & Boyle readers.

For gente outside Brooklyn & Boyle's circulation area, the website doesn't hide behind a paywall. Click here to visit.

On-Line Floricanto First of April 2013
Paul Aponte, Tara Evonne Trudell, Betty Sánchez, Joe Navarro, Ramón Piñero

"Grand Canyon State" by Paul Aponte
"Crossing…" by Tara Evonne Trudell
"Bracero" por Betty Sánchez
"I Understand Peace, Equality, Justice and Hope" by Joe Navarro
"i had a gun" by Ramón Piñero

GRAND CANYON STATE 
by Paul Aponte

The Grand Canyon:

Majestic, riveting walls of time
Encrusted with history and life
Encrusted with aromas of water trickling on stone
& clean, fresh, crisp air.
Encrusted with colors & beauty of the cactus flowers,
wood betonies & red monkey flowers,
songs of Warblers & Western Bluebirds.
Encircled by morphic skies
watching over the flight of Falcons and Condors.
Rushing white waters like our bustling cities,
gentle trickles like restful small towns that care,
flowing strong waters, like our united people,
and restful pools like the knowing enlightened minds.
All rooted-in remnants of wondrous people
having once thrived all around this beauty,
that is in fact a Grand Canyon.

Why then?

Arizona:

Dining tables for giants
home of the Hopi & their history,
unique religion & philosophy.
Lakes, streams, waterfalls,
pine forests, complex formations,
greenery of plenty opening to
shockingly monumental red towers & mountains.
Plain old deserts shamed
by sudden resplendence
of curvaceous flowing low hills
painted by ancient god-artists
with colors that bring tears
at the inconceivable, shocking beauty.

Why then?

This painted desert,
this splendorous beauty,
protecting an “ancient planet”
a separate universe
a forest of reminders
petrified to tell
with hues of all kinds
reminding us
of
our
short
time
as
guests.

Guests.

Guests, with a future likely shorter
than the wisdom of this petrified forest.


Why then?

The state of mind
poisoned we find
by fear, neglect, and pure disdain
of our humanity.

It has festered.

We see it in the horrific stench
of pundit’s turd words
of formulaic "News people"
reporting on nothing
but
to incite extremes
of the regurgitation by otherwise fine people
Slowly decomposing before our eyes.

The grand canyon growing wider
between the living and the dead.

One …
unwilling …
to let the true light in.

Spin, spin, spin.
Foghorn blowing in your face.

Now I realize
our true divine evolutionary path can be stunted and
we only get one chance.

Tiny Alice
in Wonderland
walking in a Grand Canyon
of beautiful flowers
of beautiful “people”,
So she thought.

“We don't want weeds in our bed!
… Move along, move along!” they said.
Flowers creating hatred, divisiveness, a grand canyon,
for no loving reason.

Spin, spin, spin.
Foghorn blowing in your face.

We yearn for the simple life
for simple thinking,
but something is stinking.
Because de-evolution is not the solution.
Respecting WWE reactions
without sanctions,
Hating jobless and homeless,
thereby providing less
is just a mess, non-sense
Screaming at hard working people
merely for being within sight
is not right.

Borders made by hoarders.

Spin, spin, spin.
Foghorn blowing in your face.

They keep trying to obfuscate,
The enlightened must keep trying to eliminate …
this grand canyon state.

The Grand Canyon
Towering sculptures of time, history, and life.
At the bottom
the tears of its true owners

moving fast away
applauded by those
In this grand canyon state.



CROSSING…
by Tara Evonne Trudell

crossing
the mojave desert
I dreamed
my people
moving through
heat waves
and hunger pains
mothers fathers
children
willing life
dying to cross
a line
drawn in sand
drones hovering in air
dangerous spy tactics
always monitoring
the calculation
in military moves
real life
hunger war games
forcing survival
the extreme NAFTA
and CIA manipulation
the taking of land
the killing of people
corrupt government
holding private meetings
with drug lords
in slick suits
making up
hard core
statistics
to act on
with militarized force
feeding masses
misled lies
laced with hate
turning one side
against
the other
with neither side
existing at all
every day life
selling American
dreaming material
priced by elite thugs
and prison profiteers
in slick suits
making up laws
in corrupt politics
the buddying up
of corporations
filling systems
making a business
out of brown people
handcuffing butterflies
taking away
the freedom
to migrate
caught by ICE
profiling parents
the leaving
left alone
in terrified children
separating families
creating impossible reuniting
the written word
in small print
USA court documents
the taking away
of Mexico
in parental rights
when accusations fly
calling names out
illegal!
alien!
immigrant!
USA labels
of being brown
in a country
too far
to care
when not close
to home
American comfort
family circles tight
the choice
to be unaware
what’s really going down
south of the border
the human race
running away
when excluding
their own
mechanical hummingbird
droning on
the keeping
of government control
gleaming profit
in big brother eye
the elite
banking on profits
of brown people
crossing
to survive.

c/s tara evonne trudell 3 de marzo 2014



BRACERO
por Betty Sánchez

Dedicada con todo mi amor y respeto
A mi abuelo paterno
José Sánchez Olivares, bracero


Viajaste al país vecino
Buscando una alternativa
A tu realidad
Vislumbrando
Una vida mejor
Dejaste tu tierra
Tu tata y tus chiquillos
Prometiendo volver
Con los bolsillos llenos

Jornalero migrante
Tu contrato jamás estipuló
El maltrato y abuso
Del cual serías objeto
Se te humillaba al llegar
Al exponer tu desnudez
Y despojarte de toda dignidad
fumigándote con DDT
Para desinfectarte de sueños
Y aniquilar tus deseos
De progreso

El patrón y el capataz
Se limpiaban el trasero
Con el convenio del bracero
Para ellos no eras
Trabajador de temporada
Sino un implemento agrícola
Desechable
Mano de obra barata
Sin garantías laborales
Ni acceso a los servicios
Mas elementales

Mientras los nacionales
Aumentaban su producción bélica
Tú trabajaste incansable
De alba a crepúsculo
Reparando líneas ferroviarias
Piscando  capullos de algodón
Que recogías en sacos de lona
En los que se perdían
Tu pasado y futuro
Dejándote un presente
Pasajero y anónimo

Cosechabas hortalizas ajenas
Mientras tu parcela
Se marchitaba por el abandono
Y cambiaba de dueño
Impulsabas la economía
De un gobierno
Que nunca reconoció
Tu aporte a la nación
Ni te incluyó
En su historia

En barracas eras confinado
Literas militares
Con colchones mugrientos
Y porosos
Resguardaban el sudor
Y la angustia acumulados
En meses teñidos
De infortunio
Tu alimento
Se preparaba
En tambos grasientos e insalubres
Un puñado de frijoles o fideos
Insípidos y aguados
Sustentaban tus días
Repetidos de cansancio
Y miseria
Los baños de agua fría
No enjuagaban la fatiga
Almacenada en tus huesos
Desgastados y tristes
Tus labios agrietados
Pronunciaban en
Murmullos nocturnos
Oraciones que siempre
Se detenían
En el “venga a nosotros tu Reino;
Hágase tu voluntad
En la tierra como en el cielo”

Como letra escarlata
Llevabas en el pecho
La palabra extranjero
Sinónimo de inferioridad
Que te endosaba
Discriminación
Y vejación desmedidas

El rey del norte
Explotó tus derechos
El rey del sur
Te despojó de tus ahorros
Arduamente adquiridos

Hoy solo eres
Un recuerdo empolvado
En algunos libros
Que se hojean de prisa

Yo te rindo tributo
Bracero
Porque gracias
A tu abnegación
Y duro esfuerzo
Tus hijos obtuvieron
Una educación
Que les concedió
Los privilegios
Que a ti se te negaron

¡Que vivan los braceros
Sus hijos y sus viudas!

La lucha continúa…

Betty Sánchez 10 de Febrero de 2014



I Understand Peace, Equality, Justice and Hope
by Joe Navarro

I understand peace, equality,
Justice and hope
Paz, igualidad, justicia
Y esperanza, even though
They sometimes remain
Elusive, the same as
Catching clouds and rainbows
The ideals are etched in
My vocabulario, en dos idiomas
I think of them in English
And español in hopes that
Two languages can cross
The threshold of oppression
I stopped dreaming in
Abstract lofty ideals that
No one can achieve without
Struggle, without un movimiento
This is what I learned that from an
Inspiration that roared from
The mind and lips of
A gentle man who stood
Unwaiveringly, face to face
With with the anti-human
Racial construct that declared
Itself superior to all on la Tierra
I was one of those chavalitos
Who listened to the spiritual discourse
For humanity against the dangers
Of racial, ethnic and international
Domination through violence,
Brutality and subjugation
I listen to the revolutionary cry to
Value la gente, human beings
Over commodities and a denunciation
Of crass materialism and racism
I listened to a giant, rich of corazón
A humble man who loved toda la gente
But despised the haters and dominators
A man who was a powerful orator
Who spoke out, even against
The threats of the most powerful
Nation on Earth, I learned from
The wise man, The Reverend Dr.
Martin Luther King, Jr who lived and died
Awakening the humanity of
People who were tired of living
Under the heels of others
Then fear and loathing traveled
From the barrel of a gun into
His physical existence on la Tierra
Yet he arose again as winged
Consciousness, a free spirit that
Traveled far and wide into the
Hearts and minds of those
Who would listen and learn
Someone, like me

~Joe Navarro ©Copyright 2013




i had a gun
by Ramón Piñero

i had to shoot him
yer honor,
he unrespected me
i thought he had a gun
it was dark
it was loud
they were black
they were very black
listening to that
rap music they all like

i had a gun
they unrespected me
i had to shoot
they were black
so very black
and i had a gun

they were so black
and that booming bass
i could do nothing else
i had a gun
they did not
they unrespected me
with their music filled
joy; unaware that
i had a gun

i had a gun
i had to shoot him
i had to stop any
future thuggery
they were black
so very black

i had a gun

© Copyright 2014 All RightsReserved

The Poets
Paul Aponte, Tara Evonne Trudell, Betty Sánchez, Joe Navarro, Ramón Piñero

Paul Aponte is a Chicano poet born in SanJo, Califaztlan, and now a proud citizen of Sacramento.  He lived in Tucson, Arizona for 9 years where his two kids and his appreciation of the desert and its native people were born .  Paul, a member of "Escritores del Nuevo Sol", writes poetry in Spanish, English, and Spanglish, and enjoys breaking writing rules to communicate a truth in expression that can be seen in his writings.

My website:
http://paulaponte.weebly.com/poetry--poesia.html

Tara Evonne Trudell, a mother of four, is full-time student at NMHU working on her BFA in Media Arts with an emphasis in film, audio, and
photography. It is through this expression of art, combined with her passion for poetry that she is able to express fearlessness of spirit for her
family, people, community, social awareness, and most importantly her love of earth.

Betty Sánchez. Madre orgullosa de siete hijos y cinco hermosos nietos. En la actualidad resido en el condado de Sutter en el cual trabajo como Directora de centro del programa Migrante de Head Start.
Soy miembro activo del grupo literario, Escritores del Nuevo Sol desde  Marzo del 2004.  Contribuí en la antología poética Voces del Nuevo Sol y participé en el Festival Flor y Canto. Ser finalista en el primer concurso de poesía en español organizado por el Colectivo Verso Activo, me dio la oportunidad de dar a conocer más ampliamente mi pasión por la poesía y por extensión ser invitada a colaborar en eventos como Noche de Voces Xicanas, Honrando a Facundo Cabral, y Poesía Revuelta. Es un privilegio contribuir en la página Poetas Respondiendo al SB 1070 y por supuesto en La Bloga.

Joe Navarro is a teacher, creative writer, poet, a husband, father and grandfather, and has been an advocate for social justice and social change in labor, community, immigration, anti-U.S. intervention, education, anti-war and human rights issues.

Ramon Piñero. "Ex Bay Area poet living in the buckle of the Bible Belt, aka Florida. Where good little boys and girls grow up to be republicans who vote against their own interest. Father of three and Grandfather to six of the coolest kids ever.
Nuff said...