Juan Felipe Herrerafor our brothers & sisters facing deportation with papers or
no papers we are expansive with sun or moon we are expansive with light or no-light we are expansive with surveillance or no surveillance we are expansive as the rain crosses lightning as the sun penetrates to the root as the earth rotates toward all things we are expansive papers no papers borders no borders we expand Oriana IvyWhen God says, I could give you
the whole world, but would you take it? he’s expecting No, since I am the alleged immigrant at the feast, but I say Yes. Go ahead, give me the world. But that happened already at my birth. Now I believe only in California, dressed in flames each scarlet, smoky year. A paradise built on fault lines. Like my life, split at seventeen. Or my soul, a burglar breaking through the clouds. Not even the body remains our native country. Leaving me only the inaccurate loss of homeland, a place where you go to die. By nineteen I had a plan: word by word I would dissolve into the thousand-year-old town where I was born, an old Viking river port, the river wide as history -- In the fortress-like cathedral, walls four feet thick, underworld-cold, above the crown of thorns, me that shivering dove; me the bowing of the wind in the tales of linden trees; in the empty granaries, blinding dance of dust and light. Meanwhile I’ll take the world. Arlene BialaYa'aburnee (Arabic): "You bury me." It's a declaration of one's hope that they'll die before another person, because of how difficult it would be to live without them. no harana
no serenade no let me call you sweetheart no dahil sa yo no courting you no guitar strum of my nervous fingers no new moon chance no smiling neighbors gathering near no wavering voice in the first verse no you standing at the window laughing softly, shaking your head whispering to your sister beside you how you were hoping it would be me no stopping now, i've already started no way, it's too late, your smile locks me in no first kiss at the barrio fiesta after your parents leave for home no telling you that i love you like no other no you teasing i am so old fashioned living the ancient ways of love songs no you answering my call of your name after the winds die, after the waters recede no finding a note. no finding your body. no you standing in deep mud, shaking no you suddenly running toward me no you whispering to me how you always pray that you will die before i die, because the suffering would be unbearable. no. i refuse to leave my home. i want to stay here by the sea listen to you whisper, bury me you bury me. Originally published in Red Wheelbarrow, December 2013. Maritza MoraTenemos el poder de sobre pasar lo que nos detiene
El mar nos unio Los paises eran uno Somos iguales Todos tienen un Corazon y son humanos We have the power to overpass what holds us back The sea united us The countries were one We are equal Everyone has a Heart and they are human Paths, there are many… “Where there is a will there is a way” “Only you hold yourself back” When was the wheel invented? Hundreds, thousands of miles were walked When were boats invented? Porque nos volvimos ciegos? Porque se nos fueron los sentimientos? Why did we go blind? Why are the feelings gone? Mexico, lindo y bello Mexico: we were once one with you but America broke up with you. If only we could show America your farmland, your magical waterfalls, your ability to grow, nurture and create art from what you have been given by mother earth… Tenemos el poder de sobre pasar lo que nos detiene El mar nos unio Los paises eran uno Somos iguales Todos tienen un Corazon y son humanos We have the power to overpass what holds us back The sea united us The countries were one We are equal Everyone has a Heart and they are human... A Tribute to Migrant Workers in a Place Called Madre TierraFrancisco “Pancho” BustosA couple dollars a pound and not a couple dollars a piece don’t forget Ay karnal can’t you see how it can be much easier to pay the tax than to break the backs How easier it is to pick them shiny apples from air conditioned racks than to cough the blood while carrying those heavy, poisoned sacks To Work and to Eat and to Survive To Work and to Eat and to Survive To Work and to Eat and to Survive Corazones that won’t stop until the little ones are fed and they can hit the books and they can learn and grow That’s the dream, can’t you see? Porque somos familia y porque tenemos el derecho to question the word ‘i-legal’ free, también to question and let go of that fear of riding the bus the trolley and the car A couple dollars a pound and not a couple dollars a piece don’t forget No right to vote Yes a right to break the backs No right to walk without fear Yes a right to sweat and serve and hide But we come from the sun el maíz y las yerbas And we are free and incapable of seeing our madres santas as ‘resident aliens’ And we are free to be proud of our mothers for once showing us how to serve 99 cent kool aid y quesadillas to our running brothers and sisters flying through our parking lots of old rented apartments in a place called Sydro Lifting themselves up scratched up and all from the concrete they met when turning a corner Cuz the runnin was too fast and the runnin was too scary and the runnin was much too much of a nightmare And so I learned, frozen, on that concrete stage before my curious little eyes, That a couple dollars a pound over a couple dollars a piece Isn’t just my super-sized special treat, but yours también Don’t forget. D. Ellis Phelps“In 2009, the Department of Homeland Security informed landowners along the northern edge of the Rio Grande that the new border fence would be cutting through their properties.” Texas Monthly, 2011 rust colored steel cuts through melon & mesquite chops this land in half where hundred year-old oaks were felled in the weld security unsecured from this landowners porch: no more pastoral view no more free passage from pasture to pasture where he and his father and his father before him who came: chasing the dream grew cotton and corn sorghum and cane for a hundred years & more now this farmer who feeds us must ask permission to pass from one piece of his own land to another Karen CordovaSoy Doña Julián Workman, born María Nicolasa Urioste de Valencia,
After we talk, I welcome you to walk through the door of la casa, where I live on both blossom and dying borders of flowering worlds. Since birth, my life is a window, and I straddle the sill. While netherworld spirits hover over earth red as blood turned to dust, halo frame protects and splits. Haunts me. Española y india. Half-breed. Born natural in the pueblo of Taos, near the cusp of a century marred and blest with waterfalls of baptism and holy unction bestowed upon the very same land--España, México, Los Estados Unidos. Forgotten-- my mother’s people massacred, their ancient names avulsed and burnt. Ashes to ash memory. Priest’s thumb on my forehead whips tattoos of crosses afire with premonition. I was twenty when Spain abandoned New Mexico. Within five years, Julián seared his presence into sacred eye of Taos. His voice—a foreign country—invaded my heart, left numerous wounds. Antonia Margarita was born in 1831 and Joseph Manuel in 1832, with unmarried parents. Scars covered worn pathways of all his excuses. Julián became Catholic in 1828 but wouldn’t share vows. He and John Rowland owned a mill, sold Taos Lighting in their store, but it wasn’t enough. Those Americanos were often gone. Wandering west on the Old Spanish Trail. Would they return from their trapping? Worry grows strange in gardens of wives of wandering men. Shared travail and gossip ensure weird blooms. In September 1841, Julián severed the artery to mis amigas. New wound―twelve-hundred-mile queue. Undulating human snake. First, Santa Fe north, then westward curve to Abiquiu. Sidewind through desert punched by water holes like springs bubbling into that meadow, las vegas. Liquid lure within the seventh belly of hell. Mohave. Then descend slow into a casket they call Cajón Pass. I bled in Spanish all the way to California, until a further drop into an endless valley. La Santa María delivered us near to San Gabriel Mission, where we built our three-roomed adobe home on Rancho La Puente, I thought this the last bridge of my life. We prospered. La gente de Los Angeles embraced our family. In 1847, the threshold of nations crossed us, again. Mexicanos―now Americanos. English and Spanish―official languages of this land. But the scent of oranges changed. By the 1880s, an ocean of others washed west, disdained our rich bi-lingual heritage. I hear whispers, fear my grandchildren’s best nature will be fed unhealthy stories. Will mis hijitos y hijitas think Julián and I could not speak to each other, a wall between his English and Español? ¡Ay! Flee from my presence, those who spread lies to my children’s children, May your tortillas be shaped like the United States. I am American, but I was born to a mother who lived in ancient Taos Pueblo. I am a manita de Nuevo México, former province of México, former province of España. We did not leave. The border folded us into a new kind of skirt. Over and over, we were spun like yarn used to make a beautiful colcha. I proudly wear my mantilla and peineta. Most people say my food is better than any they’ve eaten in years. This American home was built on multi-lingual land―Mexican, Spanish, earth native to Los Gabrieleños. Guilt should be like ravens picking one’s scalp. Do not lie to my kin. When the end comes, cut hair from my head. Plait a mourning locket for my daughter. Send more strands to the fire, and gather what remains. As Anglicized ashes, as penance, it will be my way of feeding red willows in Taos Pueblo. Throw them over the fence, near the Río Hondo. After my body is nestled in dirt in El Campo Santo, remember me as liminal rain, one who mends aching edges of riverbanks, birth-torn countries. © 2017 Karen S. Córdova Oriana IvyThe slant sword of Orion, three stars,
winter-bright, as though unsheathed from distance and the dark; the plumes of palms and eucalypts against the indigo of night; and to the south, the trembling white, yellow and orange lights of Mexico. And childhood touches me again, when foreign meant exciting. I love it, I almost say out loud – wondering if I could leave it for a man with a luminous spirit. Which exile should I choose? Oh child . . . our tragic flaws choose for us, to which we are blind. The lights on the mesa quiver, and I nod: here is my fortune, chance, the black plumage of palm trees my wealth. So many lights! Some garish and some dim; some shine on misery, dead dreams like a body shattered by a leap. Time the Hunter and his bright Dog move on. Only we stand still, immigrants approaching port, our precious, useless past in our arms. Ludicrous, the luggage we take, the old photographs. The future will be exile, a new world. Along the shore of night, like spirits of ancestors, the lights. Kalpna Singh-ChitnisWe continue to dream
on sleepless nights, clenching stars in our fists, somewhere in the middle of nowhere, across a fence, across the borders across the oceans. The sun no longer rises in the east and sets in the west, the earth moves backwards and trips over... the world is only upside down when they think, they are atop the sky. जो देखते हैं स्वप्न हम फिर भी देखते हैं स्वप्न, बिना नींद के, अँधेरी रातों में, सितारों को अपनी मुट्ठी में जकड़े दूर कहीं, किसी वीराने में, कंटीले बाड़ों के उस पार, उनकी सरहदों और समुद्रों से दूर, सूरज अब नहीं उगता पूरब में नाहीं डूबता है पछिम में भ्रमित पृथ्वी चलती है उलटे पांव... और जब औंधे मुंह गिरती है, आसमान से भी ऊपर होने का उन्हें होता है भरम। Kalpna Singh-ChitnisI am a seed,
the earth requires no permission for me to grow. I am a bird, the sky sets no limits for me to fly. But one day they came to uproot us , one by one, clip our wings and bury us, neither dead nor alive, in the air, under our broken feathers. विस्थापित मैं एक बीज हूं, मेरे उगने के लिए पृथ्वी नहीं करती मुझसे, उसकी अनुमति की अपेक्षा, मैं एक पक्षी हूं मेरे उड़ने के लिए आकाश नहीं करता तय सीमाएं, पर एक दिन वे आए, हमें ले जाने के लिए एक-एक करके, हमारी जड़ों और डैनों को काट डालने के लिए, और हवाओं में, न जिंदा न मृत दफ़ना देने के लिए हमारी देह, हमारे कतरे पंखो के तले। D. Ellis Phelpsthey rode in silence
silence across the great river silence across the canyons silence wide open splitting seeds of so many each last breath echoing this valley receiving last rights from the sighing night —only the ocotillo as witness Francisco "Pancho" BustosYou mean assimilate
as in sharing 45-esque passion in highlighting how "uneducated" lack de "skills" son esos "others"? You mean assimilate, as in assuming que apenas "some" de los millones y millones de Americanos sin papeles are not "criminal" thugs? You mean Assimilate, as in looking the other way while toxic rhetorics push demeaning stereotypes, putting elections y el poder sobre dignidad y empathy de tantos Dreamers? You mean assimilate, as in forget your past, forget your language, and forget your culture, assimilate as in rally during prime times vs los "intruders" and demand a great gran muro wall across the land and up to the sky? ignore, deny, ignore los dehumanizing messages vs vulnerable dreamers? Oh, pero pues there are lots of Americanos con papeles assimilating quite well, que no? Into the 45 ish school of "thought"? How much assimilation in you, In us, In them, In You? Fatma AssefI lulled a child once to sleep found faith on its quiet face sleep tight tomorrow brings the same sketches dog-eared on sidewalks words finished --green Ivy crawling up the space between my frozen front door here and my distant Alexandria faint beam the waves of wanting more-- waiting splits your skin weight stretches you thin pulls the will away watch my watchtower --collapse this ocean of yearning I will not wait anymore Liliana Romero Translation by Lucia Vigil-Francis Liliana was incarcerated seven months as she awaited her asylum hearing. Lo sé, estás ahí, ya te vi y sé que tienes miedo.
Tienes miedo porque no sabes dónde estás, Tienes miedo porque no entiendes por qué te encierran Tienes miedo porque otras llevan años y no han salido; Te pasará a ti? Tienes miedo porque ayer puede ser la última vez que viste a tus hijos Tienes miedo porque ya no puedes cambiar de parecer, es demasiado tarde…mira tus cadenas. Tienes miedo porque huyendo de la barbarie encontraste otra y aquí no puedes correr ni escapar. Lo sé, estás ahí, te vi llegar desconcertada. Y lloré porque no puedo ayudarte y sé lo que vivirás. Vivirás la soledad entre mucha gente, vivirás las sombras y la risa psicótica. Vivirás sonámbula contando los pasos hacia el teléfono. Un libro? No… no hay nada para ti, para tu sed, para tu hambre, para tu miedo. Ellos no están, ni allá ni aquí, tu familia se ha esfumado, ya no los ves ni los oyes. Estarán bien? Te preguntarás? Y sufrirás su lejanía. Vivirás queriendo ser rebelde, que no comerás esto o aquello, que es comida para perros dices. El agua tiene un sabor a químicos pero no tienes dinero para beber la potable. Te rehúsas, pero la sed no negocia y el hambre. El hambre, el hambre te obliga a comer lo que te sirven, y no lo ves, solo masticas y tragas. Obligaste a alguien alguna vez a comer algo que no quería? Porque yo no. Y aquí estoy compartiendo karmas. Lo sé, estás ahí, no quieres hablar, pero escucho tus ojos y sé que tienes miedo. Miedo de morir en algún momento, así como así, y en el anonimato. Miedo de decir lo que quieres gritar, miedo de arañar las paredes y sacudirte el cabello de la ira, de rasgarte los labios con los dientes y triturar tu lengua. Quien te aconsejó entregarte? Al imperio donde una llave manda sobre tus muñecas, sobre tu cintura, sobre tus tobillos…sobre tu alma. Tienes miedo al mañana, a la decisión de un Dios vestido de toga, a las palabras hirientes de un extraño que está molesto contigo por entrar sin tocar su puerta. Un cuartito de cuatro sillas y una bandera nueva y no hablas su idioma. Tu única arma es la confianza y la mirada del traductor. Qué dicen? Será cierto? Y tiemblan tus rodillas, tu cadera sucumbe al dolor y aguantas el llanto. Nadie quiere débiles. Tienes miedo a la noche, a las noches y no duermes. Sabes que están molestos porque te gritan y te ven con odio pero no entiendes. Corriste para salvar tu vida. Créeme no es tu culpa no saber inglés. No es tu culpa que el mundo esté loco, que el hombre sea malvado y te golpee, que haya guerras y sangre y tú… en el medio, girando tu cabeza, pidiéndole cuentas a Dios, rogando su ayuda. No es tu culpa que corrieras y sangraran tus pies, que tus hijos lloraran por el camino pues peor es la muerte. No es tu culpa mi niña. Esto no es un castigo, nada hiciste. Esto es injusticia. No es tu culpa te grito, no es tu culpa te lloro, no es tu culpa mi ángel. El mundo es así, terrible, sordo, mudo y ciego. No caigas, no te arrodilles, abraza a tus hijos en tu mente. Visualiza la leche de tu seno en su boca, el abrazo de tu pecho en el suyo y el arrullo de tu voz en su entraña. Canta, canta mucho, alto suave como quieras, pero hacia adentro, que no escuche el que te grita silencio. Baila, salta y da vueltas, no importa que te miren, que llamen el psicólogo no importa. Eres normal, eres un sueño y ellos solo saben de pesadillas. Lo sé, estas ahí, ya te vi y tienes miedo Miedo porque no sabes qué es esto Miedo a recibir una llamada de luto Miedo a que las canas inunden tu cabeza y…se acabe el tiempo, tu tiempo. Lo sé, estas aquí, sé que tienes miedo, de lo que vivirás y escúchame; no tienes culpa, tu única responsabilidad es soportar, aislarte a la violencia, convertirte en su ganado pero jamás olvides que no lo eres. No eres eso que te dicen, no eres lo que comes, lo que hiciste, lo que dejaste o lo que tienes, no eres su oscuridad ni su bullicio, no eres sus silencios ni su regimiento. TU ERES YO, YO SOY TU. Y SOMOS LIBRES. * I know, you’re here, I’ve seen you and I know that you’re afraid. You’re afraid because you don’t know where you are. You’re afraid because you don’t understand why they lock you up. You’re afraid because others have been in there for years and they haven’t gotten out; what will happen to you? You’re afraid because yesterday may have been the last time that you were able to see your children. You’re afraid because now you cannot change your mind, it’s too late … look at your chains. You’re afraid because in fleeing from the horror you encountered another horror and here you cannot run or escape. I know, you’re here, I saw your bewildered arrival. And I cried because I can’t help you and I know what you will live through. You will live a solitary life amongst the crowds, you will live in the shadows, listening to the psychotic laughter. You will live as though sleepwalking, counting the steps to the telephone. A book? No, there’s nothing for you, for your thirst, your hunger, your fear. They are not here, they are neither there nor here, your family has vanished, now you do not see them or hear them. Will they be ok, you’ll ask? And you will suffer in your distance from them. You will live wanting to rebel, you’ll say you won’t eat this or that, that this is food for dogs, you’ll say. The water tastes of chemicals, but you don’t have the money for the good water. You refuse the food and drink, but hunger and thirst don’t negotiate. The hunger, the hunger forces you to eat what they serve you, and you don’t look at it, you just chew and swallow. Did you ever make someone eat what they didn’t want to? Because I haven’t. And here I am, sharing that karma I know, you’re here, you don’t want to speak, but I hear you — through the look in your eyes — and I know you’re afraid. Afraid of dying at any moment, just like that, in anonymity. Afraid to say that which you want to scream, afraid of clawing the walls and tearing at your hair, afraid of gnashing your lips and biting/shredding your tongue. Whom shall I tell you to turn to? To an empire where a key reigns over your wrists, your waist, your ankles … your soul You’re afraid of tomorrow, of the decision of a God dressed in a judge’s robe, of the words spewed by a stranger who is bothered that you entered without knocking. A little room with four chairs and a new flag and you don’t speak their language. Your only defense is confidence and the translator’s gaze. What will they say? Will it be true? And your knees shake, you could almost double over in pain, and you hold in the sorrow/heartache. Nobody wants weaklings. You’re afraid of the night, of the nights, and you don’t sleep. You know that it bothers them because you yell and shout and they look at you with hate, but you don’t understand. You ran to save your life. Believe me, it is not your fault to not know English. It’s not your fault that the world is crazy, that man is mean-spirited, and hits you when you’re down, that there are wars and blood and you … in the middle of it, turning your head, pleading to God for help, pleading for help. It’s not your fault that you ran until your feet bled, that your children cried on the long road, at least it was better than dying. It’s not your fault my darling girl/daughter. This is not a punishment, you didn’t do anything wrong. This is an injustice. It is not your fault, I shout to you, it’s not your fault, I cry to you. It’s not your fault, my angel. This is the way the world is, it’s terrible, deaf, dumb and blind. Don’t fall, don’t be brought to your knees, embrace your children in your mind. Visualize the milk from your breast in her mouth, the embrace of your chest on hers and your soothing voice within her. Sing, sing as much as you can, something soft as you like, but sing it within, so he won’t hear you, the one who yells, “Silence!” Dance, jump, spin around, it doesn’t matter if they look at you funny, that they call you crazy, it doesn’t matter. You are normal, you are a dream and they only know of nightmares. I know, you’re here, I see you and you’re afraid. Afraid because you don’t know what this is. Afraid to receive a call of mourning. Afraid that your head will turn completely grey in here and … time is running out, your time is running out. I know, you’re right here, I know you’re afraid, of what you will live, and listen to me; it’s not your fault, your only responsibility is to endure, isolate yourself from the violence, convert it into your win, but never forget that you are not it --You are not what they say of you/what they say your are, you are not what you eat, what you did, what you left behind, or what you have, you are neither your obscurity nor your clamor, you are neither your silences nor your regiment. YOU ARE ME, I AM YOU. AND WE ARE FREE. Ricki Mandeville Thick brush snagged my skirt,
bloodied my legs, drew on them with its thorns a map of my passage. You cannot know that I scraped spines and skin from bitter cactus to slake my thirst, ease my belly, nor that the sun, el ojo del diablo, shed tears of boiling oil on my head while hot pebbles squirmed in the seams of my shoes. Or that I traveled furtively by night dozed sitting against a rock at noon, eyes closed to slits, the saga of my flight flickering across half dreams. I stumbled often, always looking back for the ghost of my mother to bless me, for la Virgen to sanctify my journey ears opened wide for sounds of la migra, heart leaking thunder like the storm on the tin roof of the room where my mother died, leaving behind, in its one good dress, her spent shell with its withered hands, its long white braid. from A Thin Strand of Lights (Moon Tide Press 2006) Christina GuerraEyes…
Of sadness Of loneliness Of emptiness Of hunger I’ve been told The eyes are the windows of the soul. Too many sad, lonely, empty, hungry souls Walking this earth among throngs of Unaware, blind and busy souls. Alexandra KostoulasI came from the hard work
that almost killed us but didn’t and grit and soil forged in the fire I emerged naked and dripping all gilt and filigree and gold My spirit hammered out by burning irons my flesh made smooth by hot coals, My essence channeled into the finest steel thrust past heartbreaks the aching the disasters the scattered bones of friendships their petty jealousies fall behind me in a comet’s tail I step forward with a bridal train like my mother, my grandmother, my great-grandmother each one a healer, a migrant, a magician I follow in their footsteps a silver shoe pressing into the moonlight I forgive the past And I kiss my own hand Full, sentient, awake Alive—how lucky to be—alive. Julio AguilarI was only a shadow
inhabited by disdain, by the whims of the wandering light. Fruitful in me was misfortune and I religiously distributed its gifts; sometimes joy left its trail in the air. Solitary tree, bread of the crowd, I was what I could. Suddenly it is all dying. (God, close your eyes and look at your work and feel sorry for yourself!, but if I am the creator of such sterile fruit, send me once and for all to hell and forget about me. Be done with me, God, you win!) Today, on the edge of this afternoon I also die to maybe then begin over… Juan PerezAre you tired
of drinking cervesas at the local cantina of eating delicious tacos and enchiladas of having many reasons to throw a fiesta Are you tired of your home or office getting cleaned of your lawn looking nice and pretty of your fancy old cars running again Are you tired of getting elected to political office of having culture and spice added to the American melting pot of having a scapegoat for your immigration problems It’s no wonder that you are tired of US everything has practically been done for you …maybe you should try doing them yourself then? Kushal PoddarA bird, dark feathered, broad, sirens
a pregnant-woman-crossing-the-desert alarm. Wind displaces the things long loosened from their origins. Wind displaces dreams. Wind manipulates the bird, and the bird maneuvers the wind. Under the summer sun a pregnant woman crosses the lines. May her daughter, her son chart her dream that has a shape pre-Magellan. Lower your guns, vigilants. A pregnant woman screams an alarm- wind dislodges everything already slackened. Wendy BarkerDocked since '67 in Long Beach, the same liner Mom sailed in '39 from England to marry Daddy. Relic of a past the well-heeled now are recreating, "cruise" being the upscale way to travel, like the tour labeled "Alaska's Glorious Inside Passage in 8 Days," or the one advertised as "Wonders of the Mekong, 10 Days Down South Asia's Amazing River." But the Queen Mary was not designed for this sort of travel, rather to get you from Southampton to New York in less than a week.
Or from one life to another. Within a year Mom had lost most of her Britishisms, except for her cadences. "Oh, you Americans," she’d shudder at us daughters, though she carried on with Thanksgiving and the Fourth of July. The phrase "carry on" holds more weight than hand luggage. All alone on the Queen Mary. Not part of any migration. No soft-bosomed granny, no jocular uncles to keep her afloat. Those glossy first class cabins were kept spotless. Then repainted, reupholstered, refurbished. Not a trace of her. Oriana IvyFrom abysses of her skirt she pulls
a pack of cards, draws five, spreads them in a fan. My boyfriend and I see only destiny’s backside, oily gray as the tail of an old Warsaw pigeon. In a pause between the worlds, she ponders the first card -- slowly looks up with stone-dark eyes: You are going on a great journey. I nearly faint. The city swirls with great June solstice light; and in my purse, barely obtained, my American visa. Behind us, on the Palace of Culture façade, the huge heroic statues of workers and peasants lift hammers, sickles, march into the future; the Gypsy barefoot, scarf flowering red poppies. You will be rich, the Gypsy drones, You will have three children . . . You are thinking of a crown . . . She turns to my boyfriend, draws another fan of cards: Fear sits in your stomach. His face goes white -- he’s terrified of the draft. You are thinking of a female head . . . You will have two children . . . He glowers -- obviously not with me. And you will be rich, she hastily adds, her bronze narrow hand plunging my bronze ten zlotys down the forever of her skirt. I’m seventeen. So this is fate. Holding hands, he and I walk the blossoming boulevards. So this is fate: pale golden bells of linden trees hum with bees as with a million stories -- two suitcases, a pack of memories slippery as worn cards. A waste of money, he says as we step through the nets of shadows; disappear in the gilded light. Arlene Biala This is how you see me, the space in which to place me. ~ Layli Long Soldier ~ ekphrastic poem based on Victor Cartagena's "Labor Tea" sitting here on the floor trying to conjure you up like reading tea leaves in a cup, i am looking for signs you are one of a thousand shrouded faces strung up on a tree are you thirsty for clarity? are you steeped in grief? i want someone to tell you sweet things. i look for you where summer lasts forever. your throat and your skin are parched, brittle angel. you used to smile all the time, so it's difficult to recognize you. "i didn't realize tea had its labor issues like coffee and chocolate," says the lady to her friend and they quickly move on. with the individual tea bag, the measuring of you has been done for us. with the individual tea bag, the disposal of your remains is easy. you are stacked thickly, abandoned after the withering stage. the necessary fermentation takes place. how brutal, how beautiful to slip me into new skin, you whisper. to get your gaze on. to stay awhile. passport photos in tea bags like toe tags. tag. you're it. words fail me. i want someone to tell me sweet things. but that's none of my business. Originally published in More Good Talk: Poems from the Poets Laureate of Santa Clara County, July 2017. |
So we travel on earth seeking the terrain of Poetry, walking through wilderness and empty landscape or visiting those ancient sites like Dholavira in far-western Gujarat, or Mykenai in the Greek Peloponnese, or the Arawak campsite on eastern Carriacou in the Grenadine Windward Isles, pursuing that authenticity of experience in a form of antique material reality...
These are places, strange and vague situations where death is manifold and thoroughly extant to the careful eye. There are women’s bangles made of shell to be picked up from the saline dust or small copper beads and thin chert blades, or tiny obsidian arrow-heads that can be unhidden and disclosed beneath those bloody grey walls about the Lion Gate, or beautiful indented potsherds and ceramic fragments at the waterline where the Atlantic rolls out its long blue visceral waves...
Kevin McGrath 🐚Yoga of Poetry
“Dare to live the life you have dreamed."
Ralph Waldo Emerson
What began as a series of literary salons and writing workshops is now a worldwide circle of literary & fine artists who believe that words, art, and music act as a transcendent bridge, and allow us to create the lives we have imagined. Poets and Dreamers Literary Circle and the Poets and Dreamers Literary & Fine Arts Journal exist as opportunities for authors and artists to actualize themselves through collaboration and the circulation of literary and fine arts.
"Remember...the entrance door to the sanctuary is inside you."
~ Rumi
|
Receive the Poets and Dreamers Literary Journal
|
Contact Us |