Poetry In Beautiful Burbank

Colloquy, Reading, Online Floricanto

Michael Sedano 

Two o’clock on a Friday afternoon makes an ideal hour to start a poetry reading, and with poets Alicia Viguer-Espert in tandem with Nancy Murphy, La Bloga gladly takes a seat in the Buena Vista Branch of Burbank Public Library. 

We enjoy an hour-plus of engaging dialogue and astounding poetry between the poets, then a Q&A with responsive listeners. And we're home before dark. Órale to the planners.

The hour comes as a feature in Reader Engagement Librarian Kyle Moreno’s service to the library’s mission. It’s an active poetry program with longevity; for example, in June 2024, La Bloga attended an early iteration of a conversation/reading, "Writing from Our Immigrant Hearts." (link. The innovative panel reading will be published in book form in the near future, details to follow.)

Viguer-Espert and Murphy’s mutual interview blending poetry performance offers this audience a satisfying listening and learning experience. Hearing superbly written and expressed work is the raison d’être for attending a poetry hour, and the poets not only fulfill but surpass expectations for sublime writing. More, colloquy of two minds into the discovery of subjects, disclosure,  and other vital elements of the poetry writing process, enriches the readings. The poets’ talk informs and sharpens insight into poems of empty places, absence, distance and separation.

The poets granted La Bloga-Tuesday permission to share a poem from the Friday reading to accompany the portraits captured during the readings.

 Alicia Viguer-Espert

She Lifts Her Burka 

By Alicia Viguer-Espert

I wonder how tough this young Kabul woman has it. This woman who shows me her lovely fifteen years old face, polished nails bright red, and the green eyes of a 1985 National Geographic cover. A youth already betrothed to a man three times her age, a friend of her father’s, luckily with only one wife, she whispers. Leaning on the noise of a building’s façade to hide her dismay, or protect herself from viewers, she pushes her chaperone’s hands as they try to pull the burka back. At home family prepares Halwa and praises God for the engagement. Nervous, asks about life in Europe, if I am allowed to dance until sunrise, how often women die in childbirth, whether I am married, and if my husband beats me. With the last question her smile disappears. I survey the snowy ridges circling us like rapacious birds starving for prey in that frigid December morning. He’s a good man, maybe he’ll let me go back to school, she says frowning.

I think about her often, her beauty, youth, pray fate will treat her with enough benevolence to raise healthy, educated children. She wouldn’t have had a chance, untrained as she was, but her daughters did before the Taliban. Now icy clouds of misery engulf the city, women sit around clanky kerosene stoves without kerosene, debate the dangers of defying the jailers to have a life of their own, or else. 

a bright light

fades fast

under the burka

Nancy Murphy

                                                                                   

 

All that Bergamot*

By Nancy Murphy

We are on our way from LA to Zion, 

the one in Utah. We stop in Hemet, 

 

the desert, a Starbucks. I need a midday 

lift. A man sits in a battered wheelchair 

 

by the entrance, no hat. It’s 102 degrees. 

His clothes an assembly of fabrics 

 

the color of an espresso he can’t afford. 

Sunburnt leathered face, patches 

 

of a beard, he was a blonde once. He was 

a lot of things once. I motion Brian 

 

to avoid walking past him. It’s just

a reflex. Not personal. Inside the cool 

 

café I order my usual–tea latte 

with English Breakfast tea, not

 

Earl Grey (all that bergamot!), 

soy milk for its sweet vanilla traces,

 

one Splenda, something I hope 

doesn’t kill me one day if they find

 

it causes cancer. But I’ve tried to quit

and I just can’t. As I wait I notice 

 

how I’m still able to make eye contact 

with strangers even with our masks on.

 

I think, we are all learning to use 

our eyes more. Humans are a wonder. 

 

The man outside the door comes into my mind. 

No one looks him in the eye. Sympathy floods

 

me, and some shame. But what does that buy? 

Even so, I resolve to give him something, 

 

and to ask him something. I say nothing 

as we exit. He turns towards us, the usual pitch 

 

beginning, Hey do you….I lurch forward, 

drop some bills into his lap so I don’t 

 

have to touch his hands, because, well 

covid of course. Then I pause, lean in, take in 

 

his face. I say, What’s your name?

He startles, squints, replies, What’s my name?

 

I turn quickly now with a small wave, 

mumble goodbye, hurry on to the car, 

 

flushed from the heat, the moment. 

Brian stands waiting, holding the door 

 

open for me, a habit he can’t break, 

a habit that makes me impatient. I’m 

 

ungrateful like that.    Then I hear 

a voice calling out behind me.            

 

Floyd.  My name is Floyd.

 

* The characteristic flavor of Earl Grey tea comes from the addition of bergamot. 

Raza in the Ozarks: The C.D. Wright Women's Conference

Melinda Palacio

Camille T. Dungy presented her keynote speech Friday evening

Last week, I brought my code-switching poetry to the C.D.Wright Women Writers Conference at the University of Central Arkansas in Conway. Before Bill Clinton's presidency, I admit I gave Arkansas very little thought. My poetry pal, Gina Ferrara, whom I've shared many a poetry stage with, asked if I would agree to read my poetry with her and Julie Kane, Poet Laureate Emerita of Louisiana. All of the conference presenters and most of the attendees with a handful of exceptions were women. I enjoyed the strong sense of female camaraderie, and visiting a state I had never been to was an added bonus.

Our panel and moderator

Early attendees grab a good seat.

Arkansas experiences autumn in its full bloom. I had only heard stories about the vibrant colors of autumn leaves and how one friend had to rake up all the leaves in their backyard and would jump into the pile before bagging them, a ritual repeated until winter. I felt like a kid as I stopped to photograph the leaves and gave my camera to Gina so that I could scoop up and handful of red, gold, and yellow confetti that I threw up in the air. I was in awe of the simple pleasure that I didn't have growing up in the inner city of South-Central Los Angeles.

Autumn wonderland at the University of Central Arkansa

The conference honors a poet of the Ozarks, C.D. Wright, who died in 2016 at age sixty-seven. She was the daughter of a judge and a court reporter and published over a dozen books. Her work has been labeled experimental, socially conscious, and elliptical. I find her poetry fascinating. She was married to the poet Forrest Gander and together they ran Lost Roads Press for over 20 years. The conference featured two keynote speakers: poet Camille T. Dungy and novelist Jami Attenberg who now lives in New Orleans. Readings, workshops, and a book fair were crammed into the two-day conference. I was surprised so many attended our panel and even more impressed by the large turnout of diverse women. The format is one to emulate: small, focused, and inclusive. The exciting thing about this conference is that the content always changes, unlike some conferences that keep the same workshop leaders year after year. The food was good, the goody bags packed with pen, paper, candy, a schedule, an eyeglass cloth, and a coaster.

The handful of leaves I packed in my folder are as vibrant as those fallen in the photo. 

One of the most useful sessions was Caitlin Hamilton Summie's 75-minute workshop: Shout about It: Promotion Basics for Writers. She emphasized knowing your market and being prepared to start promoting your book well in advance of its publication. The big take-away was if you have an idea for a book, start thinking of how you want to market it. Most writers don't want to think about the business side of writing. I've made the mistake of relying too much on my publisher to get the word out about my books. Thanks to this workshop, I will be better prepared to market my next book. I also had the chance to do some further research for my next novel as the road back involved stops along Route 66, the setting for the novel I am currently seeking representation for, fodder for what I hope will be a future La Bloga post.


NEXT STOP:

The 36th Annual San Luis Obispo Poetry Festival
I will be reading, along with Luke Johnson, Jeanie Greensfelder, and Toni Wynn at the SLO Library, 996 Palm Street, San Luis Obispo
Sunday, November 17 at 1:30 pm