Showing posts with label Sor Juana Ines de la Cruz. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Sor Juana Ines de la Cruz. Show all posts

Tuesday, March 08, 2011

Review: Still Water Saints. Essayist Call. Sor Juana. NLWC. On-Line Floricanto.

Review: Still Water Saints Neither Here Nor There, But it Matters.

Alex Espinoza. Still Water Saints. NY: Random House, 2007.
ISBN: 978-0-8129-7627-4 (0-8129-7627-4)


Michael Sedano


Being a child of the Inland Empire, I fell prey to hometown distraction reading Alex Espinosa's Still Water Saints. Set in the fictional "Agua Mansa" Califas, the town eludes any “ahah!” moment’s recognition. Agua Mansa defies the mystery of place,
leaving readers from the area slightly discomfited, grasping for that moment of “I know this place!”

Santana winds blow. The Santa Ana River overflows its banks. Agua Mansa’s off the 10. Lots of towns and hamlets from Mentone to Chino fit. Espinoza tosses out tantalizing clues, triangulating cities that are not Agua Mansa. Characters talk of going over to Perris, Riverside, Berdoo, Fontana, so Agua Mansa is none those places.

Marigold? Bryn Mawr? Loma Linda? Redlands? My vote’s on Colton. Big enough to have large shopping centers, lots of poor gente, a botánica. But this son of the Inland Empire cannot be sure, so let Agua Mansa be anywhere along that rio, a town a lot like where I grew up. I always suspected stories like these were taking place by the sankee or out toward Mentone Beach. Thing is, nostalgic readings tend to find comeuppance.

In Agua Mansa, that comes with hard edges: the immigrant boy lured into sex slavery (don’t worry, there’s no detail); the amateur whore and her son (ditto, save for a bit of titillation to a 12 year old boy); the freaks (tattoos and crystal, use your imagination). I suppose every town has sad cases like these losers. The people, yes the people form the heart of this novel. The hairdresser; the art teacher; the muralist; the innocent; the victimized. Perla:

She roamed the banks of the Santa Ana, among the long green stalks, chanting to the moon, to the gods of Night and Shadow. She rose and stepped onto the river, her footsteps gently rippling the surface.


She summoned the spirits of the dead. They whispered their secrets to her, and she scribbled their messages on scraps of paper and in the margins of her phone book:


Tell Ramón the locket fell on the floor between the bed and the nightstand.


I’m all right. It’s like Disneyland up here, only without rides.


I don’t miss my ears because they were too big.


She fought the Devil. Every night he came to her, his head crowned with horns, his skin covered in scales. He cursed and called her names. She beat him back with her bare hands and sent him running, his cloven feet tapping against the tile of her kitchen floor.


She was a Bruja. A Santa. A Divina. A Medium, Prophet, and Healer. Able to pass through walls and read minds, to pull tumors from ailing bodies, to uncross hexes and spells, to raise the dead, and to stop time. When doctors failed, when priests and praying were not enough, the people of Agua Mansa came to the Botánica Oshún, to

Perla, a healer and spiritual person who draws people to her store for tea, amulets, consejos, warmth. Her stories come together around grand themes, each thematic chapter dedicated to a portrait of a particular boy, girl, mother, couple. Just when the reader suspects a surfeit of characters, here comes a new personaje into the mix. Espinoza’s Random House editor had the good judgment to give the writer space to draw out a diverse community of people whose stories revolve around the viejita who runs that store.

When we meet young Perla, she’s dissatisfied in marriage but unafraid to venture out. She meets a curandero just setting up his tiendita in the storefront business. He mentors her, shares wisdom and books. She takes over the shop. From her front window and the empty lot next door she watches Agua Mansa change, maybe for the better maybe not, but sure enough change. Landscape, society, those things change. But the characters who flit in and out of Perla’s Agua Mansa don’t change, whatever their particulars. All come Perla’s way to receive all the help Perla can give.

Perla aside, Still Water Saints is less about sanctity than everyday gente with extraordinary needs and no miracles. It’s not a grim novel, though. There’s always hope, here, there. When a character from an earlier story comes into another character’s story, they pass unrecognized to one another. Yet, the one needs what the other can provide. So close, yet so far. What does it take to bring them together? Empathy hones irony’s sharp points, adding a delicious tension for readers engaged with the characters.

Readers will find Espinoza’s frequent references to setting--the winds and those place names—give the novel a rich texture and sense of place that brings life to the people on the page. Still Water Saints is one of those puro character novels readers will want to share with friends or book clubs.

Read the rest of the opening chapter at this link.




Essayist Call

La Bloga friend Sergio Troncoso sends along this writer’s call for a volume Troncoso is editing with Sarah Cortez for Arte Público.

Request for Submissions
The Lost Border: Essays on how life and culture have been changed by the violence along the U.S.-Mexico border

This new anthology will focus on the unique life and culture along the U.S.-Mexico border that has been changed and even lost because of the recent drug violence. This book will feature writers from both sides of the border who explore the culture that has been changed or lost, the lives that have been split in two, and the way of life that has been interrupted, or even eradicated, by the violence along the border.

Some of the questions that might be explored are: What way of life has been lost due to the recent violence? What are the ramifications of this change for culture, politics, families, institutions, the arts, and even individual psyches? Will it be possible to regain what has been truncated? What might the border’s future be? Are there any positive side-effects?

We hope that writers will conjure the past in telling moments and reflect on the forces that have spun out of control to destroy the unique bi-national, bicultural existence of la frontera. Location is a vitally important and intrinsic element of the essays we seek, and each essay should show substantial ties to the border through the essayist’s lived experience. We anticipate that the writing will draw scholars as well as those in the general public who wish to thoughtfully negotiate the border’s current complexities.

The publisher of this project will be Arte Público Press and the anticipated publication date is in 2012.

Please read the submission guidelines and follow them. We look forward to reading your submission. We will contact you by email about acceptance or rejection of your essay.

Sarah Cortez (Cortez.Sarah@gmail.com) and Sergio Troncoso (SergioTroncoso@gmail.com)
Editors

http://www.SergioTroncoso.com/

http://poetacortez.com/

Submission Guidelines:
The deadline is August 1, 2011 postmark, without exceptions. The length of the essay should be 3,000 to 6,000 words; please title your essay. The essay should be unpublished and written in English. All contributors shall be Latina/o.

Each essay should be typed in Times Roman 12-point type with standard manuscript formatting for margins and spacing.

Include your name, snail-mail address, two contact phone numbers, two email addresses, and exact word count in the top left margin of the first page of your manuscript.

We do not accept electronic submissions. Mail two hard copies of the essay and your bio to Sergio Troncoso, 2373 Broadway, Suite 1808, New York, NY 10024. No submissions will be returned; please keep a copy for your records.

Please include a one-paragraph biography summarizing your publishing credits. Include a sentence or two that defines your relationship with the border (e.g. cities or towns lived in, length of residence/familiarity).

If your essay is accepted, we will need an electronic file as a Word document. We will contact you about suggested revisions.



Sor Juana Conference Reminder

Scholars and Sor Juana interested gente will remember to plan for the Cal State LA conference organized by La Bloga friend Roberto Cantú.

For details, click the title above to navigate to the conference site.


Invitation to Join National Latino Writers Conference 2011

La Bloga friend Carlos Vasquez, Director History and Literary Arts at Alburque's National Hispanic Cultural Center, reminds writers they have time to apply to the May 2011 conference. La Bloga-Tuesday columnist Michael Sedano joins this year's NLWC faculty, presenting a workshop on "Reading Your Stuff Aloud."
foto:NHCC. Rudolfo Anaya conducts workshop.
Three years after it opened its doors to the public, the National Hispanic Cultural Center organized and sponsored the first annual National Latino Writers Conference in Albuquerque, New Mexico. Based on the premise that Latino/Hispanic writers were poorly represented in the output of major publishers in the United States, and even within the ranks of smaller and academic presses, the NHCC sought to create a vehicle by which Hispanic writers could come together and learn the ways of the publishing world. Thus was born the only national writer’s conference dedicated to Latino themes and taught by Latino writers.

Eschewing self-publication as an avenue to disseminate the extraordinary output by Latino writers, the objective was to see that Hispanics learned the procedures and the foibles of getting published by refereed commercial and academic presses. At the same time, realizing that often entry to publishing was first through small independent presses, much attention was given to making those available to writers as well.

foto:NHCC. Martín Espada wins NHCC Literary Award.
By organizing an annual conference, limiting the size of registration, and by providing successful published writers willing to share their knowledge and experience, the NLWC has offered workshops on the following literary genres: the novel, short fiction, nonfiction essay; poetry, memoir, mystery, comedy, news writing, travel writing, play writing, screenwriting and children’s literature. In addition to workshops led by experienced authors, the conference also provides panels where editors, publishers, agents and publicists provide guidance and answer questions from those in attendance. By keeping the registration to fifty, the three-day conference offers a unique intimacy between registrants and faculty members.

An important factor is that young and old writers alike are beginning to challenge and stretch the boundaries of the time-proven literary genres. For example, novels and short fiction alike have delved into areas not usually seen in American literature. While new genres come from those immigrants with recent immigrant experience who retell the American story in another time frame, it also involves the use of multiple codes of communication. Many emerging Latino writers, for example, use a combination of language codes (English/Spanish/Slang/Regional dialects, to convey deep emotion and unique historical experiences.

foto:NHCC. Denise Chávez workshop.
Much of what is written today, emerges in other formats of communication whether it is theatre, radio, movies, TV, social media , or verbal performance. For that reason we have instituted workshops at the conference on topics like “how to present (perform) your work.”
As a result of attending the conference a number of writers have had their work published. Each year the works of two or three registrants get published. Writers have found agents and editors to work with. .In addition other sorts of unions have come about as a result of the networking that takes place. For example a former New York editor became a literary agent with a West Coast agency giving the agency a bi-coastal presence. There are many other success stories that emanate from the NLWC.

foto:NHCC. Luis Urrea wins NHCC Literary Award.
In addition to the workshops and panels, the NLWC has also established a literary prize that is awarded bi-annually. It recognizes Latino/Hispanic authors who have produced a significant body of work and whose writing method or topical choices have engendered the attention of younger writers and set a standard of quality worthy of emulation. In 2006 another prize became the purview of the NLWC. The Premio Aztlán, founded by noted Chicano writer Rudolfo Anaya and his wife Patricia in 1993 and for thirteen years was awarded by the University of New Mexico, has become an annual feature of the NLWC. The annual prize is awarded to an emerging Chicano/a writer who has published their first book and shows the promise to be a productive author.

In order to make the conference accessible to a wide range of Latino writers, the cost is nominal in comparison with other national conferences. The $300 registration covers all workshops and panels as well as meals and a formal awards banquet. During the three-day conference, several opportunities are provided for registrants to read from their work in open microphone sessions. This is one of the most attractive features for aspiring writers who often lead a solitary existence while crafting their own work. Also a great attraction is the guaranteed one-on-one interviews with an author, an editor and an agent during the course of the conference or especially on Saturday morning of the event.

foto:NHCC. Carlos Vásquez & Carlos Fuentes
Each year of the conference the organizers have incorporated many of the registrant’s suggestions captured through evaluations of the conference by those in attendance. This and the intimacy and sense of community that results have many returning to the conference two, three and even four times. Each year the breadth of registrations represents more states of the American union and often also registrants from Mexico and Canada as well. Each year we have added more workshops taught in Spanish by Latin American or Spanish (this year a Moroccan writer) for those who write in the Spanish language.

In order to make the conference experience accessible to college and university students, each year scholarships are awarded to students enrolled in writing courses or programs at one of New Mexico’s two or four-year institutions of higher learning. It is the goal of the organizers to be able to offer such scholarships to students nationwide.

The conference however, is open to all regardless of race, ethnicity or nationality.

Come join us, learn, grow, and get your work known. (click link for more information).

Carlos Vásquez, Director
History and Literary Arts
National Hispanic Cultural Center
Albuquerque, New Mexico

foto:NHCC. NLWC class of 2010 .



On-Line Floricanto, March 8, 2011

1. "Blown Away" by S.M.T. Hedger
2. "The Politics of Existence" by Genny Lim
3. "Dream Act Bicycle Ride" by Abel Salas
4. "When I'm Gone" by Jesus Cortez
5. "San Rafael/Mexico City Blues Poem" by Macki X Carl


Blown Away


Where have all the children gone?
One by one they left?

I want never to see
The pool of blood a child leaves

Still worse is
To look away

The sightless that walk amongst us
Take it all in stride

Bullets rip through our innocents
A shame we can’t conceal

When a small frame falls
From the view of crosshairs

I see the mournful mothers
I hear the wailing fathers

We have lost so many now
Our children pay the price

Too little the time
Too empty the casing

Caught in the scope
Of zero tolerance

Too void the justice
Too loud the boom

How can we emerge from the darkness
When we kill the light

Written for the fallen desert blossoms:

Tanee Natividad
16 years old girl
Shot and killed
Tucson, Arizona
November 18, 2001

Brisenia Flores
9 year old girl
Shot and killed
Arivaca, Arizona
May 30, 2009

Sergio Huereca
15 year old boy
Shot and killed
Mexico-Texas Border
June 6, 2010

Brenda Arenas
15 year old girl
Shot and killed
Tucson, Arizona
August 5, 2009

Christina Green
9 year old girl
Shot and killed
Tucson, Arizona
January 8, 2011

Lovingly this poem is dedicated to these children; and to all children that find their end in front of a gun.




The Politics of Existence

Three Blind Mice, three blind mice
See how they run, see how they run

We have laid traps for you
Do you know the grammar of being?
We don’t want you!
It is not just a question of
syntax or meaning
The problem of existence is
the problem of citizenship
You think it is a joke?

You have no papers
No number in the system
You do not exist
You are a non-being
another, an other
vermin
You see, the problem of
existence is identity and
you have none
legally speaking

You exist in a dream of yourself
in a country unto yourself
You think you are alive
because you are running, running
scared from the farmer’s wife
who cut off your tails with a carving knife
But yet you come
in a river of invisibility
in the blind faith of possibility
at daybreak, at midnight
in the cold sweat of gunfire
under a deaf mute moon
riding on the shadow of a coyote
at three o’clock, six o’clock
breaking the curfew of hours
slipping through the rules and cracks
into a desert with no water, no food
with fingers, nose and face numb
from stray bullets, asking
“What day is it? What time is it?
How do I reach the other side?”

You want the aroma of coffee
the sound of twittering birds and
a nice warm fire to thaw your bones
because you know that life is a miracle
not a right and that sleep arises from
the division of dawn and breath
out of the death of previous days
into the creation of new being
but you are not allowed to breathe
to be reborn or to give birth and
there will be no one to count your
dead once you are gone
so you carry them on your shoulders
all the ones who cried for help
the ones with the crushed skulls
mangled flesh and bullet holes
the Brisenia Floreses and
their fathers or the five thousand
nameless others in their unmarked
graves and their unending funerals
because in spite of the wreaths
the pink and yellow roses and
the smell of death
they did not exist
did not figure in the syntax
or geometry of existence
but only in the mundane
procession of days and
alien life as pleased
by the Border Gods
You only hear the last words
of Brisenia echoing in your ears
“Please don’t shoot me!”

copyright 2011 by Genny Lim





DREAM ACT BICYCLE RIDE

This morning after
East Los rains and the
purifying power of
water flooding the
streets of Boyle Heights
and City Terrace
a group of biciclistas
gather en el corazon
del pueblo before
a 50 mile bike ride
in support of a
Dream Act for kids
in the state that gave
us granola and tofu,
an army of immigrant
love astride two wheels
on the way to Santa Ana
to show how much
the dream does matter
This morning after
a return from the
first-ever Floricanto
in Washington DC
maestros y maestras
and the power of
poetry like seeds
erupting from earth
This morning after
music and celebration
at La Mina Circle with
the boys from Chamba
who open their doors
with respect and grace
This morning when
the California sun
blesses my face and
reminds me of my
forever Valentine
my mother born on
February 14th under
the sign of Aquarius
who has my heart
always there on the
other side of life
This morning when
I read of another
poet's passing like
the tide or a moon
that gravity recalls
I sing an ode to
Mujeres de Maiz and
the brothers and
sisters who pedal
south for sueños
I give thanks for
this day and again
for all my relations
for a songtress who
invites me to read
near the ocean on
the west side of LA
and the peace that
comes from knowing
that I have been kissed
on a bar stool by a
pre-school teacher
who then shakes
my hand and tells me
I should be glad
each time I am
embraced



abel salas

20 de febrero






When I'm Gone

Who will you hate
when I'm gone?
When your plan
is done,
and this dream
of yours
becomes my
nightmare...
will you hate
your eyes
for reminding
you of me,
or that mole
that contrasts
with the perfection
you seek,
or your daughter
or son who
speak in a
tongue that
resembles mine...
who will you hate
when there is no
one to hate,
this hate not
fooled by "ignorance",
because you
have always known
my face...

By: Jesus Cortez





"San Rafael/Mexico City Blues Poem"

Prologue
A superficial reading of one of these poems [in the book of lyrics by Kerouac] led me to believe he was referring to Burroughs -- the section where Kerouac is taking down the words of old junkie Bill Garver -- I think he calls him Bill Gaines -- "Boy if you only knew how good dem bacons and dem eggs is, you'd give up poetry boy and dig in,"etc. -- the theme carries through about five choruses [of the book].

O magic countless in time this morning,
O risen sun late on the horizon,
San Rafael, your office workers
with shiny hair and backpacks
a tow in endless motion and still asleep
on sleek commuter buses
do not notice the copy of Mexico City Blues
beside my bag on the seat cushion
next to me.
This workaday I will play tag
with Kerouac,
and I am still in that reverie
as the bus pulls into
a transfer stop.
Now workers with grit-worn shirts
standing in line at a deli
quick stop
smile as they fill
cups of coffee and pay.
In the Canal the street are dim
candlelight from the ones
holding prayer vigils
against the ICE raids
shines in sweet candescence.
Earth kisses the sun
through them.

Carl Macki


BIOS

1. "Blown Away" by S.M.T. Hedger
2. "The Politics of Existence" by Genny Lim
3. "Dream Act Bicycle Ride" by Abel Salas
4. "When I'm Gone" by Jesus Cortez
5. "San Rafael/Mexico City Blues Poem" by Macki X Carl

S. M. T. HedgerSara was born and raised in the Arizona desert amongst the foothills of the Superstition Spring Mountains. It was a beautiful childhood full of vibrant sunsets and cactus bones. She became aware of social issues and inequalities at a very young age, and has always used poetry to mend. Her first published poem, “Why War?”, was written when she was in the 2nd grade and featured in her school newspaper. More recently her poetry has been seen on Immigrants2befree and on the Facebook page Poets Responding to SB1070. In January, Sara was invited to read “I Will Be Silent No More” on France Kassing’s radio show, on KDVS 90.3 FM broadcast from UC Davis, California. Her work will also appear in Blue Guitar Magazine this spring. She has written thousands of poems and is working on her first book. Her proudest achievement is her volunteer work to stop the deportation of American veterans. You can join her and learn more at www.valenzuelabothers.com. Currently she lives in Syracuse, NY as a student, wife and mother.



Genny LimShe is author of Paper Angels, which aired on PBS’s American Playhouse in 1985 and more recently, awarded Best Site Specific Performance at San Francisco Fringe Festival in 2010. She has two poetry collections, Winter Place, Child of War and is co-author of Island: Poetry and History of Chinese Immigrants on Angel Island. Her solo performance, Where is Tibet? was featured in Women on the Way Festival in January 2011 and she has performed in live and recorded poetry/music collaborations with jazz masters, Max Roach, Herbie Lewis, Francis Wong, Jon Jang and John Santos.


Abel SalasAbel Salas is the publisher/editor at Brooklyn & Boyle, an Eastside arts, literature and community journal based in the historic Boyle Heights neighborhood. A poet and journalist, he also currently serves on the board at Corazón del Pueblo, an East Side community cultural arts center and collective. He has taught creative writing in LA County juvenile halls and his writing has appeared in The New York Times, Los Angeles Times Magazine, Los Angeles Magazine, Artillery Magazine, New Angeles Monthly, Latina Magazine, The Austin Chronicle,The Brownsville Herald, and Zyzzyva, A Journal of West Coast Art & Architecture, among many others. Salas has been invited to share his poetry on stages in Havana, Toluca, Mexico D.F. He is the author of the forthcoming book, Los Angel[es]: El Lay and the chapbook Lone Oak in December/El Encino Invernal (1998) and the monograph Hija de Guadalupe/Child of Guadalupe (2007). A moderator with the Facebook commuyity Poets Responding to SB1070, he recently traveled to Washington DC to help coordinate a historic Floricanto on the steps of the U.S. Capitol Building.


Jesus Cortez
Jesus Cortez is a 30 year-old poet from West Anaheim, California. His inspiration comes from his immigrant background, the street life, the pain of his people and the pain of all people. He knows that poems are like bullets against oppression, but that more action is needed if changes are to come.



Carl Macki
Carl Macki is a writer, graphic artist & promoter living in Fairfax, California. A frequent contributor to social networks, he maintains his oldest blog at http://thizzled.blogspot.com.

Tuesday, March 01, 2011

Sor Juana Conference; Barrio Writers TV; On-Line Floricanto

Major Sor Juana Conference Due at CSULA

mural detail, r.anguiano'93, mexico df.
La Bloga friend Roberto Cantú alerts readers thirsting for academic knowledge and analysis surrounding Sor Juana Inés de la Cruz; prepare to slake that thirst with deep draughts sprung from un manantial of notable scholars at CSULA--not the westside’s LA but the eastside’s LA.

Cantú and staff have filled the conference to the brim with effervescent topics and speakers. For the details, click this link.

http://conferenceonsorjuanainesdelacruz.blogspot.com/


Barrio Writers on OC TV

La Bloga friend and youth mentor, Sara Rafael Garcia, alerts La Bloga readers in Orange County that Barrio Writers is the focus of a television show via local cable, through March 16, 2011.

To download the City of Garden Grove’s press release, containing the full broadcast schedule of the program (Word doc), click here.



On-Line Floricanto Marching into Spring


Selections for the March 2 issue of La Bloga:

1. "Always Here, a poem in response to SB 1070," by Rich Villar

2. "Los Santos Gitanos" by Odilia Galván Rodríguez

3. "Many Walls" by Sarah Browning

4. "Stalking the Divine Under a Desert Full Moon" by Pam Uschuk

5. "Hip-hópera de dos inmigrantes" por Carlos Parada Ayala



ALWAYS HERE

for Arizona and everywhere else

by Rich Villar


lacking a proper entrance
into a poem
about Arizona Senate Bill 1070
prompts me instead
to tell you

about the flamboyanes blooming
in Doña Yeya's mouth
every time she speaks
about her children,
or the pasteles that do not
wrap themselves
until blood is offered to the masa
or the boys she sent to Germany
who came back headless
and quoting Bible verses
or the girls
with twenty years of bruises
at the hands of those same boys
who were told asi es la vida
without the slightest sense of irony
who shouldered Nuyorican babies
dutifully to Bayamón
dreaming about a nation
under which they cannot
legally claim citizenship
or parrandas of gold stomping
flat the Jersey snow
forgetting that coquito
never meant cold weather
or the act of forgetting
beneath every aguinaldo

because civil cafesito
and politics cannot coexist
and we do not question
our birth certificates
unless we are agents of Homeland Security
because we were born American citizens
and as such are eligible to die
at a higher rate
in exchange for houses in Jersey
that we do not own

There are Puerto Ricans
in Arizona and New York and Nebraska and
I promise you good gente
it makes no difference
if your grandmother conjures
Michoacan or Mayaguez
in her flowered breath
it makes no difference
if you bless the four winds
or pray to San Juan Bautista

to those who only see papers
and brown flesh
who cannot locate your cities
on the maps
of conquerors or conquered

you are a threat

and if this is the case
gente
I say
Be a threat. Unquieted,
bloom where you are not permitted
to bloom. Disjointed,
walk anywhere you please, stumble
if you must, but be present.
And when they ask you
where you keep your company,
tell them here, here,
always here.

-Rich Villar, 2011





(This is the poem I read at the Floricanto in DC Saturday, February 5 2011 in front of the US Capitol)

Los Santos Gitanos*

For workers everywhere, to all farm workers, factory workers, restaurant and hotel workers, and yes our soldiers ~ especially all those who believe that their only alternative to working for drug dealers or drug cartels is signing up for military service …

by Odilia Galván Rodríguez


metal tongues
caught and
squeezed
in two hands
gypsy woman
catches the wind
rushing through
valleys across this nation

hot earth gasping we inhale
sighing our deep breaths
escape in your sweet bellows
gypsy man play our songs
bleed out our tears shout
about torn hands ripped

by their crowns of thorns
stuck in the white
cash crop

we’ve picked the pieces
endless miles that never stop
pounds carried on our stooped
backs held in the downy soft
canvas bags snaking long
behind us in rows we chop chop
chop an eternity like picking
lice from children’s heads

we cry the shame all our pain
is screamed out in your songs
gypsy woman play it say
it’s okay to wail roar out
the bad winds that catch
in our throats los yantos
want to escape and they leap free
from our newly parted chests

we are reflected in the songs of these saints
who follow us like guardian angels
from camp to camp singing and
playing out our inner most
hopes our dreams offered up
sheer sound shouted long
loud enough to reach heaven
blow open the gates and there
are no harps just the caterwauls
these gypsies always played
on their live breathing squeeze boxes

©Odilia Galván Rodríguez, 2002 from Migratory Birds: New and Noted Poems

*The Gypsy Saints
~ refers to those musicians who followed the migrant stream from labor camp to labor camp across the US.




Many Walls

by Sarah Browning


On the border with Mexico
we call it a fence, as if
to lean on its top, chat
with those neighbors
to the south, trade rakes,
trade gossip. Call it a fence,
call it a gate, call it good –
still, Nogales, Arizona,
Nogales, Sonora: trench,
ground sensors, infrared
night-vision scopes.

In Palestine, the land’s already
been taken – families on one side,
orange groves on the other.
Ours is a culture of many walls
the Saudi poet writes
in her email. Translated
into Japanese, her poems
vault the high barriers
of this world. Young people
sat on the Berlin Wall
and waved the flags
of their future.

I want a flag that waves
like that, for bricks
that go home in tourist
luggage, for the Saudi poet
and her sisters, for touch.
I want the flag of touch,
the flag of men waiting
for work in the morning
chill of the 7-11 parking lot,
the flag of nannies
pushing strollers to the park
for fellowship and swings,
flag of the women
who spend each day
changing the soiled sheets
of their new country.

I want the flag of talking,
of sitting on the disintegrating
wall and gabbing, gossiping,
negotiating, waving that flag
of no walls. That flag.

© Sarah Browning
This poem first appeared in The Tidal Basin Review.




STALKING THE DIVINE UNDER A DESERT FULL MOON

by Pam Uschuk



I.

Bleached as the bones of migatory birds, broken
stones powder the foothills above Phoenix’s million lights.
What shadows mark the true currency
of freedom's long journey into the divine?

The arms of Saguaros rise like so many immigrants
pinned to night sky, twisted and begging
stars from the deaf hands of Gods
whose language of NO clicks like bullets shoved
into the chambers of ignorance and disdain.

II.

We are not afraid of rattlers,
refugees whisper to crushed granite
that doesn’t believe them,
not afraid of the sidelong skitter
of the fanged tarantula looking for a mate
or the Gila Monster, its hide beaded
as a bag slung over the bare shoulder of a night queen.

We are not afraid of javelinas who materialize
to stampede, clattering through creosote bushes
on either side of our legs, they say,
knowing their skin is vulnerable
as tears smearing la migra’s indifferent fists.

II.

How did they finally arrive in this place
from the slums of Nogales,
Guerrero’s empty stomach
or a busted maiz farm in Chiapas?
Stars shatter like the headlights of Border Patrol trucks
on impact with their starving shoulders
at the edge of infrared sights.

Desert wind scours this emptiness,
a lock-jawed wind disguised as law
emptying hatred like molten tar
into callouses pocking poor hands
offered to this country’s needs.

III.

We do not fear the owl, heavy horned
and menacing a mesquite, owl landing
like a small boulder thrown into lacey limbs, owl
whose eyes are chiseled from yellow ice,
asking who,
who, who is next?

IV.

Blue dwarfs spin near Scorpio poised
to sting the Southern horizon
where moon lifts her saffron robes
into acetylene white, blind
as the scald of searchlights on a child’s terrified face,
blind as the metal bite of handcuffs
on a father’s wrists, blind as
a mother’s belief in a better life for her kids.

V.

Walking the desert, we learn
our places, learn the strict edicts
of talons and venom, of wild pigs
who materialize to surround us, popping
scimitar teeth, slitting thighs
and torsos to bare ribs, learn
finally that borders
are merciless as the promise of safe haven,
and the avenging angels of governors
that snuff out the small songs of our lives.

We do not fear any of them.
Moon, oh Moon, we do not shrink
from your luminous heart
transforming desert dust to silver.
As you ascend the nexus of dark, teach us
to flex our free
wings
which can never be legislated
even when our tongues offend the unjust
who would extinguish our common human fire.

@ Pamela Uschuk
from WILD IN THE PLAZA OF MEMORY





Hip-hópera de dos inmigrantes

por Carlos Parada Ayala



I. Chirilagua Blues

Yo soy de Chirilagua,
mi mujer de Intipucá.
Trabajo día y noche,
vivo en una cruel ciudad.

A mi me deportaron,
pero me volví a colar.
Yo era indocumentado,
y ahora tengo la “green card”.

Yo me metí sin nada,
tenía solo una ilusión:
pasar de jornalero
y llegar a ser patrón.

Me traje a mis dos hijos
a una escuela refinada.
Uno de ellos me dijo,
“Padre, tú no estás en nada”.

Mi mujer no me aguanta,
dice que ya no la quiero;
pero es que en los United,
el trabajo está primero.

Un hijo fue a la guerra,
lo mataron en Iraq.
El otro está en la cárcel
de donde nunca saldrá.

¿Qué ondas con esas armas
masivas de destrucción?
Los gobernantes mienten
hasta por televisión.

Con toda esta experiencia
puedo ver la luz del día:
el sueño americano
es una horrible pesadilla.

Yo soy de Chirilagua,
mi mujer de Intipucá.
Trabajo día y noche,
vivo en una cruel ciudad.


II. Peregrino

Yo crucé la frontera porque no tenía otra opción.
En mi patria el gobierno ha perdido la razón.
No se encuentra trabajo ni hay libertad de expresión.
La gente espera y lucha pero no ve solución.
Este es el resultado de la globalización.
Por eso vine al Norte a buscar la salvación.

Trabajo día y noche para salir adelante.
“Ladrillo por ladrillo te conviertes en gigante”.
Así dicen la prensa y hasta algunos gobernantes.
Ese es como un castigo en extremo sofocante.
Pero así seguiré hasta que la migra me levante,
y volveré a colarme aunque esta gente no me aguante.

Yo soy el peregrino que construye el porvenir.
Yo no vine en barco pero a pié me vi salir.
Mi barco fue el mercado que se encarga en dividir
a ricos y a pobres que nadie va a consentir.
Así cruce fronteras a pesar de mi sufrir.
Nací indocumentado y así me voy a morir.

Pidiendo los papeles he pasado muchos años.
Me piden evidencia, archivos de este tamaño.
Quieren asegurarse que no les causaré daño.
Yo no soy terrorista, ni soy bestia de rebaño.
Y aunque pase la vida sometido a sus engaños:
Sin visa llegaron los peregrinos de antaño.

© Carlos Parada Ayala




BIOS

1. "Always Here, a poem in response to SB 1070," by Rich Villar

2. "Los Santos Gitanos" by Odilia Galván Rodríguez

3. "Many Walls" by Sarah Browning

4. "Stalking the Divine Under a Desert Full Moon" by Pam Uschuk

5. "Hip-hópera de dos inmigrantes" por Carlos Parada Ayala

Rich Villar


Odilia Galván RodríguezOdilia Galván Rodríguez, is a poet/activist and healer. She has been involved in social justice organizing and helping people find their creative and spiritual voice for over two decades through facilitating creative writing workshops. Odilia is a moderator and one of the founding members of Poets Responding to SB 1070 on facebook.



Sarah BrowningSarah Browning is director of Split This Rock, a national organization dedicated to integrating the poetry of provocation and witness into public life and supporting the poets who write this vital work. She is an Associate Fellow of the Institute for Policy Studies, Poetry Co-Editor of On The Issues Magazine, author of Whiskey in the Garden of Eden (The Word Works, 2007), and co-editor of D.C. Poets Against the War: An Anthology (Argonne House Press, 2004). The recipient of an artist fellowship from the DC Commission on the Arts & Humanities, she has also received a Creative Communities Initiative grant and the People Before Profits Poetry Prize. She co-hosts the Sunday Kind of Love reading series at Busboys and Poets in Washington, DC, where she lives with her husband and son.

Pam UschukCalled by BLOOMSBURY REVIEW, “one of the most insightful and spirited poets today,” Pamela Uschuk’s five books of poems including her latest, CRAZY LOVE (2009, Wings Press), winner of the 2010 American Book Award.

Translated into a dozen languages, Uschuk’s work has appeared in nearly 300 publications, including POETRY, AGNI, and PLOUGHSHARES. Among her awards are the 2010 NEW MILLENIUM POETRY PRIZE, 2010 Best of the Web, and prize from the Struga Poetry Festival,National League of American PEN Women, Chester H. Jones Foundation, AMNESTY INTERNATIONAL and others.

Uschuk teaches at Fort Lewis College, directs the Southwest Writers Institute and is Editor-In-Chief of CUTTHROAT, A JOURNAL OF THE ARTS. She is the Hodges Visiting Writer at Univesity of Tennessee, Knoxville during spring semester 2011. She makes her home with the poet William Pitt Root, a white wolf, a rescue dog and a cat in Bayfield, CO.

Carlos Parada AyalaCarlos Parada Ayala (San Juan Opico, El Salvador, 1956). Ganador del premio de poesía Larry Neal de la Comisión de las Artes de Washington, DC, Carlos Parada Ayala es co-editor de la antología Al pie de la Casa Blanca: Poetas hispanos de Washington, DC publicada por la Academia Norteamericana de la Lengua Española (Nueva York, julio de 2010). Esta obra, co-editada con el poeta argentino Luis Alberto Ambroggio, fue seleccionada en septiembre de 2010 por la Biblioteca del Congreso de Estados Unidos para celebrar 400 años de poesía hispana en Estados Unidos. Parada Ayala tiene una licenciatura en literatura española, latinoamericana, y brasileña de Amherst College, Massachusetts. Es miembro del grupo de poetas salvadoreños Alta hora de la noche y es uno de los fundadores de ParaEsoLaPalabra, un colectivo de escritores, artistas y activistas cuyo objetivo es promover las artes, la música y la literatura en las comunidades de habla hispana de la zona metropolitana de Washington, DC.


A recipient of Washington, DC’s, Commission on the Arts Larry Neal Poetry Award in 2005, Carlos Parada Ayala co-edited the anthology Al pie de la Casa Blanca: Poetas hispanos de Washington, DC published by the North American Academy of the Spanish Language in New York in July 2010. Co-edited with Argentinean poet Luis Alberto Ambroggio, the US Library of Congress selected this anthology to celebrate 400 years of Hispanic poetry in the United States in September of 2010. Parada Ayala graduated from Amherst College, Massachusetts, with a degree in Spanish, Latin American and Brazilian literature. He is a member of the Salvadoran poetry collective Late Night Hour, and is a founding member of ParaEsoLaPalabra, a collective of writers, artists and activists whose goal is to promote the arts, music and literature in the Spanish speaking communities of the Washington, DC metropolitan area.

Tuesday, March 25, 2008

Review: Calligraphy of the Witch

Alicia Gaspar de Alba. NY: St. Martin's Press, 2007.
ISBN: 0-312-36641-8



Michael Sedano

Alicia Gaspar de Alba has done it again, created an incredibly arresting novel, Calligraphy of the Witch. It’s a deeply emotional story with some of the same flavor as Gaspar de Alba’s important 1999 novel, Sor Juana’s Second Dream. In Calligraphy of the Witch, a character from Sor Juana’s convent—the nun’s scribe, in fact—frees a slave from the sadistic Mother Superior and they flee hopefully to freedom they seek in a black colony near Vera Cruz. But Aléndula, the slave, and Concepción Benavídez, the amanuensis, are captured by a Dutch slaver and carried into rape and captivity, up to Boston.

The pirate captain’s surname, de Graaf, is too much for the British tongue, so he’s been christened Seagraves by the Boston merchants. When he sells Concepción as a slave, her given name is irrelevant and the Greenwoods name her Thankful Seagraves, in honor of her freedom to be their slave.

Gaspar de Alba partitions Concepción’s story into manageable parts. An introduction in a daughter’s voice. The brutal voyage from New Spain, her earliest years in Boston, a middle passage when Thankful Seagraves is married to the old man Tobias Webb--Goody Greenwood’s father-- Concepción’s trial and imprisonment as a witch, and the end story. Several passages are typeset in script in the manner of a scribe. Fortunately, the script font is entirely legible, thus adding to the reading experience.

The voyage to New England for the twenty-something Concepción is one rape after another followed by beating and all manner of brutality. Unknown to the dark-skinned de Graaf, he’s impregnated the girl with his blonde genes. That’s what Concepción’s daughter looks like, far more resembling Rebecca Greenwood’s blonde blue-eyedness than the mestiza birth mother’s brown skin and bi-colored eyes.

The merchant Greenwoods have been unable to sire another offspring, so Rebecca starts a devious program to steal the child and raise the girl as her own daughter. This entails turning the child against the mother in truly horrific ways. The culture of the Visible Saints breeds hatred into the child, and when the mother Thankful Seagraves is arrested for witchery, her Popery, the devilish Spanish tongue the mother speaks provide persuasive evidence of guilt. Even more persuasive is the brainswashed daughter has provided the most damning evidence, such as the devil’s own creed embroidered on a cloth the mother lovingly insisted the child memorize:

Hombres necios que acusáis
a la mujer sin razón,
sin ver que sois la ocasión
de lo mismo que culpáis:

si con ansia sin igual
solicitáis su desdén,
¿por qué queréis que obren bien
si las incitáis al mal?

Forced to translate, Concepcíon recognizes how Sor Juana’s satire could turn itself into evidence before the clouded evil of Cotton Mather and his ilk:

Whose is the greater fault
In an errant passion?
She who falls for pleading,
Oh he who, fallen, pleads?
Who is more to blame,
Although both be guilty of transgression,
She who sins for a commission,
Or he who for sin will pay?

Hence with much logic do I unravel
That men’s arrogance wins the battle
For in ways direct or subtle
Men are the sum of world and flesh and devil.

With Concepción’s differences with her world viewed therein as not mere deficits but signs of evil, the reader is not surprised at the tragic consequences that befall the Mexican slave. Yet, the author keeps the reader hanging on every incident and development. Despite foreshadowing the story’s most tragic elements—the novel’s introduction in the estranged daughter’s voice, the seer’s vision that daughter would be stolen by the barren merchant’s wife and turned against mother, Concepción’s education at Sor Juana’s hand plopped in the middle of superstitious Puritans—Gaspar de Alba keeps a reader in thrall through every incident and stomach-turning violation.

Against these fearful pressures, Alicia Gaspar de Alba builds an almost unbearable tension. Will the innocent woman be hanged as were others? Will the daughter discover the truth, and if discovered, accept it? What could possibly save Concepción from the inevitable? So intense does the author build the tension that the reader keeps turning pages repeating the incantation, “it’s only fiction, it’s only a story”.

An excellent story, and, as one would expect, more than a mere historical exercise. There’s a strong contemporaneity in Concepcíon Benavídes’ Thankful Seagraves story that reflects our times or echoes themes of earlier literatura chicana. An uneven struggle for identity caught in the conflict between the weaker Spanish-speaking culture and the dominant English-speaking world creates strength in the parent but a burning desire of the daughter not to be seen as her mother’s child. As the witch hysteria begins to cool, the validity of confessions won through torture takes on a clarity for some that others refuse to accept. An underlying greed and covetousness masked by the guise of righteousness infects the rise and ebb of injustice.

Concepcíon is one of those flies to wanton gods who bounces helplessly from powerful enemy to powerful enemy until the abuse grows too great. Much of the tension in Calligraphy of the Witch grows from the seemingly total helplessness of women and the evil of men. What’s a woman to do? When Greenwood’s lust turns to rape, in a blind rage Thankful Seagraves wraps a rope around her former owner’s neck and throttles him good. The reader’s heart leaps with joy, so completely evil a character Gaspar de Alba has crafted, then sinks in dread. Had she killed him, there could be no possibility of reprieve. But what of hope? When a woman is battered so much that her only recourse seems to be murder, what should she, what can she do?

Among Concepcíon’s practices is writing letters to Sor Juana, Aléndula, and Concepcíon’s mother, only to burn them later, in the woods. This deviltry becomes evidence against her in her witchery trial. But in one such letter, the scribe offers a lesson she hopes her daughter might one day profit from:

“Aléndula once told me that there are always four choices to every decision: the wise choice, the foolish choice, the safe choice, and the choice that someone else makes for you. “

In the end, Hanna Jeremiah Greenwood, née Juana Jerónima Benavídez, is faced with this logic. It is 1704. Her mother has been gone a decade, and Mama Becca has died, too. Hanna Jerónima, la bebita de Concepcíon is a mother of twins whom she’s named in English after herself and her unknown Mexican grandmother. Daughter comes to a point in her life when she can finally shed herself of all that heritage and go on with her English life. She will make one of those four choices, either leaving the reader frustrated, or completely frustrated, either a little joyful or fully relieved. In that welter of emotions will be a bit of sadness accepting that the story did have finally to end.

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