View from the author's backyard, West Hills, California.

Reading Your Stuff Aloud: Magnificent Digital Resource
Michael Sedano

Magu's flor y canto drawing was the theme graphic for the 2010 festival

With the posting by USC's Digital Library of videos from the 2010 Festival de Flor y Canto, Yesterday • Today • Tomorrow, it brought a forty-two years long project to a satisfying close. There are hundreds of ways to find value in recordings of artists reading their work. Models to copy or avoid. Personal pleasure of seeing writers thirty years apart. Sentiment knowing some videos are the only record of the now deceased artist's voice. And, of course, the joy of hearing a writer read their stuff aloud. i am happy to have played a role in that.

USC digital library index grid. Selected performance plays in new window.

In 1973 I had photographed literature's first Festival de Flor y Canto, when I was a graduate student at USC. The backstage candids and performance portraits captured young writers starting important literary careers. For years I thought mine the only images of the historic event. Then I discovered a set of videos from the 1973 floricanto--one of only two extant collections--in nearby Riverside, I was able to make adequate digital copies of the outmoded U-matic tapes.

Returning the original floricanto to USC where it all began called for a celebration. Barbara Robinson, head of USC's Boeckmann Center for Iberian and Latin American Studies, received a Visions & Voices grant to put together a floricanto. I delight knowing Robinson bought the video set back when she was a librarian at UCR. The readings were coming full circle twice.

With generous support from the Dean of the library, the three-day festival of readings came together in a few months. The first day for Veteranos, a reunion of writers from 1973. The second and third days would combine active and emerging voices to round out the yesterday, today, tomorrow theme.

Jesus Treviño, founder of the video repository Latinopia, directed the videography for the three days, endeavoring to record every speaker and ample "B-roll" footage. Use this link to navigate to the digital library index page for both floricantos, and my still photography:  http://digitallibrary.usc.edu/cdm/landingpage/collection/p15799coll79
 

Flor de Nopal Festival: Doing It Right


In Austin Tx this weekend, Flor de Nopal kicks off a five month long literary festival whose scope and vision could transform the anonymous ESB-MACC into a nationally-renowned center for developing chicana and chicano literature.

The Flor De Nopal Writing Workshop, the first of four monthly workshops, begins at 2:00 pm on Saturday, August 8, 2015 in the Raul Salinas classroom of ESB-MACC.

Unless you’re an Austin local, you probably won’t recognize the location of the monthly Flor De Nopal Writing Workshops, ESB-MACC.


The Emma S. Barrientos Mexican American Cultural Center is an underappreciated cultural gem in the city of Austin’s parks system. Occupying a striking architectural monument, the institution engages its audience via no admission charge and free parking, while defining its identity through art classes, film series, gallery shows, and this year, the extended duration Flor de Nopal Literary Festival.

Beginning this weekend and continuing through early December, Austin Texas’ Flor de Nopal Literary Festival illustrates the kind of vision and planning arts organizations elsewhere might want to copy. This is the kind of program that can be replicated, and that should produce outstanding results.

Instead of a two- or three-day residency that comes and goes so fast, the Flor de Nopal model offers extended support to local writers who participate in four writing workshops across five months. In addition to the focus and continuity of regular workshops, writers attend pair of large scale theatrical readings.


Serendipity smiles on festival organizers with the launch of Huizache’s 5th edition. The publisher will hold an October publication reading in association with Flor de Nopal. Workshoppers will be free to wonder if their manuscript is one workshop away publication in Huizache, the writer one submission away from being one of those writers up on stage.

Flor de Nopal’s mission statement declares its purpose “is to promote the work of Mexican American poets and writers, to create and nourish ties between writers, and to offer writing workshops to writers from all walks of life, and to aspiring poets and writers from our diverse community.”



On-line Floricanto. Five for Eight 2015
Michael Hureaux, Jackie Lopez, Armando Guzman,  Michael Martinez, Teresa González-Lee

This month, the Moderators of the Facebook group Poetry of Resistance: Poets Responding to SB 1070 nominate five poets to celebrate the year's eight month.

Hedy Treviño, who served as Moderator for many years, steps down with this, her final On-line Floricanto pane. Thank you, Hedy.


"Arab Spring" or the Balancing Act By Michael Hureaux
Border Disorder By Armando Guzman
The Confederate Flag By Jackie Lopez
Bicultural By Michael Martinez
Desde los arrecifes del silencio Por Teresa González-Lee


"Arab Spring" or the Balancing Act
By Michael Hureaux

Children who lived on that river which never froze
Created a thaw along the iced tightrope
It was though the banks were swarming
With Pharoah's daughter, each salvaging
A wailing beginning, and setting it afloat
To elude the swath of old men
Decked in the robes of the prophets.
On the more ancient street corners all of a sudden
It was recess where all the learned experts
Had for decades said recess would never come again.
Everyday for a month, the playgrounds were teeming
And nothing could herd the players or the game.
All nascent moves, aligned or otherwise,
Did a graceful flutter kick off the side of the jackbooted reality,
Performed a gallant header into the sawdust at center ring
Unannounced by the warlords in the starry wizard meters
Spent days in a brutal frenzied clench
And scaled that tower of bones built by the Murka mukks
Braved one more. Fall, as a child wood, or a troop of gentle tragic clowns
Hungry for the crackling warmth of a new reality.
Recess come again, despite the warnings of the specialists.
The work played to win.
For just a few hot seconds an army of way faring spirits
Held the attention of the world looking for
Other carnival masks, even harsh changes
If they brought the severe mercies of wild djinns.
The spring was a beautiful and agonized
Seeding of long sterile ground
And for just a few sweet moments
It was enough
To spur others forward
In Tunisia in Milwaukee in Athens in New York
In Lagos in Ontario in Belfast
In spite of what the experts said.
We happened. And we all saw us.
And we will happen again.



Michael Hureaux is a displaced creollo brat whose ancestry is hidden in France, the Dominican Republic and Louisiana.  He plays late life violin and is looking to find his way back to West African drum and dance.  He writes poetry sometimes.











The Confederate Flag
By Jackie Lopez

So, when she climbed the pole and pulled down that confederate flag,
she took down the memory of my crucifixion.
I was healed within a fortnight due to African medicine.
And, I think I shall write more happenstance than necessary:
He said, “I’ll break your back before I’ll break your heart.”
So, I stood in the rain and called out her name.
She said, “Give him plenty of Hell.” So, I became fire.
So with this fire I burn, burn, burn all flags everywhere because of all the lies.
The small,
the petty,
the brainwashing,
the media,
All stole boyfriends from me.
Team sports, that bastard, did the same.
So, I go outside to have a yogurt and talk to the trees as they are having their apple cider.
I tell them that there is nothing to worry about-soon, the Roman games will be over.
Ah, but when?
I walk past a school yard and hear, “Bitch,” “Spic,” “Cracker,” “Homo,” “nigger,” and “Wet-back.”
Only I know the teachers, also, say this to themselves when they get home.
I was once a teacher.
Nowadays, I just put-out.
There’s a little smile in the devilish hearts when one is made less.
They just call themselves the police.
So, when she climbed that pole, it was an act of sublime courage.
She was hot,
Awesome,
Cool,
Divine,
Courageous,
Intelligent,
Black,
Beautiful and
Worthy of capital letters.
And, I am just starting to give adjectives.
Don’t blame my color blindness.
Blame my most color worthy ancestors.
For they are the real players in my field of dishevelment.
Cut me down as soon as possible!
I think they will vouch for me.
I am a good person.
As are you, My Dear Soulmate!
Oh, when he thought I was a Southwest Girl, he thought I was a racist.
I do not join Latinos speaking evil. Nor do I join Whites.
I never join anything.
I inspire.
God Damn it!
I’m alive!!!!



Jackie Lopez is a historian who has come to the conclusion that there are no words to place in context the tumultuous life she leads.  At first, you see a distinguished figure who makes a lot of noise about history, social justice, healing, and all sorts of shamanism in San Diego‘s cultural centers.  At heart, she is a dancer and a poet who does not let go of the fact that she is  transcendental meditation.  When I ask her what she would  tell the people; all she answers is that it is in the soul where the healing lies.  Her aim is to plant seeds of enlightenment personality.  She claims that her poetry is beneficial to humankind because it awakens the “I am” process.  Recently, she has written a 120 page poem and is seeking a publisher for this.  Her poems have been published by Panhandler Productions, Warren College Literary Journal (UCSD) “The Hummingbird Review“, and Poets Responding to SB1070 face book page, Kill Radio, "La Bloga" and soon in the “North American Review.”  She can be contacted via email at:  peacemarisolbeautiful@yahoo.com, day and night.





Border Disorder
By Armando Guzman

I have a Border Disorder that is crawling in my skin.
There is no justice.
This hatred does not understand,
does not care for humanity.

I am a Desert rat with a Border Disorder.
There is a new name for this affliction;
It comes from the land of private prisons,
and the game is called Family Detention for Cash.

This Border Disorder runs in every drop of blood
running through my veins.
I can hear all the vile words the Copper State screams.

Do you not know that we are the Wild West???
This is the land of the big bad sheriff that has
special interests in the privatized prison system.
It is just good economics model.

I have a Border Disorder that has seen the inhumanity.
I have tasted the hatred;
and I have vomited upon the lies.

I am a Desert rat with a Border Disorder.
Racial profiling;
the new way of creating supply and demand.
Children in makeshift concentration camps.
We are going retro. .

I have a Border Disorder:
it steals funding from the education system;
gives free money to the prison system,
and it separates families.
This Border disorder dehumanizes
women and children.
When did being born become illegal?

I have a Border Disorder that does not let me
swallow the lies.
This Border Disorder feeds the humanity
that sustains my life force.

This Border Disorder keeps me from forgetting
the 43 students, of the thousands of women
killed and buried in mass graves.
I have a Border Disorder that calls for real justice.





Armando Guzman was born in the border town of Heroica Nogales, Sonora Mexico. He grew up facing the same challenges that other people face in a border town. Armando is a troubadour with a heart divided by the steel and concrete walls.  Es un producto de Heroica Nogales, Sonora y Nogales Arizona. He has published one chapbook, "60 Miles From Heroica."











Bicultural
By Michael Martinez

I am neither from here nor there
When society tells you to pick one side
Some of us are stuck on border lines
Being pushed and pulled but no compromise
On whom we are and where we belong
It was never our choice to begin with
But rather but rather to make others more comfortable
Let others decide where I’m supposed to be
let others decide my identity
Doesn’t matter, if I was born in this country
My English is weighted down by my Spanish accent
I listen to corridos and claim my roots in another land
Go ahead, question my existence,
claiming that i'm stealing an American dream hoping it blossoms
Like the tulips and trees planted in front yards
By the cheap labor of men with brown skin as mine
It doesn’t matter if my roots are deep in Mexican soil
My skin may be the same color as the land of my mother
But my Spanish is weighted down by an American accent
It gives me away as just another American
A minority in both lands
Carving my identity from scratch
Espanglish is my new dialect
reflecting the struggle of two identities
Being able to move back and forth
But never settling down in either one
Every time a part of me stays outside of conversation
can't be allowed in no matter how much it knocks
Being part of both but not belonging to either one.


My name is Michael Martinez and I am from Escondido Ca. I am going to California State University of San Marcos for Human Development with an emphasis in counseling. I started writing about two years ago and hope to keep going.













Desde los arrecifes del silencio  
Por Teresa González-Lee

    for 2015 Magee Park Poets

Soy mujer con labios
que han musitado el adiós
y tú borras mis sueños
dejándolos sin timón     a la deriva.

Tu corazón no quiso doblarse a descifrar
el código secreto de mis raíces culturales                            
tu corazón no supo esperar
el fruto en ciernes de nuestra ternura.

Por eso si ahora decides  
asomarte y esconderte
en  mis atardeceres virtuales    te prometo              
que esculpiré la letra de la
muerte del cisne.

Pongo en cero  la cuenta de
kilómetros recorridos por mi desposada ilusión            
mientras dejo tu nombre navegar
hacia la tierra de “Mejor olvídame, amor…”.

Soy mujer cuyos labios
ya  han gesticulado el adiós
desde los  arrecifes del silencio
hacia la voz que convierte el duelo en canción.


From the Cliffs of Silence  
By Teresa González-Lee 
    
I’m a woman whose lips
have hummed farewell
and you’ve  deleted
my dreams leaving them steer-less    adrift.

Your heart could not kneel down
and dig in to decode
deep inside my cultural roots
your heart could not wait
for our tenderly conceived fruit.

So, if you decide now to
pop in and out of
my virtual sunsets      I promise
I’ll craft the lyrics for a swan song.

I set back to zero the mileage
driven by my married hope
while I allow your name to sail away
towards the land of
“Better forget me, hon…”

I’m a woman whose lips
have whispered ‘adios’
from the cliffs of silence to the voice
that turns “mourning into song.”



Teresa González-Lee was born in Chile on August 23, 1942. She first came to the U.S. with a Fulbright Scholarship to study in Kansas where she obtained an M.A. in Linguistics. She later acquired a Ph.D. in the Golden Age of Spanish Literature at the University of California at San Diego.

She taught Spanish at Mira Costa Community College for nearly twenty-five years. She was the first bilingual editor for the San Diego Poetry Annual’s bilingual section. When Teresa retired, she wrote poetry and more poetry. She became friends with other local poets, she was eager to learn new techniques and she attended recitals and workshops all the time. On July 17, 2015, Teresa passed on; she leaves behind her son Hiram Lee-González, her 95 years-old-mother Maria, and her sister Nora González.

Poems courtesy of Hiram Lee-González, Biography excerpt courtesy of Nora González, and photograph courtesy of Charlaine Vitarelli

 



Disjointed July

 

In July, things collided and came apart. My brother-in-law tumbled off a roof and broke his leg. I rear-ended a Lexus. In July, we got “Super Historic” rainfall in L.A. I saw lightning strike the ocean. In July, the dead haunted my heart. The moon fell apart piece by piece and then put herself back together again—twice in one month, Blue Moon. And then there was the disarticulated poetry that inspired and surprised...

 

Disarticulated Words

 

disarticulate: to make or become disjointed,

as the bones of a body or stems of a plant.

 

Ingredients for Disarticulated Poems

 

2 poets

8 media headlines (4 per poet)

8 “fevered writings” (4 per poet)

1 timer

 

Prep and Cooking Time



On and off musings over the period of one month

 

Directions

 

1. Have each poet select 4 media headlines from dónde sea.

2. Swap these, so that each poet has the other's headlines. 

3. Have each poet freewrite a la brava (don't think too much, just write non-stop) for 3 minutes on each of the swapped headlines. The writings produced are the “fevered writings.” There should be 4 for each poet.

4. Swap again, so that each poet now has the other's fevered writings.

5. Read and let the words of the other poet brew.

6. Disarticulate the other poet's fevered writings with the goal of creating something entirely new. This means take the writings apart, move words and phrases, undo images and then stitch them back together without adding any new words. Only words included in the fevered writings can be used. Keep in mind, not every word has to be used. Repeat words if needed. Change the form of words if desired. For instance, change sandwich (noun) into sandwiched (verb) or love (verb) into lovely (adjective).

7. Most importantly play, play, play until an original poem rises from the disarticulated stew.

 

Wanna Give It a Try? Readers Can Play

One of the coolest things about dis•articulations 2015is that readers can jump in  every month and play. Website visitors can use the posted headlines as writing prompts or the posted fevered writings to disarticulate a poem of their own. Reader Poems can be posted in the comments section of the website for others to read. At the end of the month, Terry selects a winning Reader Poem. The winner gets $25.00 and her/his bio posted on the site, as well as a link to the winning entry. If you're interested or curious, check out this month's prompts: https://disarticulations2015.wordpress.com/?s=August

 

An Interview with Terry Wolverton in the Middle of this Disarticulated Blog

 

 

Bio Sidebar: Terry Wolverton is the author of ten books of poetry, fiction and creative nonfiction, including Embers, a novel in poems, and Insurgent Muse: Life and Art at the Woman’s Building, a memoir. She is the founder of Writers At Work, a creative writing studio in Los Angeles, and is Affiliate Faculty in the MFA Writing Program at Antioch University Los Angeles. She’s also a certified instructor of Kundalini Yoga.

 

Terry, bienvenida! Can you share what has been the most rewarding part of your dis•articulations 2015 journey so far?

 

I’ve had the opportunity to meet and encounter the work of poets I didn’t know before (including you!) I’ve written poems I never would have thought my way to. And I’ve been told by a couple of collaborating poets that working on the process got them writing again after a dry spell.

 

 

What has that been like--working with a different poet each month?

 

It’s just fascinating to study how another poet thinks and how he or she uses language. I worked with one poet whose fevered writing contained no images of the body; that’s so different than my own work! Another poet was extravagant with adjectives, which made me aware that I can tend to be sparse. Others used words I would never use in a poem, but I challenged myself to do so. All this is expansive for me (and I hope for the other poets too.)

 

As writers/artists, we have to keep fueling our own visions and creations. What fuels the fire for this particular project?

 

This project reflects three of my particular loves—a focus on the process of creating (which for me is where art resides), experimentation, and working in community.

 

The concept of disarticulation seems to be at the heart of your project. What does “disarticulation” mean to you?

 

The word “disarticulation” literally means to take apart a body, or rather a skeleton, to separate the joints. I borrowed the term because I am taking apart bodies of writing—the passages of fevered writing—and separating them into their component parts of speech, nouns, verbs, adjectives, etc.

 



What Disarticulating Terry's Words Looked Like

It was quite a journey to take apart your fevered writings and play with your words, not knowing where I was going or why I was going there. At times I felt very challenged, but mostly it made me work within certain word boundaries. In the end, I wrote something unexpected and that was really cool. What exactly pulled you into this creative approach?

 

This process appealed to me because I felt myself falling into familiar ruts with my poetry, returning again and again to certain subject matter, imagery, moods. I wanted a process that would disrupt those patterns; I wanted to surprise myself.

 

I think a lot of writers can relate to what you are saying about familiar ruts that develop in our writing. I really appreciated the elements of disruption and surprise in the disarticulated exercises. I read on your website that you've done something similar before.

 

Although I’d been playing with aspects of this process, things came together in 2012; my partner (the poet Yvonne M. Estrada) committed to do fevered writing every day for 30 days; she and I would exchange prompts. She used the results differently to inspire poems but I began taking apart my fevered writing, and recombining it. In 2013 I did a blog project where I invited friends and strangers to give me prompts and I wrote a new disarticulations poem every week for a year.

 

Wow, that is a lot of poetry. It's impressive how you've stuck to the act of disarticulating, and yet how you've allowed it to evolve. What contributed to the shift from your blog project in 2013 to dis•articulations 2015?

 

Working with prompts from other people was great, but I wanted to explore even further disruption, so I had the idea of asking other poets to collaborate, working with poets with a wide variety of poetic styles, disarticulating and reconstructing one another’s words to make our poems.

 

There's a $25 prize for a Reader Poem winner each month and also collaborating poets are given $50 for their participation. I love this about your project! Are you funding this yourself? And if so, why?

 

Again, because I’m interested in process and community, I wanted to create a way for others to participate, in addition to the twelve poets I collaborate with. I decided the collaborators would all be Southern California based, but the readers who submit poems can be anywhere. The $25 prize I had hoped would provide more inspiration to participate; folks who have won the monthly reader poem challenge seem to be pleased with it. Also, I pay the collaborators $50 for their participation; I think poets should get paid, even if it’s a nominal fee. I initially wrote a grant for this project, but it wasn’t funded, so I had to set aside a little budget to fund it myself on a more modest scale.

 

Random Picture of the Ocean in July to Signal "End of Interview"

 

 

 

Three Poetic Disarticulations From the Month of July

 
I can't think of a better way to end a disarticulated blog than with disarticulated poems. My poetic exchange with Terry Wolverton this past month led to Terry's "The Milky Blues" and my "Wildfires" (both poems are included below). If you are interested in seeing more of the actual process, you can visit the dis•articulations2015 website for a list of the actual prompts we exchanged and the fevered writings we produced.

 

The first poem included here was written by Manuel J. Velez, the winner of the Reader Poem for the month of July. Manuel took the headline prompt "What Gaining a Leap Second Means for a Hummingbird" and produced the following poem. Terry's poem and my own were created from the disarticulation of our exchanged fevered writings.

 

 

A Farmworker Offers Advice to Hummingbird Flying Among the Grapevines

by Manuel Velez

 

Never let them count the thrusts of your wings;
the subtle motions that stir in their minds
images of nightgowns floating across ballroom floors.

 

They’ll never see how each thrust tears away
at your body and weakens your soul.

 

Never let them see past your rainbow plumes;
the playful dance of colors that reminds them
of exotic pearls resting softly around their necks.

 

They don’t see that underneath the rainbow
lies the cold grey reality of a life spent at work.

 

Never let them measure the rhythm of your beating heart;
The soft vibrations that sing to them like a silent lullaby,
a serene moment of meditation.

 

They’ll never know that each beat is a growing
desperation for survival. No, hummingbird, never let them see who you truly are;

 

A creature trapped in the monotony of labor.
A perpetual existence of constant movement.
A life whose dream is for only enough nectar
to survive another day.

 

Let them be mesmerized by your motions and captivated by your colors.
Let them believe that your true beauty is to be free.
Let them value that which least defines you
because it’s the only way they’ll find any value in you at all.

 

 

MY MILKY BLUES

by Terry Wolverton

 

An atheist, a dolphin and a homo
walk into Heaven. God looks up but cannot
decipher their cratered faces. Rose water
spills onto the altar silk, marking it pink.

 

Long-stemmed and small-boned, I scatter whenever
rain spills against the church boat, unanchored in
a chalky sea. Amethyst breath of the moon
touches my face, baffles the infinite word.

 

You are native to the fierce depths, I am wrapped
in guns and dirty laundry. When we fuck we
go to Paradise, minus the amber ghosts.
All that upward leaping is just like marriage.

 

I keep imagining your sad, translucent
mouth, a haiku in space with no gravity.
Those plush goodbyes made me gasp with poetry,
La Luna pillowed on the surface of time.

 

Sharks are now people. Women are pagan. Earth
is littered with injury. Heaven spotted
with scientists, armed with examples. God knows
who are the dead, red jelly in the charred heart.

 

 

Wildfires

by Olga García Echeverría

 

I.
Bam! Just like that.
Another woman of color
eradicated by the system.

 

Why not start a wildfire
with all the newspaper articles?

 

It makes as much sense
as anything.

 

II.
She needed
more hummingbirds
more salvia
more seconds on the Universal clock

 

She needed
more nectar to sip
more time
to let it all hang out
to sit serenely, thinking
to small talk at dinner
to gossip with friends

 

She needed more time
to write
to birth
to live

 

to sleep
inside the safest place, her own navel,
spinning wheels of energy, yellow
Chakra vibrating, the mystery
of the undulating Universe
dripping from her fingertips

 

She needed more softness,
this purple-colored woman
bellowing through time,
wildfires in her eyes…

 

 

 

 

Review: Karen S. Córdova. Farolito. Taos NM: 3: A Taos Press, 2015. ISBN: 978-0-9847925-8-0

Michael Sedano



There’s a hidden truth in some old people’s lives. They protest they are “all right by themselves” but they’re not. They can’t do things like open jars and cans, figure out the teevee set, or stop relatives from moving in under guise of “taking care of granma.”

Caretakers help themselves to the old person’s finances, that pot of gold in savings, those active credit cards, that well-running car. Gramma hides behind her locked door in fear of getting screamed at for being alive.

Elder abuse. It’s the kind of ugly family truth that beckons siblings to look away, pretend not to notice. It’s a familia infamy that an elder’s final days on this earth could be spent as a victim. Just thinking about elder abuse puts me into a fist-crunching rage. For poet Karen S. Córdova, acting against an uncle’s exploitation wrested a good life for an old woman. If Córdova's relatives read Farolito, there's a lesson about loving for them. For everyone else, Farolito's a collection of poems that demand a reading every bit as much as reading tomorrow's newspaper.

Farolito, poems by Karen S. Córdova, occupies a vital space in Chicana Chicano Literature. A personal narrative that draws deeply upon New Mexico roots and cultura, Karen S. Córdova illuminates a behind-the-scenes family story of elder abuse, avariciousness, and rescue. Abuela’s is a universal story that too many are forced to live, for want of a poet granddaughter, or a reader of Farolito to recognize the crimes in one's own town.

Córdova manages her taboo subject-matter with a poet’s compassion and intent. But raging just under the skin of these pieces seethes a granddaughter’s anger at a family’s complicitness. This gives some poems a hard edge, as should be.

I missed Abuelita for eight months.
My uncle said I wasn’t welcome:
Would a bullet from a gun greet me at the door?
My crime was that I cleaned her house
while he was cleaning out her bank account,
and so her lying in the hospital also was opportunity.

Personal narrative poetry should make a point worth noting. Those who have done wrong need to be remembered and held accountable. For Córdova’s worthless Tío, his accountability comes in the poet’s next line, Abuela’s hospitalbed message:

“I’m here. Ven. Ahora me ves. Diles adios a todos por me”

The granddaughter recognizes the old woman’s farewells to her family will fall on empty hearts, uncaring ears.

Farolito sings poems of incredible sadness tempered with the poet’s infusions of indelible memories of familia, generations, and comforting visions that buffer the hard way Abuela is going.

Farolito offers hopefulness, too, in the story of abuela in a nursing home, liberated from that conniving tío and those primos, and hearing the life affirming message,

“See. She’s still Grandma.“

The poet builds to an understated climax so evocative that one cannot avoid choking up reading the line aloud. I would like to see Córdova read the poem. (The poet read at the 2010 Festival de Flor y Canto at USC. Click here for a link to her reading.)

The places where old people go for rehabilitation, extended care or independent living, can and should be be oases of peace. If so, credit must go to the gente who work the 24/7 duties of such places. They shouldn’t be invisible.

Córdova’s acknowledgment of the workers in eldercare facilities mixes tragedy with nobility. Outside the workplace, a caregiver is murdered. The poet writes a message to the victim's mother, telling her

I don’t care what she did
in youth and indiscretion or
desperation.
You should have seen the face—
Madonna kind—
of your daughter who almost lived.

Abuela didn’t get to go suddenly in a burst of light. She lingered becoming less herself and more a memory to her loving granddaughter. The poet closes the collection with a series of affirming farewell poems, including the title poem, that leads a reader to wish to be so fiercely remembered.

Mi abuela will walk toward her mother
down that path lined with sun-struck trees.
For a moment, she’ll look back—
silently bequeath her voice to me—
roll the petate and leave forever.
Her voice will live in the heart of my heart.
I vow I will guard, pass it whole
to my grandchildren’s children,

Independent booksellers will order your copies of Farolito or you can order via the publisher’s website and other places.

http://3taospress.com/authors-9.html




News 'n Notes

Digital Codex of Pan-American Writing
from the editor:
In this issue—our Blue Moon Special—we feature Regan Good, who appears in Hinchas for the first time; poems by Norman Dubie; "erasure" poems by Kelly Nelson; Desirée Jung, Mông-Lan, Matthew Goodman, Fabienne Josaphat; & 3 lovely poems by Kristine Chalifoux, along with Jamie Figueroa's short fiction, "Family Ritual." Thelma Reyna interviews Graciela Limón, author of the The Intriguing Life of Ximena Godoy. Also in this issue: the figurative cubism of Alexandre Nodopaka; the fantastical found-object sculptures of Gilbert Rangel; two paintings by Trina Drotar & First Morning of the Early Third World and other drawings by Arturo Desimone. Join us, won't you!

Click here to read Hinchas de Poesía16


Los Angeles Theater Center New Season

from the Company:
The Fall season includes a West Coast Premiere comedy about the collision between online gaming and In Real Life (IRL) relationships (In Love and Warcraft); a West Coast Premiere drama about two kids caught in the middle of the 67 Riots (Detroit 67); a World Premiere comedy about the Baby Boomers' generation of "double immigrants" (57 Chevy); a remembrance of the 50th anniversary of the Watts Riots (Riot/Rebellion); a hilarious comedy about what the holidays are like for Latinas (The Latina Christmas Special); and the return of a beloved holiday tradition in the City of Angels (La Virgen de Guadalupe, Dios Inantzin), plus unique additional programming. Come experience stories that are personal, political and cultural and stages that reflect the diversity of Los Angeles.

Programming made possible by The James Irvine Foundation, The National Endowment for the Arts, The Shubert Foundation, The W.M. Keck Foundation, The Ahmanson Foundation, California Community Foundation, Bloomberg Philanthropies, Entravision Communications Corporation, and GOYA Foods.

The Latino Theater Company is supported in part by the Los Angeles County Board of Supervisors through the Los Angeles County Arts Commission and the City of Los Angeles, Department of Cultural Affairs.

Click here to visit LATC's site with electronic box office.


Sophocles Update: Seattle

The Passion As Told by Antigona Perez
By Luis Rafael Sanchez, translated and directed by Arlene Martinez-Vazquez

With the Greek chorus transformed into a host of multi-cultural news reporters working for online media and a crowd of citizens who Tweet and update their Facebook status at every move of their despotic dictator, this production features an entirely Hispanic cast as the residents of the Republic of Molina - highlighting the discrepancies between perception and reality in the era of global information.

Featuring the talents of Javonna Arriaga, Ashley Salazar, Stela Diaz, Angela Maestas, Carter Rodriguez, Steve Gallion, Meg Savlov, Keiko Green, Fernando Cavallo, Emily Fairbrook, Duygu Erdogan, Jazzy Ducay, Adrian Cerrato, and Robin Strahan.

The play opens its 12th Avenue Arts run on Thursday, runs through the end of August.

Click the video below for the play's imaginative set-up, then click this link for tickets:
http://antigonaperez.brownpapertickets.com


Antigona Teaser FINAL Medium from Arlene Martinez on Vimeo.


Euripides Update: Pacific Palisades (Malibu)


From MacArthur Fellow and critically acclaimed author of Electricidad and Oedipus el Rey, Luis Alfaro's Mojada is a breathtaking reimagining of Euripides's Medea transported to East Los Angeles. In an epic journey of border crossings, Medea, a seamstress with extraordinary skill, runs from a past of betrayals. With husband Hason and their son in tow, our storied heroine's struggle to adapt takes a disastrous turn when old and new worlds meet in the City of Angels. Alfaro's gripping contemporary take on the ancient Greek myth tackles the complexities of family, tradition, culture, and the explosive moment when they all collide.

http://www.getty.edu/museum/programs/performances/outdoor_theater_15.html



From Tamazunchale to Hermosa Beach: Peripatetic Writer Takes Road Next Traveled


La Bloga friend, Ron Arias, is featured in  luxury web magazine Southbay, pursuing the potter's wheel instead of pedo in some third world calle. From crafting sentences with his hands to spinning mud into vessels, the look of satisfaction on Ron's face tells the world he's making the most of every  opportunity.

Ron Arias read at both the 1973 and 2010 historic floricantos at USC.  Follow this link to view his 2010 reading.http://digitallibrary.usc.edu/cdm/compoundobject/collection/p15799coll79/id/274/rec/1

I am so happy that my new bilingual book ¡Vámonos! Let's Go! is available now. This week, I received my author's copies. It is always great to see, feel and hug a book for the first time.






"The Wheels on the Bus" takes on a new, bilingual identity as children sing in both English and Spanish about the exciting noises made by all sorts of vehicles.

You may know that the wheels on the bus go round and round, but did you know that las ruedas del bus ruedan y ruedan? Or that while the horn on the truck goes honk, honk, honk, la bocina del camión goes tut tuu tuu? 

Young readers are in for a cheerful and cacophonous ride in this bilingual picture book that introduces them to the sounds of motorcycles, fire trucks, airplanes and more in both English and Spanish. But the best sounds of all are the ones from the children as they reach the state park at the end of their trip. Yay and Yupi!

Get the lesson plan of the book at http://www.holidayhouse.com/title_display.php?ISBN=9780823434428

Melinda Palacio

Cool cover?

My sister and I at our father's grave

volunteer maiz/corn plant in my front yard

               ISBN 9781476784960

Michael Sedano

Antonio Ruiz-Camacho is a bi-national writer, a Mexicano out of Toluca who lives in Austin, who caught a major break when his collection, Barefoot Dogs, got picked up by the Simon and Schuster imprint, Scribner.

Barefoot Dogs presents eight connected stories of a Mexican family forced into fearful exile, or self-imposed house arrest, after the paterfamilias is kidnapped. The crime affects not only the man's familia but also the servants, who are forced into exile with the fleeing employers.

In the opening story,  It Will Be Awesome Before Spring, there's a spoiled college girl whose European jaunt loses its allure in the wake of her grandfather's kidnapping.

The story shares little detail about 19-year-old Fernanda because she is so vapid there's little to say about her. She's never ridden a subway or a cab—in Mexico City. In Europe, sure. Her perspective is derived from firsts, the year we did this, did that, the year grampa got kidnapped.

When an associate describes a gang rape of a kidnapped woman, the storyteller gets so wrapped up in the horror he loses composure and when he stops to gather himself, the rich girl narrating the tale illustrates just how vapid: He has to pause, he looks shaken, like he won't be able to continue the story, and everybody around him is silent looking at him with wide eyes, everybody thinking, This is a joke, right?

Awesome isn't Ruiz-Camacho's only female narrator. He introduces Susana and her Chicana co-worker in a story of bafflement and powerlessness, Deers. Susy girl, Conchita calls her, needs the language and cultural translation Conchita provides, to navigate their job at McDonald's, as well as U.S. English.

Conchita's tragic story looms in the background the day a bear invades their workplace, while in an aside, Ruiz-Camacho illustrates how capricious a servant's life can be. Susana travels to Austin with her Mexicano employers, and settles into a big, rich house, "like the one where I lived with Doña Laura and her family for a few months until one day, out of the blue, she got mad and kicked me out".

The reader already met Laura, in the third story, Origami Prunes. Laura is an older and horny Mexicana who meets the male narrator in a laundromat where flirting quickly turns into tryst. There's tragedy at the end of this, the weakest story in the collection—it's a young man's cougar fantasy—save for some wonderful foreshadowing through metaphor and word choice.

They flirt, hold hands innocently but with loaded meaning. As they watch their clothes tumble in the dryer the sight suggests the clothing-free intimacy to come, and that naked arm shouts it out loud:

Later, we saw our own clean clothes tumble away inside the machines. she rested her head on my shoulder.
'Give me your phone,' she said.
Laura pointed the camera toward us. her slender naked arm outstretched, her flesh loose and freckled, and brought her face close to mine.

Among my favorite Los Tigres Del Norte songs is Tumba Falsa in which a man invents his wife's death to explain to his children where philandering Mamá has gone. It's a similar plot to Better Latitude, an apostrophe by a woman to the missing man, Don Victoriano Arteaga, who is almost 30 years his lover's senior.

The kidnapped paterfamilias has a mistress, Silvia, and six-year-old son. The boy's named after his grandmother, Laureano, a detail left unexplained but weighted when we meet Laura a few stories later.

The mistress invents a story that Dad is off on business to China. It's not the first invention; there's a fake wedding portrait. Laureano invents, too. Tells his mom that dad visits him in the backyard.
Laureano is a beautiful young man—all six-year-olds have that inherent quality. Broken-hearted, his fantasy is all the consolation he can find, until the mother's resentment surfaces and she strikes out:

The next evening, when he was packing his stuffed animals, getting ready for another fun day at the zoo with his daddy, I asked him when you'd returned from China. . . . He looked up at the map above his bed, then turned to me with confused eyes, as if considering the question for the first time. He said he didn't know, and kept stuffing animals into the bag. As he walked away I realized I'd learned to hurt him without leaving marks, next time I might as well whip him on the soles of his feet. . . . neither of us mentioned China again.

Soles of his feet becomes a motif in the closing story, Barefoot Dogs. In this instance, the youngest "legitimate" son of the family has fled to Madrid with his wife, newborn son, and old dog.

The man suffers from disconnectedness—he cannot look his baby in the eye, avoids spending time with him, and prefers to walk his dog. The dog suffers from sores on the soles of his feet. It's an eerie connection to Laureano's story, except far worse. The old dog has cancer and rather than put him down, the man elects to keep taking the pet on walks. That's a bit like never mentioning China again.

In a hallucinatory moment walking the dog, the man comes face to face with his missing father. Back in Mexico, the old man has been Fed-Ex'd to the family in pieces, starting with a foot. The spectre of Don Victoriano tells the man to get shoes for the dog, that the dog will be fine.

The dog will be dead soon, as the man's father surely is dead somewhere in Mexico, where murderers hang chunks of bodies from trees, one story describes. In the end, however, the man finds it within himself to abrazar the old man until the cucui disappears. Perhaps that's a portent that his son will finally have a father who demonstrates love.

Love, that's the absent quality from all these stories. Anomie, hostility, vapidness, sexual abandon, these infuse the lives of these people. Maybe there's hope for those driven from their homeland into exile. But maybe not; these are some mucked up people. Is it that the rich are different, or just this family?

Ruiz knows the names and relationships get a bit convoluted. Or is he Camacho? There's a moment in one story where a Mexicano meets a hyphenated Mexicana living in the US hace años. She corrects him and tells him her last name is the second part of the hyphen, not the first. Barefoot Dogs is somewhat in the same boat, as Mexican-American literature. Is this Mexican? United States mainstream? a variety of Chicano literature?

There's an Arteaga Family Tree at the end of the collection that will help a reader connect all the characters to one another. Not that it's needful, for each story stands alone. There's some brilliant stuff here. The tree of lives injects a satisfying sense of organization, after the fact, where there is so much chaos surrounding the characters.

Good short fiction by Chicana Chicano writers isn't rare, but it's rarely published by the big New York houses. So here's a bi-national Mexicano, Antonio Ruiz-Camacho, who catches a break on his first collection and it comes out of Simon and Schuster imprint Scribner. ¡Ajua! Whither raza?

Rich Mexicans. Europe. Upper crust US neighborhoods. Not too much attention to los de abajo and U.S. issues. Keep the stories in the moment, don't confront big wrap-around social justice themes, keep that stuff in the background. Maybe ahi 'sta el detalle for raza writers.

And it helps to write good stories, it helps a lot.


mail call
LA Area Veterans To Tune In to Vital Services

The Army and Richard Nixon cut me loose in August 1970. I travelled by Greyhound down the Pacific Coast to LA, getting reacquainted with my wife (we were married a month when I got my first Draft notice) and the U.S. economy. Wow: hearing English everywhere; no ration cards; real dollars instead of Military Payment Certificates; if North Korea invaded I would read about it instead of be killed; and time to get a job.

My era Veterans returned home and rebooted life as we knew it. Most of us. Veterans of the Obama-Bush père et fils wars are being put through a wringer now that they've completed their service. "What have you done for me, lately?" seems to the the attitude of Congress.

Here's a small step for a man or woman down on their luck.

Click here to RSVP via Eventbrite's website.



Conference on Américo Paredes Names Keynotes


La Bloga friend Roberto Cantu sends an important update to news of the 2016 Conference on Américo Paredes.

The conference, scheduled for the El Sereno campus in May 2016, is the result of the long-term planning and close collaboration between Mexican and Chicano faculty at California State University, Los Angeles, the University of California, Santa Barbara, and the University of Texas at Austin.

The faculty representing these three institutions are pleased to announce the conference participation of ten renowned keynote and featured speakers. These include Richard Flores (University of Texas at Austin), John Holmes McDowell (Indiana University), Oscar J. Martínez (University of Arizona), film director Robert M. Young and award-winning actor and director Edward James Olmos.

This conference on Américo Paredes will also include scenes from plays by Chicano dramatist Carlos Morton to be performed under the direction of Mexican actress Alejandra Flores, and panel sessions on various topics related to the conference's theme. The full conference program will be announced in mid-February 2016.

http://americoatcalstatela.blogspot.com




August On-line Floricanto
Nina Serrano, Briana Muñoz, Joel Méndez, Hatto Fischer, Eleazar Valdez

Organized by Sharon Elliott, the Moderators of the Facebook group, Poetry of Resistance: Poets Responding to SB 1070, nominate five poets for this first-in-August On-line Floricanto, who submit work in English, Spanish, Greek, and German.


I, Too, Am Singing America By Joel Méndez

Tahui!
For Francisco X. Alarcón
By Nina Serrano

“My long time friend Nina Serrano has sent me this wonderful poem that she has kindly dedicated to me. I am very honored and moved by her cosmic words that encourage me to continue my work as a poet.” Francisco X. Alarcón

“Tahui!,” calls Francisco X. Alarcón
we respond with, “Tahui!”
carried on the echoing winds
in the four directions,
and above and below

Holy vibrations over the California
hills mountains canyons and deserts
creeks lakes rivers and sea
Over fields of growing
lettuce broccoli celery and grapes
Over trees bearing
oranges pears plums
and swaying palms heavy with coconuts

Francisco's call
heard by young and old
Gathers us in the ether and ambiance
of floating ancient dusty remains
for poetry community creativity and justice
Speaking words that sing to Mother Earth
exploding stars
in the constantly expanding universe.

Francisco is not waiting for laurel leaves
He labors for poetry constantly
If crowned his work will not change
He will continue as long as he breathes
to call, “Tahui!”
We will respond, “Tahui!”
in the four directions
and above and below.


Mexican or American
By Briana Muñoz

When I visit my family in Mexico,
I feel at home, closer to my roots,
A connection with this dirt
Mi tierra
Visiting historic places like las piramides de Teotihuacan
Taking shots of tequila with the drunk uncle Lencho
Every other word that comes from his mouth- a curse word.
I, speak my pocha Spanish with my cousins, and they laugh

When I’m in my AP English class,
And stand at the podium, sharing my
Literary analysis on Homer’s Odyssey,
I feel confident, at ease within literature
Then the teacher goes through her attendance sheet
And everyone’s last name is Williams and Johnson and Smith

I never represent the tilde in my last name
Not because I am not proud
Because it is too much work
To draw a scribble over the N

All the gringos pronounce it wrong either way

In the kitchen during the holidays
I am no help
Because all that I know how to cook is
A grilled cheese sandwich or macaroni and cheese
My abuelita doesn’t even know how to pronounce
Either of these things

I do not like menudo and I always pass on the pastel de tres leches
My family looks at me like I am crazy
I wear long sleeves during the summer when Ivisit my grandmother
So she does not scold me for all the tattoos on my body

But when my dad puts on his corridos and mariachi music
I sure know the difference between Antonio Aguilar and Vicente Fernandez

I may not be American
Y tal vez no soy Mexicana
That’s right, I am one hundred percent Chicana.


Briana Muñoz is a young writer from San Marcos, CA. She writes short stories and poetry inspired by her Hispanic culture and her surroundings. She has been published in Palomar College's Bravura Literary Journal and previously published on La Bloga. She plans to continue writing and sharing her works.


I, Too, Am Singing America
By Joel Méndez

As I scrub your dishes, pots and pans
With skin-piercing detergents in the greasy
Kitchens of your restaurants, hotels and grand chalets
I, too, am singing, America!

As I clean your lawns, parks and highways
In brazen heat and bone-chilling winds
And make you proud of your streets and railroads
I, too, am singing, America!

As I harvest your bounty under the scorching sun
In the bosom of your fertile fields while
Breathing pesticides that permeate your fruited land
I, too, am singing, America!

As I tile your floors and tar your roofs
And paint your walls with lead-filled hues
While my limbs grow numb and arthritic
I, too, am singing, America!

As I fine-tune and lubricate your gas-guzzling SUVs
Hand-wash and caress your sedans with the finest wax
My aching back and joints guarantee your gleaming cars
I, too, am singing, America!

As I count and assemble your disposable widgets and gadgets
Under artificial light and sweltering heat and floating ashes
Inhaling the rancid indoor air of your sweatshops and factories
I, too, am singing, America!

As I splinter the veins of your mines in search of precious metals
In the cavernous bowels of your majestic mountain ranges
Taxing my skin and lungs inhaling nauseating dust and gases
I, too, am singing, America!

As I care for your prolific poultry and inbred cattle
In the viscera of your prodigious farms and ranches
Surrounded by dusty silos, sloshing waste and squalor
I, too, am singing, America!

As I march into your battlefields and global confrontations
And leave the indelible stain of my blood in your trenches
To uphold the inalienable rights given by your Constitution
I, too, am singing, America!

As I toil proudly in the 187 hues and tones
Interlacing the legacy of my ancestry, I bestow on thee
The transcendency of my Raza Cósmica’s genome
Anticipating the day you become a rightful part of me…

I, too, am singing, America!

My name is Joel Méndez. I am a retired high school mathematics teacher and enjoy reading and writing poetry. I particularly enjoy reading and writing poetry that stimulates self-reflection and the type of poetry genre that creates awareness of past, current, and future political dilemmas and historical events affecting us all. Originally from the Rio Grande Valley Region of South Texas, I spent my early childhood in the labores. Mechanization in agriculture interrupted our migrant farmworkers life and forced my family to move to the midwest where my parents and older siblings joined the factory labor force. I came of age in the tough streets of the multicultural, multiethnic, multiracial barrio in Chicago. I split my time between Santa Fe New Mexico and Chicago and, at times, in my beloved Texas.




Strong images
By Hatto Fischer

If I could only rip apart those rocks
against which lean the winds of the seas;
they come and go at free will, but chained
to them is the magic projection of Camus' Sisyphus
as if we live only now and then in virtual worlds
reflecting how our imagination can stretch out
like the hand of the hungry beggar for some food.

If I could only cry out loud, but am nearly drowned in silence,
the injustices in the world are like the waves created by
the large boats cutting through the water and ignoring
whatever small sized vessel might be close by, in the way,
so like the blind man I do not see far, only hear
the sounds the winds make along the shores of the island
on which I have been stranded for years by now, by now.

Dusk writes with a pen the things to be remembered
for tomorrow will be another rough day with many tasks
left incomplete since most of the people have left the city
in preference for another way of life, and in being abandoned,
I walk alone through empty streets and hear only my footsteps
like the lost sounds of by-gone times curling now around lamp posts
as if paper wishing not to be carried away by the winds, the winds.

Step by step I scale the stairs till up at the top I find an answer
to what I have been searching for all along. It is the news of elections
in a far away land near the Aegean sea which has undertaken it
to try a different way while leaving uncertain what shall be questioned first.
Metallic is the sound of change when women hit on their pots out of protest.
It is no longer just the winds which are making the sounds of change.
Swept along the streets are now newspapers screaming out the news of today.
Faded into history are shades of those days when it was not a becoming to exist.
Time and again, news are a reminder of the precarious nature of life itself.
Swept along are also the memories which flow down the stairs like wine.


Έντονες Εικόνες
By Hatto Fischer
Translated by Katerina Anghelaki Rooke

Αν μπορούσα μονάχα να σχίσω τους βράχους
που πάνω τους ακουμπούν οι θαλασσινοί αέριδες·
εκείνοι πηγαινοέρχονται ελεύθερα, αλλά αλυσοδεμένη
πάνω τους είναι η μαγική προβολή του Σίσυφου του Καμύ
σαν να ζούμε μόνο τώρα· αργότερα θα ζούμε σε ουσιαστικούς κόσμους
και θα καθρεφτίζεται η φαντασία μας όταν τεντώνεται
όπως το χέρι του πεινασμένου ζητιάνου για λίγο ψωμί.

Αχ να μπορούσα να φωνάξω, αλλά έχω σχεδόν πνιγεί στη σιωπή,
οι αδικίες σ’ αυτόν τον κόσμο είναι σαν τα κύματα
που σηκώνουν τα μεγάλα πλοία όταν σχίζουν τα νερά κι αδιαφορούν
αν κάποιο μικρό σκάφος βρεθεί στο δρόμο τους,
έτσι κι εγώ, σα νάμουνα τυφλός δεν βλέπω μακριά, μόνο ακούω
τους αέριδες που πνέουν στις παραλίες του νησιού
που σ’ αυτό έχω αράξει χρόνια τώρα, χρόνια.

Το δειλινό γράφει με πένα αυτά που πρέπει να θυμώμαστε
γιατί αύριο θάναι άλλη μια δύσκολη μέρα με πολλά έργα
που ποτέ δεν περατώθηκαν αφού οι περισσότεροι κάτοικοι άφησαν την πόλη
γιατί προτίμησαν έναν άλλο τρόπο ζωής· με εγκατέλειψαν,
μόνος περπατώ στους άδειους δρόμους κι ακούω μόνο τα βήματά μου
όπως οι χαμένοι ήχοι περασμένων καιρών που τυλίγονται τώρα γύρω απ’ του δρόμου τα φανάρια
σα νάταν χαρτί που δεν ήθελε να το πάρουν οι αέριδες, οι αέριδες.

Βήμα-βήμα σκαρφαλώνω τις σκάλες ώσπου στην κορφή να βρω μιαν απάντηση
σ’ αυτό που πάντα έψαχνα. Είναι τα νέα για εκλογές
σε μια μακρινή χώρα κοντά στο Αιγαίο πέλαγος, που αποφάσισε έτσι
να δοκιμάσει κάτι το διαφορετικό, ενώ αφήνει αναπάντητες επείγουσες ερωτήσεις.
Μεταλλικός είναι ο ήχος της αλλαγής όταν οι γυναίκες διαμαρτύρονται χτυπώντας τις κατσαρόλες τους.
Δεν είναι πια μόνο οι αέριδες που φυσούν την αλλαγή.
Στους δρόμους τώρα οι εφημερίδες ουρλιάζουν τα σημερινά νέα.
Έχουν σβήσει μες στην ιστορία οι σκιές από τις ημέρες εκείνες όταν δεν ήταν σωστό να υπάρχεις.
Ξανά και ξανά τα νέα θυμίζουν την επικίνδυνη φύση της ίδιας της ζωής.
Σαρώθηκαν και οι αναμνήσεις που κατρακυλάνε τα σκαλιά σαν το κρασί.


Starke Vorstellungen
By Hatto Fischer

Wenn ich nur die Felsen zerschmettern könnte,
Felsen gegen die sich Winde der Meere lehnen.
Sie kommen und gehen ganz ungehindert, aber an den Felsen
sind angekettet magische Projektionen die Sisyphus nach Camus betreffen.
Es ist als würden wir jetzt nur noch in virtuellen Welten leben,
und unsere Fantasie spiegeln als würde sie sich hinausstrecken,
gleich der Hand eines hungrigen Bettlers für etwas zum Essen.
Wenn ich nur laut aufschreien könnte, aber ich ertrinke fast im Schweigen,
denn die Ungerechtigkeiten in dieser Welt sind wie Wellen
von Riesenschiffen verursacht, wenn sie durchs Wasser schneiden,
und dabei kleine Boote in der Nähe kaum achten ob im Wege.
Gleich einem blinden Mann sehe ich nicht weit, nur höre ich
Geräusche die der Wind entlang dem Strand der Insel verursacht,
jene auf der ich seit dem Schiffbruch ganz alleine gestrandet bin.
Der Abenddunst schreibt mit einer Feder auf was morgens zu erledigen sei.
Es warten vielen Aufgaben, viele davon die Unerledigten weil die Menschen
die Stadt verlassen haben. Sie zogen ein anderes Leben vor, so fühle ich mich
einfach und verlassen; darum wandere ich alleine durch leere Straßen
und höre nur meine Schritte neben Töne längst vergangener Zeiten
die sich jetzt um Lampenposten wickeln wie Zeitungspapier
das nicht davon getragen werden will vom Wind, vom Wind.
Stufe nach Stufe steige ich der Treppe empor bis ganz oben,
ich eine Antwort nach der ich schon lange suche, finden will.
Ich will wissen des Wahlergebnis in einem fernen Land am Mittelmeer.
Wie ich höre hat es sich vorgenommen einen anderen Weg zu gehen,
und darum ungewiss lässt was zuerst in Frage gestellt werden soll.
Blechern der Ton wenn die Frauen aus Protest auf die Töpfe schlagen.
Es ist nicht nur der Wind der Geräusche von Veränderungen ertönen lässt.
Durch die Straßen wehen Zeitungen die Nachrichten von heute ausrufen.
Verblassen sind die Schatten jener Tage als es sich noch ziemte zu existieren.
Wiederholt erinnern die Nachrichten wie prekär das Leben selber geworden ist.
Mitgerissen werden dabei Erinnerungen die wie Wein den Treppen runter fließen.


Hatto Fischer is a German poet who lives in Athens. Greece, where he edits the website “Poieink Ai Pattein / Create And Do” http://www.poieinkaiprattein.org/poetry/poems-by-hatto-fischer/












Silence/El silencio
By Eleazar Valdez

Silence

Earth's smile.
A caress
Time doesn't wait.
A whisper
The blue sky is about to wake up.
A peace
The road is about to end.
Yesterday
Life continues without looking back.

El silencio
La sonrisa de la tierra.
Una caricia
El tiempo no espera.
Un susurro
El cielo azul esta por despertar.
Una paz
El camino esta por terminar.
El ayer
Y la vida sigue sin mirar atrás



Eleazar Valdez: Born in Michoacán Mexico, he came to the United States at the age of 13. Despite his undocumented status, Eleazar has a Master’s degree in Latin American Literature and wants his story to be an example for others in the same situation.

Currently he is a DACA Co-Organizer at Fresno Immigrant Youth in Action.

https://www.teacherspayteachers.com/Store/Richard-Villegas-And-Jacky-Recinos-Krell

I remember long summers and days after school as a kid when I would run outside to play. For me, playing was an exploration outside of my backyard walls through my own imagination. It was an adventure into the bushes only to enter into the selva, the gripping of a broom that suddenly transformed into a sword, or a hammock that was really a pirate ship on which I escaped countless attempts to throw me overboard and be eaten by vicious tiburones. I was invincible and there was no limit to what I could do…because I believed. The older I get, I realize that that creativity and imagination I had has essentially gone dormant and I have become more practical and my inner child locked up. But when you experience a moment so special that your imagination unlocks and you shrink down to that child-size you one more time, don’t let it get away. Grab it y déjate llevar.



Kikiricaja logo

Such is the epiphany one gets with the play Kikiricaja: Una historia de payasos, written by Miguel Ángel Garrido Ramón and produced by Tijuana’s alternative company Inmigrantes Teatro. Recently, Kikiricajacompleted its run as part of South Coast Repertory’s Studio SCR Series in Orange County, being the first all-Spanish production to be presented at the award-winning theater. Here is where I was fortunate enough to fall in love with this story, its characters and had a beautiful return to my niñez.

Foto courtesy of Inmigrantes Teatro, credit Alejandro Montalvo

Foto courtesy of Inmigrantes Teatro, credit Alejandro Montalvo

Loyalty and friendship is challenged when in enters El Músico. Played by Andrés Franco, El Músico is the symbol of the tests of greed and envy that too commonly come between us as a society. He represents the decisions we make to lower others in the effort to get ahead. Franco delivers another hilarious role as El Músico making Kikiricaja a trifecta for storytelling with corazónand imagination.

Foto courtesy of Inmigrantes Teatro, credit Alejandro Montalvo

Or if you’d like to bring Kikiricaja to your theater space, contact inmigrantesteatro@hotmail.com

The Gluten-free Chicano Cooks

These verdolagas show tight buds, no yellow showing.

Plague or plethora, Verdolaga cotyledons.

Verdolaga grows in Echinopsis pot.

Cover, low simmer 20 to 30 minutes.

Remove from heat and prepare the tortillas and other dishes. This lets the sauce cool and thicken from the gf flour and cheese.

Verdolagas con carne de puerco  is a complete meal in itself, but tortillas de maíz and a side of refried beans have a way of rounding out a meal.


Digital Editions of Rudolfo Anaya Titles Recently Published



Open Road Media, a New York City-based publishing company, recently released the ebook editions of nine novels by La Bloga friend Rudolfo Anaya, including Alburquerque, the The Sonny Baca Novels, Serafina’s Stories, and more.

Those are stories that need reading even if the bookshelves leave little space for classics. Having an ebook reader is a way to travel with a library of well-deserved titles at the ready. The publisher writes: We are honored to bring Anaya's important work to digital audiences and new generations of readers. What's the e-equivalent of a page turner, a screen swiper?

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