E. A. "Tony" Mares is one of the veteranos of the
1973 Festival de Flor y Canto who joined the 2010 reunion floricanto,
Festival de Flor y Canto Yesterday•Today•Tomorrow, again at University of Southern California. Tony stands next to Manuel Ramos and Luis J. Rodriguez at right.
Tony transitioned to the Other Side last week, succumbing to the wear and tear of a good life and an illness that helped take him.
Tony is gone, but his friends and readers of literatura Chicana can continue to share Mares' work via the
USC Digital Library, where the 1973 festival videos and photographs are fully accessible.
La Bloga friend Jésus Treviño put this tribute to Tony at
Latinopia, as the 2010 floricanto videos are not yet linked.
Mail Bag
Spec-Lit / Sci-Fi Resource
La Bloga friend Sabrina Vourvoulias joins La Bloga's Ernest Hogan and Rudy Ch. García in promoting reading and writing speculative fiction, science fiction, and related genre work.
Vourvoulias regularly shares her enthusiasm for the genres at her blog,
Follow the Lede, This week, Sabrina urges gente to read
Tor.com, sending along the following (screen dump, links not active).
February On-line Floricanto
Rafael Jesús González, Paul Portugés, Margarita Cota-Cárdenas, Javier Pacheco, Betty Sánchez, Tom Sheldon, Mark Lipman
After the Lecture / Después del Discurso by Rafael Jesús González
North by Paul Portuges
Canto por ti and
SB 1070, Ariztlán: A lo que nos llevó by Margarita Cota-Cárdenas
La Batea/The Washboard by Javier Pacheco
Vaivén por Betty Sánchez
(Lodestone) by Tom Sheldon
Goodnight America by Mark Lipman
After the Lecture
by Rafael Jesús González
for Martin Luther King Jr.
A woman said I was not polite
to the opposition,
that I was harsh
and did not encourage
discourse.
Perhaps if I were Christ,
I could say, “Forgive them
for they know not what they do.”
Or the queen, and apologize
for stubbing my executioner’s toes.
But only if I knew
the executioners
were mine only.
What courtesy have I the right to give
to them who break the bones,
the souls of my brothers,
my sisters;
deny bread, books
to the hungry,
the children;
medicine, healing
to the sick;
roofs to the homeless;
who spoil the oceans,
lay waste the forests
and the deserts,
violate the land?
Affability on the lips
of outrage
is a sin and blasphemy
I’ll not be guilty of.
© Rafael Jesús González 2015
 |
| foto:Peter St. John |
Rafael Jesús González, Prof. Emeritus of literature and creative writing, was born (10/10/35) and raised biculturally/bilingually in El Paso, Texas/Cd. Juárez, Chihuahua, and taught at University of Oregon, Western State Collage of Colorado, Central Washington State University, University of Texas El Paso (Visiting Professor of Philosophy), and Laney College, Oakland, California where he founded the Dept. of Mexican & Latin-American Studies, Nominated thrice for a Pushcart price, he was honored by the National Council of Teachers of English and Annenberg CPB for his writing in 2003. In 2009 he was honored by the City of Berkeley for his writing, art, teaching, activism for social justice & peace, and received the 2012 Dragonfly Press Award for Outstanding Literary Achievement. His latest book is La Musa lunática/The Lunatic Muse and his work may be read at http://rjgonzalez.blogspot.com/
North
by Paul Portugés
--for the children of El Salvador, Guatemala, and Honduras
When he was 8 in the white heat of El Infiernito
guarding their fruit truck they murdered his father
and the squawking blue birds of his young hope
flew away into the gut of lovely night
and the proud red plums he held rolled down
the blood alley as rain fell like broken feathers
When he was in the flesh of his blue youth
songs turned to skeletons in his best friend's eyes
they smiled as they slit her white naked throat
and stuffed panties in her red mouth of dreams
that día de los muertos she became the flowers of graves.
seeing a body was nothing anymore
When he was 12 narcos beat him blind
so he couldn't see their skulls of red death
his tearless baby cousins could only look on
Santa Muerte made him lick the white thighs of crack
"You'll feel freed like a bird entering
a red cloud in the bruise of bluenight"
His dirty government can't pull up its pants.
“If your house is burning, jump out the window"
so he took the lazy train of hopeful skeletons
with a handful of plums and his invisible hope
and crossed the red white and blue border of eagles
like a beautiful feather on the veins of lonely wind
Paul Lobo Portugés is a contemporary American poet, film maker, and essayist who teaches film and creative writing in the Department of Film and Media Studies and in the College of Creative Studies at the University of California, Santa Barbara.
Career. He was educated at UCLA (B.A.), at U.C. Berkeley (Phd.) and at the American Film Institute (M.F.A.). Allen Ginsberg has said of his poetry: "Paul Lobo Portugés' poetry sheds light on the myopic consciousness of a dark American night." Jack Hirschman, former poet laureate of San Francisco, on his poetry: "Portugés' poems are where the strength of future discoveries with language must come from in order for the continuity of poetry to be maintained in relation to the maddening and terrified middle class world which has taken refuge in the switches of television sets in order to fill the lives ghosted by capitalism They are worth reading many many times, and that is not saying a little in this day of one liners and walk-ons."
Portugés has published several poetry books, including Paper Song (Ross-Erikson), Aztec Birth (Mudborn Press), The Body Electric Journal (Plainview Press), Breaking Bread (Finishing Line Press), and Mao--1,000 Poems of Love and War (forthcoming). His poetry films include Fathermine, Kiss, To My Beloved, Stones from Heaven, et al.
Awards. Ford Foundation Fellowship, Fulbright Fellowship, National Endowment Fellowship
Canto Por Ti
by Margarita Cota-Cárdenas
What happens in Arizona
Stays in Arizona?
SB1070 (What The)
Stem Immigration?
Speak English Only?
I DON’T THINK SO.
© Margarita Cota-Cárdenas
Poema written 2010
“SB 1070, Ariztlán: A Lo Que Nos Llevó
por Margarita Cota-Cárdenas
¿Cómo no leer un libro
prohibido?
Si la tentación
y el deseo
de saber
qué es lo que hay
que no quieren que sepas
que no te entre
ni en pensar
esos pensamientos
como:
mi mente
es mía no tuya
mi alma me pertenece
no a ninguna ideología
y aunque dizque
somos minoría
en
tentación y deseo
de libertad
igualdad
pá todos
somos
aquí nos presentamos
¡la MAYORÍA…!!
Margarita Cota-Cárdenas is the author of the novels Puppet (1985, 2000), and Sanctuaries of the Heart/Santuarios del corazón (2005). Her poetry includes Marchitas de mayo (1989). She is Professor Emerita of Spanish at Arizona State University, where she had taught since 1981. Margarita mainly writes first in Spanish, and is currently preparing her third poetry collection for publication. Part One of her third novel, La gente de los girasoles, was published in 2010 and is in progress. She has had many poems and short stories published in anthologies and journals throughout her career.
La Batea del 2015
por Javier Pacheco
Mira la batea
Como se menea
como se menea
el agua en la batea
~ Quilapayun (Chile) ~
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=F6SksjDv0Ko
Al comienzo del nuevo año
aquí estamos esperando otros nuevos daños
contra nuestros derechos civiles y libertad
que los ladrones burdos del poder
con su “circo de gorilas”
van a soltar;
Tantos que viven en el borde
queriendo crecer, brotar alas y volar
en cambio, son derribados
el cuerpo etéreo demasiado débil para resistir
las señas oscuras, choques, traumas y subordinación
creando una profunda crisis de confianza
en la brecha de virtudes desde bien alto.
Pero surgen nuevos guerreros espirituales
los bálsamos y piceas han llegado de edad
los vínculos entre generaciones son más fuertes
los jóvenes son cada vez más comprometidos
y menos dependientes de las “verdades oficiales”
muchos han llegado a comprender
las maquinaciones feudales modernas
manipulaciones de la voluntad, ilusiones
y sabidurías falsas dejadas de escapar desde
las tierras baldías de los medios corporativos.
Son verdades esquivas para aquellos todavía
atados a la rueda y sus mitos:
sordos, mudos, y ciegos
a la infamia de la corrupción nacional
una insensible indiferencia hacia la opresión
la cual no hay palabras para describir
las víboras conspiradoras
ésos evitando la responsabilidad de sus actos
la impunidad de asesinos
la impunidad de criminales politicos
la aquiescencia enfermiza de los oportunistas
autómatas que adoran al becerro de oro
la muerte espiritual de una cultura conflictiva
gente de poco discernimiento o percepción
el desglose de la moralidad en todos los niveles
apreciados ideales que han sido aplastados
por nigromantes tribales ricos que incursionan en
la piratería, el genocidio, y la brujería demoníaca;
titiriteros supremacistas Illumi-Nazis
quienes escogen sus bolsones políticos
para esclavizar y matar lentamente a sus víctimas
como en Ayotzinapa, Palestina, y las Amazonas.
Crímenes mundiales ignorados por indiferencia
de la superficialidad burguesa cosmopolita
un pueblo “propio” que siempre ha usado la guerra
como una herramienta útil para su expansión
como una estafa para enriquecer a algunos;
pero el fascismo no puede permanecer
no puede sostener la pérdida de la razón,
o bestias carentes de magnetismo y carisma
una discontinuidad que separa y margina,
el abismo autodestructivo del ego
tribus dispersas, descompuestas, y
la deriva hacia la disolución del conocimiento,
la cultura de la muerte abruma la innovación
mientras que los borregos son distraídos con sus
aparatos, juguetes y baratijas nuevas.
Nueva tecnología en manos de
los de la vieja moda buscando una via rápida
hacia la modernidad en medio del desorden.
Somos pueblos atrapados por ciclos de control
manteniendo nuestras manos arriba (“No disparen!”)
gritando, “¡No podemos respirar!”
a los elites cínicos pervertidos quienes,
en su supremacía trastornado
han desechado vilmente
a cualquier semblanza a ideales populares,
de moral, ética y compassion;
sus siluetas arcaicos y reconocibles
revelan un delirio melancólico convulsivo
ahogándose en una cultura del alcoholismo
en bateas incoherentes llenas de babas
gorgoteando pomposidad y burbujas de metano.
Existen cosas que nos duelen saber,
que ponen a prueba nuestra fe y carácter,
es la ley para los que se despiertan y se levantan
dejando atrás las ruinas perversas de explotadores:
el tiempo favorece a la Tierra reponiéndose
los pobres martirizados, mansos y sin esperanza
con sus sueños, amor, ideales, y justicia
perduraran.
©Enero 2015
The 2015 Wash Board
by Javier Pacheco
Look at the wash board
Look at how it shakes
Look at how it shakes
the water on the wash board
~ Quilapayun (Chile) ~
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=F6SksjDv0Ko
At the start of the new year
here we are waiting for other new damages
against our civil rights and freedoms
that the clumsy thieves in power
with their “circus of gorillas”
are going to unleash;
So many living on the edge
wanting to grow, sprout wings and fly
getting knocked down instead,
the ethereal body too weak to resist the dark
signs, shocks, traumas, and subordination
creating a profound breakdown of trust
in the breach of virtues at the very top.
But new spiritual warriors emerge
the balsams and spruces have come of age
the cross-generational links are stronger
young people are becoming more engaged
and less reliant on “official truths”
many have come to understand
the modern feudal machinations,
will manipulations, illusions
and false knowledge blurted out from the
wastelands of corporate media.
These are elusive truths for those still
tied to the wheel and its myths:
deaf, dumb, and blind
to the infamy of national corruption
a numbed detachment from oppression
for which there are no words to describe
the conniving vipers
those eschewing responsibility for their actions
the impunity of assassins
the impunity of political criminals
the sickly acquiescence of opportunists
zombies who worship the golden calf
the spiritual death of a divided culture
people of little discernment or perception
the breakdown of morality at all levels
cherished ideals that have been squashed
by rich tribal necromancers who dabble in
piracy, genocide, and demonic sorcery;
supremacist Illumi-Nazi puppet masters
who vet their political bag boys
to enslave and slowly murder off their victims
as in Ayotzinapa, Palestine, and the Amazons.
World crimes ignored by the indifference
of cosmopolitan bourgeois shallowness
a “proper” nation that has always used war
as a handy tool for its expansion
as a racket for enriching some;
but fascism cannot stay forever
cannot sustain the forfeiture of reason,
or beasts devoid of magnetism and charisma
a discontinuity that separates and marginalizes,
the self-destructive abyss of the ego
decomposed, scattered tribes, and
the drift back to the dissolution of knowledge,
the culture of death overwhelms innovation
while the sheeple are distracted with their
new gadgets, toys, and trinkets.
New technology in the hands of
the old fashioned seeking a fast track
to modernity in the midst of disorder.
We are peoples trapped by cycles of control
holding our hands up (“Don’t shoot!”)
screaming, “We can’t breathe!”
to the cynical perverted elites who
in their deranged supremacy
have vainly discarded
any semblance of popular ideals
of morals, ethics, and compassion;
their archaic and recognizable silhouettes
reveal a convulsive melancholic delirium
drowning in a culture of alcoholism
in incoherent wash boards full of spittle
gurgling pomposity and methane bubbles.
These are things that hurt us to know,
that put our faith and character to test,
it’s the law for those who awaken and rise up
leaving behind the perverse ruins of exploiters:
time favors the Earth replenishing itself
the martyred poor, meek, and hopeless
with their dreams, love, ideals, and justice
shall endure.
©January 2015
Javier B. Pacheco writes poetry and performs on piano in the S.F. Bay Area.
Vaivén
por Betty Sánchez
Siendo adolescente
Cargaba una libreta
Bajo el brazo
Por si de repente
Alguna musa inquieta
Se cruzara por mi paso
Todo a mi alrededor
Se conspiraba
Para inspirar poesía
Los pétalos de una flor
Una casa abandonada
El ocaso que moría
Escribía versos de prisa
Los encerraba en mi diario
Por temor a que escaparan
Los repasaba en misa
Como cuentas de rosario
Para que no marchitaran
Mi juventud se alejó
Los afanes de la vida
Reemplazaron a la prosa
La inspiración me dejó
No hubo adiós ni despedida
Se fue con las mariposas
Hoy que quiero ser poeta
He invocado su presencia
Y aunque se muestra elusiva
Cuando la noche esta quieta
Aspiro su dulce esencia
Y retorno a ser creativa
La veo en mi taza de té
En la risa de mis nietos
En la lluvia y la neblina
Esta vez la atraparé
Conoceré sus secretos
Será ella quien me defina.
Betty Sánchez is a Yuba City poet.
(Lodestone)
by Tom Sheldon
We worship at a backwards altar
where what’s wholesome is not, what’s abhorrent is condoned.
A battlefield bonanza
of whitewashed graves...
The true face of our world uncovered.
A breed, whose moral compass,
is warped by violence.
It doesn't take much for the infection to take hold and spread.
A country of birth, an expression of faith,
a nightly broadcast.
With the Angels of deception lying infected out in right field
where hate is fermented in the belly of rigid dogma.
Likewise, the jagged splinters of hate,
keep the seeds of malice germinating.
Ever ready they push through the skin, like weeds.
Always insidious, ever vile.
With your thinking god
Hanging down at the starlight cafe
evangelistic and sadistic-soul mining with corrupt currency
A corona puffing Godzilla.
A modern burner of souls
spitting out words
like a hymn of sorrow and shame
like a dying prayer.
Choking the life from everything decent,
while fanning the flames of intolerance.
that consume us from within.
While there's still time,
do you think society will be determined to
keep the lodestone of their heart pointed true?
© Copyright Tom Sheldon January 27, 2015
My name is Tom Sheldon and I come from a large Hispanic family with roots in Spain, Mexico and New Mexico. I enjoy writing poetry which allows me connection ,healing and a voice.Thank you for reading my work.
Goodnight America
by Mark Lipman
All hail, the American night,
the fading crimson light
on the horizon
From birch woods
to redwood forest
From vast canyon
to trickling stream
From Appalachian Trail
to the concrete garden
a shadow has covered this land.
The shining seas still beat
against these shores
yet its echo fades off into the wilderness.
The tide of man has not waited
impatiently dragging the row boat of our civilization
out into open waters
where the waves of progress
have soaked our dreams to the bone
until the very marrow of hope has dissolved
shivering with wet and cold
this lonely seaman
clings to his oars
rowing as if his very life depended on it.
His eye straining to find a safe port
beating back the swelling tempest
while the watery sheet of time
towers above his head
in threatening posture.
In the distance the proud eagle roars
untouched by the tears of field mice.
The crash is a foregone conclusion.
Tonight, the last generation of memory
will be put to sleep
a new reality awoken.
Yet, staring up into the hurricane’s eye
the force of almighty upon him
his salty brow stained and grizzled
hands calloused from years of labor
his age bearing down upon him
The old man finds serenity
as he too is swallowed up by
the star-spangled experiment.
Down, he is pulled to the depths
the weight of water all around him
crushed into the foundations
He too has become a building block
for the concrete walls
and razor wire
that are raised up high
to pierce the sky
in praise of what has been long forgotten.
For ten thousand years we did
live in harmony with the world,
with the buffalo and salmon,
and yes, with even the crow
our trees were not cut
but grown
We rode free, savoring the open plains
on a land that knew no lord.
But then the ships arrived
and the flowers of May
no longer held their savor
they bloomed instead a steely grey
and spoke to us of a savior
who ushered in an age
of Calvary swords
and gunpowder
to save us from ourselves
our descendants tied to anchors
and dragged away in chains
from their native shores
while monuments guard the gates
for those tired and huddled masses
sleeping homeless at the foot of the door
denied entry
to their promised land
an Eden no more.
Conquered and defeated
by the mighty arms
of Technology
we do not shed a tear
instead we stand proud of our accomplishments
for our clean food and water and air
for our cultures that have all but disappeared
the nature of life is impermanent
and we must sail to where the winds of time will carry
across that golden sunset
into the house of our ancestors
while those of the computer age
simply die from within
a hollow, rootless tree
tumbling at the first hint of wind.
So built your statues of granite and light
to the vast decaying greatness.
Show in them the chiseled faces
not of presidents
but of slaves
and peasants
those who were whipped and beaten
for their masters’ sins
who toiled to build
these bastions and battlements
born into their poverty and position
as we today are born
into our debt and indentured servitude
humbling to the banker’s chicanery
begging for mercy
selling our blood for rent money
while they snicker in the shadows
still over-shadowed
by our true potential
lest we forget
how close we came
to the promise they gave
of a world without regents or kings
eagerly the passage we bartered
pressing our aching bodies to the ship’s rail
gleaning the horizon of a new day
as it slowly rolled into view
catching that glint of a better life
of all the possibilities
right there before our very eyes
and holding it as our own
breathing in the freshness
of the long and winding tale
known only as America.
For generations we laid down brick
and miles of rail
and built up their tall towers
We worked the mines
and sweat-shop mills
for what they’d pay by the hour
We died in wars
we fought and killed
those who were our brothers
We sowed the crops
and paid our bills
yet reaped only the hunger.
So too shall pass these final days
and many will be left to wonder
where went those amber fields of grain
and the promise of a better future
while millions walk the picket lines
living without job or shelter
we huddle close and bide our time
for all will come asunder.
We gave all that we had to give
and from us was taken the rest
we put down our books
and forgot to question
what the television said
we became afraid
of different shades of color
of them who had what we wanted
cowering away from any idea
that was in our own self interest
holding tight to the status quo
while the merchants of war
made it illegal
and worse unpatriotic
to stand against the grain
and just say, No
out of habit
did what we were told
selling off our birthright
for a handful of oil and gold.
Marching to a goosestep drum
squeezing us to become
the lowest common idiom
that old man with his lonely oar
pushed down to his knees
still sings his praise to the failing light
a twinkle in his eye
a man he was, and still will be
until the day he dies.
His whisper lingers
in the ear
raspy and full of homage
Yes, he said, I did make a difference
If then, just a little
then a little to create the needed balance.
Perhaps, a word to the wind
may not be heard
and all ears have gone deaf
Yet, if it is our fate to be deaf
then let us be deaf like Beethoven
screaming our joy to the void
filling our own minds with music
and the love of what might have may
and say, Yes, I will be remembered.
Slowly he lays down his tired head
and takes his much needed slumber
the stars watching over
with their infinite gaze
silent as forever
all that is written
all that must be
will eventually come to pass
we are merely another chapter
in the unending saga
no greater, no less
so close your sleepy eyes
and take your well earned rest
goodnight, farewell, adieu
America.
Mark Lipman, founder of VAGABOND, is a writer, poet, multi-media artist, activist, and author of six books, most recently, Poetry for the Masses; and Global Economic Amnesty. Co-founder of the Berkeley Stop the War Coalition (USA), Agir Contre la Guerre (France) and Occupy Los Angeles, he has been an outspoken critic of war and occupation since 2001.
In 2002, he became writer-in-residence at Shakespeare and Company in Paris, under the guidance of its founder George Whitman. In that year he worked with Lawrence Ferlinghetti, Jack Hirschman and the Italian poet, Igor Costanzo, in Back to Beat, a Fluxus art and poetry event in Breccia, Italy.
He is currently a member of POWER (People Organized for Westside Renewal), Occupy Venice and the Revolutionary Poets Brigade. www.vagabondbooks.net
