Fandango Jarocho

First draft of a prose poem, after last night's fandango at Muddy Waters café



Six standing against the wall, instruments in hand
Skulls smile from over their shoulders, flowers in their hair.

Two men, un chaparrito y un gordito, welcome the crowd
in two languages, and call on everyone to participate.
El chaparrito teaches the rhythm of the dance – the zapateado –
says "café con pan, café con pan,"
two stomps with the left foot, one stomp with the right, one more with the left.
Then switch sides.

Then they begin to play, the harp,
the marimbol, and jaranas –
the big huapanguera and three others
each smaller than the one before.
The man in the white hat, white shirt
plays the smallest jarana, the mosquito,
and has the smallest voice.

They sing, taking turns
starting and ending each verse with the same line.
These songs are stories, funny and sad.
The first starts, Ay Guacamaya, ¿adónde vas?
A los Estados Unidos, a la pisca, a trabajar.

Still playing, the chaparrito calls everyone to come closer.
The band circles 'round the tarima
more people crowd in the door
a brown woman in a huipil
a white man with a ponytail
a little girl on her papa’s shoulders
more jaranas of all shapes and sizes join the circle.

On the tarima, the dancing platform,
two big mamas learn the zapateado
the "café con pan" on their lips,
smiling big.
No one cares they miss a step or two.

The song goes on and on
verse after verse
circling around the rythym,
the call and response
now quieter, now louder
‘til el chaparrito yells “una!”
the musicians play one more round of chords
their hands drop silent to their sides
in the same moment everyone brings theirs together
to clap and cheer ...

Star-crossed

To find this place,
we followed the road that hugs granite
and redwood, filled our arms
with provisions at a roadside market,
looked for a place to camp,
consulting maps
and our intuition.

At Kirk Creek we built a fire
using all the kindling,
kept our fingers crossed.
We stood close together,
recalling names of constellations.
Orion stepped over the mountains,
bow and arrow drawn.
We watched him stalk
across the sky.

We zipped together sleeping bags, amazed
that love was built into their design.
Our eager hands
caressed bellies and thighs
like ice water
on hot skillets
and when we rested
face up to the sky
the hunter looked down upon us.

In the morning, we saw elephant seals
sunning clumsily.
Mothers laid in the sand with new pups.
Monstrous bulls, braying and aloof.
No one saw the newborn
struggling in the surf
silenced by waves
pulling out to sea,
stones crackling underneath.

I needed to tell you something,
tried to speak
but words fell from my mouth
like pebbles,
and scattered in the sand.




Last week I ran into Dominic, a writing buddy I met at the Richard Hugo House a couple of years ago. He reminded me of this poem, which I was working on then, following a breakup. Now, after a fresh look and a few edits, I think it is finally done. Or very close.

BROADSIDED: Putting literature and art on the streets

My friend Susan Rich has a poem now ready for you to print and post anywhere in the world you choose to, accompanied by artwork by Undine Brod. Click click, this is magic.

Slow

Flag sways in the breeze, heavy
like a blanket for Goliath,
dipped in blood.

Cargo ship inches
through the narrow strait
from Ukraine
to god knows where.

Late-day sunlight burnishes the stones
of Sultan Ahmet’s mosque, moving
from spire
to golden spire.

Trees lean this way
and that,

Seagull chicks
shuffle along dry raingutters, waiting
for a meal.




after spending seven hours on the cafe terrace of the Arcadia Hotel (Istanbul)
June 10, 2008

Anatolian road

Stone ridge across the valley—
tinned mosque roof gleams on distant hill.

Trees blur by, the colors of olive,
mint, young lemon fruit, dusty sage,
some sheened yellow with small flowers.
I wonder about their names,
like the words, the syllables
I hear around me,

I reach for them, run my fingers
through the branches slipping through,
catch a few leaves between cupped palms.
I wonder at their colors, the determined route
of their veins.

Sand and rock, lonesome pines
give way to green grasses
of the fertile plain. Sparse trees
gather more together, moving west.
Violets and poppies gather.

Beside me, a young man
has cellphones, two, on his folding tray,
ears plugged into the radio,
into the very wiring of the machine.
Song after song,
the same bass and tick,
the rhythm that quickens hearts
worldwide—
the beat of glamour, broadcast.
His sigh falls heavy on my arm.

Across the aisle, a woman
traces a line of brown hair
behind the ear
of her daughter,
sixteen years old.

Two attendants pace the aisle
in starched white shirts,
bushy brows and adam’s apples.
Every little while they offer something--
Çay, bey effendi?
Nescafe, soda?
A sandwich crinkled in plastic,
newspapers of every stripe.
More tea,
and “refreshing moist towelettes.”

(Sadly, the lemon cologne,
the ritual offering
poured from bottles
into open hands,
is disappearing.)

Towns nestle at the feet of stony hills—
red roofs, faces white and gray,
weathered wood, cinderblock and brick,
some just skeletons,
silent, until the money’s saved
to continue building.

Trucks muscle past,
onions and potatoes
bound in plastic sacks.

A driver from Iran
stops by the watermelon vendor
still yelling karpuz! karpuz!
over the highway’s roar.

Cows, brown and white, black—

dust, stormcloud—

Oases sell hot meals and trinkets
on either side of the road,
declare their names on billboards:

Gülpınar,
Alabalık,
İsmailoğlu.

Rosy Spring,
Speckled Fish,
Son of Ismail.

At every turn, crimson
waves the flag
for the Republic
and the football team.

Muddy river curves,
laundry on the line, waving.

Auto factories, train tracks,
the Marmara Sea opens up.

Row crops,
power lines,
vines of rusty leaves, waving.






This is draft number five of a work in progress. Critique is most welcome.

Unfortunately, this daft blogger.com refuses to display the dozen or more lines that are irregularly indented, especially near the end. Try imagining some of the lines shifting horizontally across the page. Or if you would like to see the original, I can email the Word file to you.

Playfield at T.T. Minor

Four friends, women and men
run football drills on the muddy field.
Quarterback looks to the runner
who fakes left, breaks right.
The pass flies a rifled line
straight to her, ‘til she’s tripped up
and tackled by the cornerback,
who slobbers, ears and jaws flapping:
a joyful three-legged dog.

Dear sir,

I didn’t catch you name, as the rain was falling hard
and the heater fan was blowing. I shook your hand,
admired your smile, the glint in your old blue eyes.
I was glad to point out to you the skyline,
honored to pronounce a name you had never heard:
Duwamish. Welcome to Seattle, sir, from Arizona,
whence you came by the will of God, so you said.

You charmed us with your gift of gab, your snow-white hair,
the knowing wink that came along with jokes,
your shiny sateen jacket
from another generation. You start a conversation,
compliment the young banker and his comfy running shoes,
well-deserved, having stood all day in loafers. Your words
were sparks, striking up smiles between strangers,
we who normally ride in silence.

I’m very sorry, sir. Usually I do not yell,
I do not swear at elders.

I began to wonder
when you said calcium was bad for women’s bodies,
that it killed them, but I didn’t blame you.
Each report about our health
is bought and paid for.

The bus arc’d around onto 99
and I felt the conversation turn. Did I hear you right?
That America has prisons prepped
for all the Muslims? I wouldn’t put it past this cowboy in chief,
but I think that’s a little much.

The al-Qaeda, they’re out to get us, just like that September,
only next they’ll go for Arizona, Boston, and every other town.
They’re all around us.

No sir, I tried to say, but I couldn’t get a word in.
It’s all in their religion, you said.
And that’s when something broke.

I’m sorry sir, you’re mistaken.
Al-Qaeda’s just a fraction,
the very smallest portion
of a peaceful people.

No, they’re killers, you said, it’s because of their religion.

How many Muslims do you know?
You only dodged the question.

You, sir. You are al-Qaeda.
You are not like them,
but one and the same, those who only speak of threat,
of danger. You fear your neighbors
but never meet them. You fan the flames
that fuel the tanks. You throw stones
that pave the road to empire. You do not plant,
but only cut the branches
of olive and of laurel. You feed them to the fire
that may broil us all.

Skagit river revising

I use this blog, in part, to let new poem drafts breathe a little, and later I go back and revise them online. I recently revised "Skagit River rising" enough I think it deserves a fresh posting.

Waters swell, silence
rapids underneath,
spread beyond the banks,
turning grassy paths into marsh, indistinct,
erasing boundary between the river and the land.
Eddies churn in circles
and crows watch the eagles skeptically.

Warnings buzz around our heads—
the list of tasks, reminders shouted from room to room,
radio waves and newsprint chattering predictions:
The river will overspill.

The woodpile by the barn, we tie it down
to stop the river lifting it, piece by piece,
to carry out to sea.
We move furniture and handtools
to higher ground, beyond floodwaters’ reach,
and stop to make a pact
with neighbors: our hands
are theirs.

Mount Sauk – its snowfall feeds the river –
lurks invisible behind the house,
behind the clouds we breathe.
Sadie barks. The air is cold and still.

Then the first fat drops
start a clatter on the corrugated roof,
falling heavy on our heads.

As waters gather,
mice abandon burrows, squealing
into open jaws of field and sky,
and the sky begins to sing
its ancient lovesong to the river.

Burroughs Peak

August in Seattle.
“Chance of showers”
turns to dismal drizzle.
Some summer, this.
I’d rather curse the darkness than light a damn candle
so I rev the engine,
head for the mountain in the clouds.

Driving the lonesome road,
living an ad for Rai-
nier
Beer.
I wish Amanda were here.

Past the tollbooth, the winding curves
to the parking lot at the end of the road.

Boots crunch on gravel.
Cool air, matterhorn peaks.
So steep, treetops nearly kiss the slope.
From the water bottle a breath escapes.

I climb and climb,
find little lakes
hear marmot squeaks
stop to sample pine needle scents.
Fingers sticky from a snack.
Chipmunks nibble and scamper.

Boot steps fall to the rhythm
of syncopated strings–
a Turkish diva sings
pop songs in my head.
And I haven’t broken a sweat yet,
stopping so damn much to scribble!
But I came here to get away.
Keep going,
keep breathing.

Path rises into tundra,
steeper now, and narrow.
Water droplets on my cheek
but it’s not rain –
it’s a cloud
carressing the ridge,
the mountain's skin and my own.

Two fingers on my jugular vein
feel the blood course;
red and orange flowers
burst among fragile grasses,
give way to wet black stone
adorned with green lichens’ glow.

Nothing now, but breathing shrouds,
the narrow path, and stones,
all else disappears at a short distance
‘til the sky throws down
a shaft of sun,
falling on the Emmons Glacier
rolling off the shoulders
of these hulking wonders.

Is that rushing sound
the wind
or the river?

I wonder.

At the stony peak
I find the answer.

What I did for the holidays

Leapt down the coast in jetplanes
to a young lover in Oakland
who kept her socks on.

Leapt out of her bed
before dawn, over Los Angeles,
muscles moving with love, blood-deep
and dread of my father's bitter rancor.

Over dinner of crablegs
and sunset, he hands me bricks
one by one, complaints
and ancient grudges
to build a cozy fortress
around us.

I set them aside,
climb down the bluffs.
The tide is low and the moon
is full. I leap from rock
to rock, over tidepools

to touch mottled starfish arms,
run through tresses of ocean grass
with my fingertips, kissed
by the thousand numbing lips
of anemone
folding inward.

In my father's country

voices rise and fall like gentle waves
on this slender neck of sea,
a melody I’ve always known

like the features I see in faces
crinkled eyes smiling, noses proud,
echoing my aunties, my cousins, my own

But on the streets, the bootblacks,
schoolgirls in uniform, stubbly fishermen on the bridge
ask Nerelisiniz? Where are you from?

And in that moment
my tongue becomes a fish
flopping on the ground



rev. Oct. 23

The Sweet Arab, the Generous Arab

Here's the original poem by Naomi Shihab Nye whose Spanish translation I posted the other day. I hope she doesn't mind that I'm putting her poem online. If you like it, please go buy a book of hers, such as You and Yours, from which this is taken.

The Sweet Arab, the Generous Arab
by Naomi Shihab Nye

Since no one else is mentioning you enough.

The Arab who extends his hand.
The Arab who will not let you pass
his tiny shop without a welcoming word.
The refugee inviting us in for a Coke.
Clean glasses on a table in a ramshackle hut.
Those who don't drink Coke would drink it now.
We drink from the silver flask of hospitality.
We drink and you bow your head.

Please forgive everyone who has not honored your name.

You who would not kill a mouse, a bird.
Who feels sad sometimes even cracking an egg.
Who places two stones on top of one another
for a monument. Who packed the pieces,
carried them to a new corner. For whom the words
rubble and blast are constants. Who never wanted
those words. To be able to say,
this is a day and I live in it safely,
with those I love, was all. Who has been hurt
but never hurt in return. Fathers and grandmothers,
uncles, the little lost cousin who wanted only
to see a Ferris wheel in his lifetime, ride it
high into the air. And all the gaping days
they bought no tickets
for spinning them around.

El gentil árabe, el generoso árabe

Porque en estos días nadie te menciona.

El árabe que extiende la mano.
El árabe que no deja a uno pasar
por su tiendita sin una palabra de bienvenida.
El refugiado que nos invita a una Coca-cola.
Los vasos limpios sobre la mesa, en una choza destartalada.
Los que no toman Coca-cola, hoy la tomarán.
Bebemos del ánfora plateada de la hospitalidad.
Bebemos mientras tú inclinas la cabeza.

Por favor, perdona a los que pronuncian tu nombre sin respeto.

Tú, que no matarías a un ratón ni un pájaro.
Quien se siente triste a veces sólo al partir un huevo.
Quien hace un monumento de una piedra
encima de otra. Quien guardó los pedazos
y los llevó a un nuevo rincón.
Para quien las palabras explosión y escombro
son constantes. Quien nunca deseaba
esas palabras. Sino poder decir,
hoy es un día y lo vivo con calma
entre mis queridos. Eso era todo.
Quien ha sido lastimado
pero en cambio no lastimó a nadie.
Padres y abuelas,
tíos, primito perdido que sólo querías ver
una noria, subir a lo alto de los cielos
una vez en la vida. Y todos esos días desgarrados
en los que no hubo boletos
para girar en ellos.





By Naomi Shihab Nye, from You and Yours, BOA Editions Ltd., 2005.
Translated by Jeremy Orhan Simer and Norma Angélica Ortega
revised December 9, 2007

No matter the color

all our blood
runs red

all our hair
turns grey

and when we close our eyes
the black night gives way
to dreams
and nightmares

Why take the bus stop that's two blocks farther?

Because each morning
steep Denny street
makes my lungs swell,
my heart pound
to the rhythm of rush hour
and dreams dissolving

because some afternoons
the black crooked-tail kitty
circles, purring as I crouch
to scratch behind her ears and chin

because these August days
the no-man's plum tree
hangs sweet black jewels
just out of reach -- gifts
for anyone who cares to climb.

Cardiology

My heart is crowded with broken furniture
and cigarette smoke.

It’s a wobbly, spinning top.

A water wheel that fills itself up, rises
to dump its contents, returns
parched to the river
to fill again.

My heart is a river frozen over.
Fish seethe underneath, swim in place.

It’s a custard
carmelized on top
waiting for a spoon to tap.

A kaleidescope—

a lead weight
heavy on my lungs—

a tinderbox
eyeing the matches.

It’s a rowboat in choppy seas
my four grandparents
lost in the fog, arguing
in two languages.

I got drunk one night, fall-down
drunk, and my heart became a cage.
I heard a child’s voice—
my father’s voice—
crying out
lonesome and ashamed.

My heart is true,
remembers everyone and every thing I ever loved.

My heart is false,
leads me into the arms of too many
and not enough.

It retreats into a tortoise shell
scratched and ancient,

swells with hope
its steady rhythm beating
against the surface of my skin.

It runs over with desire
and with love. Touch it
and the palms of your hands
stain red.

My heart is a blind old man
walking down Fourth Avenue
talking to the rain.

My heart is a warbling bird
you hold in your hands.




revised December 9, 2007

At the crossing of Story Street and Branch

At the crossing of Story Street and Branch
stands the house where the old lady lived
who bicycled downtown each Thursday evening
pulling a cart, a card table, pamphlets
full of heart and socialism,
to her post between the flower vendors
and the barbecues.

Here’s the school where we skinned our knees,
bruised our hearts, where we taunted
and were taunted,
until June came in sixth grade –
we sang out last children’s songs
signed each other’s notebooks and t-shirts,
saying nothing of our fear and wonder
at what came next.

It’s quiet here.
A bicycle ticks by, a sprinkler drips
droplets on my pant cuffs, on my shoelaces.
A bus rumbles around the corner
where Manuel’s Liquors still sells treats
like Abba Zabba and Jolly Ranchers
and still they pour them stiff
at the Gaslight Lounge
where we filled our hearts and spilled our guts,
turning twenty-one years old.

A blue jay screeches.
Breezes run their fingers
through front porch chimes
move tree to tree
like bumblebees:

A magnolia with one white blossom.
Red bottle brushes, avocados,
lemons and pines.
From thin, robust branches
persimmons emerge, small and green,
making promises
for a sweet November.

Cómo ahumar un salmón

Last month I visited my sister in Barcelona, where she runs a language and arts school, called Collage. Recently they began hosting a monthly performance night for poets, musicians and artists to share their work. I translated and read one of my poems for the occasion. The original, How to smoke salmon, appears in an earlier post on this blog.

Cómo ahumar un salmón

Salarlos un día entero, reyes
jalados del océano por las redes barredoras.
Reemplazar parte de la mar con ajo
y jenjibre.

Prepara tu lugar de trabajo
debajo vigas que se agarran
a los cayucos. Recuerda:
no podemos nadar, tú y yo,
hasta el vientre del río.

Saca los filetes del cubo glacial.
Admira las escaleras de los huesos,
las manchas de carbón en escamas plateadas,
la carne rayada como hebra de madera.
Ya pronto tus dedos estarán iguales de helados.
Date cuenta de los huesos que esconden.

Coloca el ahumador en el concreto,
leña de nogal en pedazos
debajo el elemento. Deja espacio
que pase el aire, que se filtre
el humo en la carne. Cuenta cuentos
de nuevas amistades y de amores perdidos.
Deja que el humo te enjuague el cabello.

Siéntate, abre una lata de cerveza,
cuenta cuentos de viajes,
de recién nacidos y de tipos de interés.
Sal de paseo, deja que la lluvia
te cepille las cejas.

Al ratito, echa más leña
y un cuento triste;
de un sabio asesinado, quizás.
Esparce ceniza y rescoldo;
luciérnagas en el rocío.

Luego descansa,
sueña con la isla de Kodiak. Con algas.
Con pececitos, y los gordos que se los comen.
Y cuando te despiertas,
el desayuno te espera,
el salmón ahumado.

Crime and Punishment, the poem

A short piece of prose I wrote a few days ago just wrapped itself in a cocoon and came out a poem ...

The gavel came down on Mel Kay
and Michael McLaughlin
of the Golden State Fence Company

who built a levee fifteen feet high
to hold back the human tide
at the southern border.
The Army Corps of Engineers
called their work impeccable
and stuffed their pockets full.

Then a judge banged his gavel
sentenced Kay and McLaughlin
to house arrest, fines of five million,
for hiring men with borrowed names
and imaginary numbers.
For shuffling papers with a wink
and putting them to work.

But does the punishment fit the crime?
Perhaps a fine, a few thousand each
would suffice, paid with indentured sweat.
Being forced to run the deadly gauntlet
through the desert,
for the profit and pleasure of bandits.
Spending years not knowing when
the knock might come at the door,
whether tomorrow they will take you away
in a windowless van, leaving behind
your spouse, your children,
once again.
Spending years apart from your firstborn,
who turns flat into photographs, a voice echoing
at the other end of the line.
And getting stuck on the wrong side
when your mother or brother is dying back home
but there’s no way you can go to them,
because there’s no telling if you can get back again.

This, perhaps, would make a just sentence for Kay and McLaughlin.
Not for hiring workers without papers,
that is not the crime.
For building fences to block their passage—
cages, for men and women
who arrive with dry throats
and hearts laden down with stones.




revised December 12, 2007

"Memorial" printed in Real Change

Real Change newspaper published my poem "Memorial" in the March 21-27 issue. Unfortunately, they don't publish poems on their website alongside their valuable news and commentary, so I can't include the link here. You'll either have to buy a copy this week if you live in the Seattle area, or read the version published on this blog. (As usual, click the headline to follow the link.)