like a ton of bricks...

Many of the writers this go-round have sought to use their poetry as a way of communicating their neck of the woods directly, and for that I am utmost thankful. I swear to you, I would have probably never known near a thing about the Inuit people, and the lush descriptions of their life, if it weren't for dg nanouk okpik. (much, much more on her in class, but I just had to start off by saying that)

...Nor would I have gotten literally walked through the Benigno Aquino Jr. International Airport, if it weren't for Nick Carbo. His writing gripped me, in that he packs every line with a cinematic experience of place and voice -- in the instance of the poem "The Bronze Dove", he tells the tale of a Filipino-American visiting The Phillipines. In three parts, the ride gets increasingly intense, in both detail and what is shown.

"you scratch your neck, feel the grime and sweat
from San Francisco or L.A. on your nape,
you look out your window seat
search for a plaque or a stain of blood--
this is the tarmac where he was shot."

He truly wastes no time giving the Disneyfied (hey!) tour of The Phillipines, but instead uses it as a platform to address several wounds that have yet to heal for the country. I also appreciate his chillng, somewhat tongue-in-cheek directions in parenthesis to truly witness Bengino Aquino's assassination. In the second portion, he makes a pit stop to display the class difference at hand, with "barbed-wire hiding the luxury homes/of Dasmarinas Village", schools, and in the next stanza, a sharp insight into children with amputated arms asking for money, on the corner of Edsa and Buendia. It is unclear as to how or why this happens to me, but nonetheless displays what occurs everyday. Each line is literally a snapshot out the window of a car, that doesn't allow room for the artificial distance between the people in the streets, and the driver. Finally, Carbo wrenches my esophagus (yeah, that deep) with the third portion, as Filipino folks "fought for freedom,/sang songs to each other around bonfires,/made love by candlelight." While the stanza begins in a dictatorial landscape, he ends it with possibility, as he brings it back to the ground level of people who manage to live, love, and fight everyday, even under restrictive conditions.

Carbo's voice unflinchingly identifies and anchors his Filipino identity. He uses it as a tool to communicate the complex lives and stories of the homeland country, and Filipinos in the US. Even the person in "The Bronze Dove" feels compelled to go pay homage to the leaders of the nation, as if these are markers he should know and hold close. Though this could also be because the poems are male-centered, I didn't feel excluded from zeroing in on the piece. Likewise, in the series of poems "Ang Tunay Na Lalaki Stalks the Streets of New York", "Ang Tunay Na Lalaki Is Baffled by Cryptic Messages", and "Ang Tunay Na Lalaki Visits His Favorite Painting", he equally trails the experience of an up-and-coming Filipino actor in New York.

Truthfully, I am gagging at the "PLEASE/MAKE ME TASTE LIKE/A MAN" overall, but also at Carbo's allowing us inside the head of Ang Tunay Na Lalaki, whose identity is shoved up against a reflection, causing a collision with absurd American advertising that immediately makes you question yourself, and is drenched in sex. The reader can smell and taste everything from the food he's nostalgic for, as well as the musk in his armpits, that surely must show what a "Filipino man taste like to American women". The poem ends rooted in his body, the grotesque things we all (sub)consciously do to prove a point to ourselves, but nonetheless creates a tone of pride and acceptance for going after his passion. I'll be honest, the end reminded me of the Olympics, but I know it was a nod to the Statue of Liberty.

Overall, I'm in love Carbo's ability to just knock at our brains with his language...for reals!

Homage & Public vs Private

Pimone Triplett’s poetry is compelling in that it encompasses not only her personal story, but also those of people she encounters in her life. In To My Cousin in Bangkok, Age 16 she writes about the boy attempting to arrange the house the way his mother would have wanted. He acts out of regret after her death “because there is always behind him, you see, the one time he didn’t.” The simple act of rearranging a home alludes to the human emotions surrounding familial ties and the connection that lasts even after the loved one is gone.

Triplett herself mirrors this identification with her mother. The maternal bond is a repeating theme in her poetry, particularly the mother that is not present. In homage to her mother, Triplett describes a night in which she is “up again at 3 a.m., one year past the age you made me.” Similar to the boy’s subtle lamentations, Triplett considers her identity in how it relates to her mother.

Triplett caught my attention because she made me consider how homage carries connotations but it does not define us; rather, it merely identifies each person with a place in the world.  The places or people of homage, rather than becoming one’s identity, contribute to shaping identity through the significance of the subject of homage to the speaker.

In Comings and Goings, Triplett describes being “in a house I will inherit in a land I can’t explain.” This infers that we merely inherit the place of our past, and that we identify or disassociate with our homage based on the manner of homage rather than the subject.  Homage, rather than being a dangerous entity, is revealing of personal identity.

De la Paz emphasizes personal identity through difference and public versus private perception of difference. The first poem in the collection immediately alludes to public interpretation of appearance with its title Manong Jose, While Cleaning His Last Window before Coffee, Sees Fidelto and Is Pleased Though Wary. Though different situations, each poem reflects the way a person’s nonconformity is viewed.

As suggested by De la Paz’s work, difference can be viewed lovingly but can be regarded negatively by strangers. When understood, unique characteristics can be revealing or endearing; however, difference in the public eye is often given no context and can be basis for public ostracizing. Manong Jose describes the boy Fidelito’s unusual appearance and how he is misunderstood as a result, while Nine Secrets the Recto Family Can’t Tell the Boy describes how Maria Elena cannot wear sleeveless shirts due a large mole. Her husband calls the mole her “beautiful armpit,” yet the public is drawn to staring; as a result “she has two wardrobes labeled ‘Public’ and ‘Private.’” I was intrigued by this differentiation because it infers that each of us has a “public” self in addition to a “private” self that is not considered appropriate for public view. 

-Casey Vittimberga

Bridging between being American and man

Nick Carbo's "Ang Tunay La Lalaki" drew me in for two reasons. One being that transition between the title and the beginning of the poem, where the title acts as the beginning of the poem and the other being his use of common Filipino terms throughout the piece.

The reason I liked the title acting as the beginning of the poem and not just the title was because more often than not, we come across pieces of poetry whose titles have absolutely nothing related to the piece (as far as I see it most times). I like how this "title" helped to perpetuate the story of this male Filipino figure (a very manly one at that (which is what "ang tunay" means)) through his own transition in America, let alone in one of the largest cities in the country: New York.

While reading through the piece and trying to pin point the voices within it, I found there are two: an American male and a ("true") Filipino male. Whoever this manly man is, he's having a definite internal crisis trying to bridge the worlds of the life and culture he used to know (of the Philippines) to the life and culture he's living in now (of America). Not only is he trying to bridge the two worlds, he's also trying to remain true to the standards of the life true Filipino men should lead, while trying to create his own person as an American man.

The instruments in which these voices are carried in are the little markers and indications of differing cultures. Throughout the piece, Carbo places common Filipino terms in place of the English translation (the one that made me laugh was Carbo's use of "Ay, susmaryosep!" because it's basically like the American "Oh, my God!" except for the fact its Filipino counterpart includes Jesus, Mary and Joseph). Carbo also uses different cultural markers, like wearing black Dr. Marten boots (American) versus slippers (Filipino).

There seems to be a more serious shift in the poem, once we get to the the bit about how the reflection of the man reveals how long his hair has grown. Upon noticing his profile and likening it to the young Bruce Lee who played a supporting role in a movie, the man "realizes [his face] will always be the face of a supporting character," which is an idea that comes with the territory of acting when you're a person of color since talent agencies almost always go with the "racially ambiguous" route.

The last few lines describe how the Filipino man decides to change his name in order to avoid losing out on more advertisement gigs to a name that is "American but with a Filipino flare." It's always interesting to me to see how when someone migrates to America, their culture is usually the one that is foregone and they become American/whitewashed/etc. in order to fulfill some societal standard. I think it is particularly interesting in this piece because we are told from the very beginning that this man is a very manly one and yet he's struggling with establishing himself as such in America, trying to find the balance between being a man of his culture and a man of his career.

if there is no memory, it did not happen

what is so intense to me about "if there is no memory, it did not happen," is, at first, the definitiveness of that title. with the IF this, THEN this formula, i kinda expect a poem to start out with a vague recollection, a difficult memory pieced together and exemplified via roundabout language (which does occur, in a sense, later). but instead, chang starts out with a proclamation: "mother took us / and locked us in the basement." there are no bones about it. that happened. and then everything unfolds, the distinct details and the not-so-distinct. this is a location that has a specificity to it, the functions are known. dank, hollow, where onions and yams cool. but there are also blurs. and that's where the question of "are you sure?" "you don't know what you're saying," comes in. you read something strange in those blurs, / you read a story / and not the truth. there is an outside questioning here, one that continues to diminish the felt experiences and exacerbates the meaning of the blurred pieces of the puzzle, what's not-remembered, what's confused, accusing the subject of self-pity. i think what's so moving, to me, about this poem, is the interrelationship between very concrete details (like the line that opens the poem, and others throughout) and more conjecture-type/abstract ones. ("she was... small enough to close in a cupboard"). it speaks to the experience of piecing together concrete details and inferences in complex memory recollection. the thing about this poem is, there IS memory, but there's still the thought that IT did not happen. because there's a question of authenticity, existence of the memory/actuality of the memory/corroboration of the memory in the first place.



i know that there's this whole motif of nearsightedness that is both literal and figurative, but i'm just really drawn to this idea of memory, selective consciousness/belief/recognition of experience, et al.

i really appreciate the deliberateness of language and the crafted, intentional vagueness of jennifer chang's poems. as much as i know that it can be frustrating when writing isn't clearly explicit, i think there's a braveness to a sort of removed voice that is at a distance from a subject, particularly when it comes to writing that attempts to piece together fragmented memories, especially familial ones, and ones that are difficult. there is a definite time and place for implicit voices. sometimes, it isn't possible to say outright: "this. this. that. this." and we exist in these liminal spaces, what i think chang cultivates as unction. she cutlivates this dissociation and removedness through her syntax and language choices. she says parts of a song i once knew. it's indirect, removed, not present.

 i think when we're mentally working through these experiences the issue of authenticity often arises, and i appreciate how that is weaved within these poems, that the outside questions and assertions (that are also questions/ideas we internalize and ask/accuse of ourselves) come into these poems--you're making it up... whose arms disappear? you were simply born that way. i think these external and internal questions and assumptions are part of what makes it so hard to definitively write about difficult, familial, childhood, etc experiences. when we're constantly asking ourselves if our experiences are authentic and real, it becomes difficult to externalize them.

i think i'm more drawn to the abstract, internal questioning in these poems than to the discrete details. i think both ground the other: the succinct "these are the facts" and then the in-between kinda blurriness of other details/inferences really just make sense to me.

i'm just overwhelmed with appreciation and want to go into every line of these poems, but instead, i will just highlight some things, lines in particular, that resonate with me:

-THE PAIN OF SPACE-- yes. perfect. i feel like i know exactly what this is.
-i am branched / and branchless in / this ecstasy of absence--i swallow air / until my hunger is     an insatiable question.
-i avoid / to avoid. don't i?
-also the whole poem "what is the landscape works for what i have left"
-i have been missing twenty years.
-if i write a list, / i will lose the thing,    the deisre/ for retrieval 
-also I am tired of the past. / I am so tired.
but it never goes away, even if you find a way to write it. 

I’m all about Primone Triplett’s "Bird of Paradise Aubade with Bannock Etching Over The Bed".

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I have to say,  this post may seem like a jumble of everything. I don’t know where to begin in this poem. There are so many surfaces to consider. Elmaz, you advised us to look at poems as different objects—a painting, song,  map, or dance and there may be another one you mentioned, but I am still wondering how to begin analyzing Primone Triplett’s "Bird of Paradise Aubade with Bannock Etching Over The Bed".

The title frames the poem. Before the poem begins we are aware of the placement of images and objects; for example, the bird of paradise, the idea of song and morning in the word aubade, and an etching placed over the object of the bed. We become aware of order and sequencing—that objects and their placement are moving in relationship to meaning.  Our attention is drawn to syntax and diction before the first line is read, and that awareness hangs over the poem like the etching hangs over the bed.

Framing is a critical component as each of the six stanzas is composed into sestets for a total of 36 lines. The lines move from images to thoughts and back to images almost seamlessly until the images and sounds  merge like the notes in a song. However, each line is controlled by rigid grammar that creates visual and rhythmic tension, which builds from one stanza to the next.

The poem moves between a rich array of ideas and forms until it becomes overwhelming. As the poem ends we are left on the edge of breaking apart just like the buds in the speaker's mouth:

               to taste the skin before it brakes open, the bodies newly green,

               bound to root-pact, stem-line, moments before they fall” (35-36).

Triplett’s visceral images ground us in the moment of the narrative; such as the image of the speaker watching the body from the window:

           

              I watched all your muscles connecting up, your body’s parse

               

              of sweat and salt, hollows

between the ribs appearing, then not, around your

breath’s steady reed and thrum. (7-10)

As the physical images locate us visually in the poem they also evoke a sense of complex movement. As the body’s mussels “connect up” we connect  to the body the speaker is watching; however, we also connect through the speaker’s line of vision and thought. We are located in the speaker’s body, but we are also  connected to the body of the poem as the imagery and the musicality of the line unfolds. 

Words such as, sweat, salt, and hollows draw our attention to sound. As the second stanza continues we become aware, again, that the poem alludes to song. The tonal shift in “breath’s steady reed and thrum”(10) reminds us of breath and the form of the poem. Yet, the sound of the word “thrum”  hums between our lips at the end of the line.  When it is read  “thrum” evokes song in our own bodies.

I’m all about this poem. It has a hard beauty that is executed with haunting control. The rhythmic tension abrades the imagery until everything is about to explode like the green buds. The allusions to Leda’s rape where the seed  of the fall of Troy is planted is fascinating when juxtaposed to Bangkok, modern language and t Triplett’s intimate narrative.

Family & Narrative

This weeks readings were heavily rooted in family stories and tradition, or the subversion of tradition. I connected with various pieces from three of the writers, Nick Carbo, Jennifer Chang and Oliver De la paz.

Carbo and Chang had threads of commnality which hemmed their work closely together. We were supposed to analyze how these poems evoke family in a different way, but the portrayals of the families in Carbo's poem "American Adobo" and Chang's "The Sign Reads" feel very familiar to me.

Both poems are filled with images of distance and solace within the family. A line from Carbo's poem readsL

This was a chance to ignite

memories from familiar names, to recuperate
the fallen leaves of our family tree, to run
back to our childhoods, separated

by two continents and an ocean.

Then from Jennifer Chang's piece:

I used to wake in my childhood home

and want my family to burn, with me
as the flame's blue dart.
They are embers now

or could have been.
Sister pooling on the kitchen tile,
her formless anger
forming my current burden.    Don't I lie
each time I promise
I did not leave her behind

Both of these families are broken in one way or another. The family in Carbo's piece functions in larger terms where numerous members of the family are on different continents. Which (if I take some liberties of close reading and assumptions) would mean there's a gap in traditions and cultural identity within the family. This could cause division and misunderstandings/miscommunications within a family who are trying to reconnect.  Chang's piece is a narrower look at a fragmented relationship between the narrator and her immediate family. We aren't provided with the back-story (which I would personally love but don't necessarily need) but the narrator recollects wanting herself and her family to burn in their home, probably as a way of escape form whatever the family was going through at the time. And the narrator's relationship with her sister is volatile and she feels guilt for leaving her behind in the family drama. These stories feel extremely tangible to me. I know families going through similar situations, and my own family has had its share of fissures along our familial line. 

I was also drawn to Oliver De la paz's structure of his narrative poems about young Fidelito who was " all aura and golden, though pierced with the spit of the faithless."  (De laz paz's characterization is AMAZING by the way) I was intrigued by his titles of the individual narrative blocks which seem to flow as part of the actual stories. There's a strong narrative arc to his pieces as we are spectators gazing in on Fidelito's world living in a new place, adapting to a new school, and connecting to the natural elements instead of with the children who seem to ostracize him. I appreciated the richness of the story being told of this family and I felt a bit haunted by some of the imagery, and as mentioned above, the description of the characters within the family. De la paz has some great lines which created an emotional bond between myself and Fidelito. I felt as if I wanted to protect him, much how his own felt while keeping secrets from him. (secrecy- another family trait that I can relate to).

While many of these poems were a bit difficult for me to enter and grasp what was going on, the three writers that I mention here provided access in to the lives, thoughts and emotions of these families who may look different from mine, and may be physically located in a different area from mine, but we all do share certain things in common.

Kenji Takezo

Who is Kenji Takezo to you?

The selection of Rick Noguchi's poems driven by his enigmatic character, Kenji fascinated me. I found myself imagining what he would look like and to visualize his physical attributes with what was given in Noguchi's poems.

Visualizing Kenji:
Black hair
Smells like the sea
Always in shorts
Dark intense eyes
Muscular legs
Awkwardly tall

He struck me as this zen boy (I don't know why I imagined such a pubescent precocious boy who is very observant, well possibly because the accounts of his mother's movements) in the beginning of Noguchi's selection while the last two poems resonated with an older wiser figure within the character development that happens in the poems progressively.

The first three poems (The Shirt His Father Wore That Day Was Wrinkled, Slightly, From Rooftops, Kenji Takezo Throws Himself, The Ocean Inside Him) talk about Kenji specifically but I see Kenji within Ethel Nakano (With Her at All Times Ethel Nakano Carried a Sledgehammer) and Paul Tanaka (A Man Made Himself a Marionette).

One of the other reasons why I string these poems together and see it working so well in the order it's presented and cohesively is the fact that each poem touches base or references about being centered, gravity, space, balance, direction, water and air.

The Shirt His Father Wore That Day Was Wrinkled, Slightly

Wide enough to support
His center of gravity

From Rooftops, Kenji Takezo Throws Himself

The trick, he must remember, is in the landing:
Keep his face and genitals out of it.
Adjusting himself in the air

The Ocean Inside Him

The sense of direction.
He breathed in
When he should have

With Her at All Times Ethel Nakano Carried a Sledgehammer

With centrifugal force behind her.
She could wreck easily

A Man Made Himself a Marionette

So he fashioned strings to his hands,
His feet, his head to gain control.

Centrifugal force kind of encapsulates what the characters strive to be/try to be "centered" in. Not getting into the Newtonian mechanics of the centrifugal force, but rather applying the notion and etymology of the concept, here is how wiki describes it:

Centrifugal force (from Latin centrum, meaning "center", and fugere, meaning "to flee") is the apparent outward force that draws a rotating body away from the center of rotation. It is caused by the inertia of the body as the body's path is continually redirected.

Finding balance, finding your chi, fleeing from balance, falling from balance, crashing into waves, trying to reach. It resonated with me. Noguchi's work is so character driven and the readers get such crisp clean names of the characters that one can't help but to visualize them as well as imagine that they're out there in the world trying to define their centrifugal experience. May be they even have a Facebook.

Her Home is his Homage

My poem pick of the week :

Pimone Triplett's ~ "To My Cousin in Bangkok, Age 16."  ~

Why? Maybe because it made me think of my 91 year old grandmother and what will happen to her home when she passes. I also imagine my nephews walking or biking home to play video games before their chores in defying my sister or their mother's demands.

In response to this week's theme: How is the idea of family different than what we know in this poem? Family in this poem includes ancestors and their wishes or requests and how those play out in our daily lives.  How is homage not as dangerous as we think? Because homage in this poem doesn't have to be a trip on the airplane...it can be a trip on the page, one that even gives us a space for reflection, healing and silence.  I think that is how this poem answers this week's topics best.

The first line of the first stanza: "What space is for, to the boy peddling" sets us up for what's to come in this poem. We see the boy on a journey through smoke, traffic, encampments and all,  just to get home and clean for his dead mother. How long do you uphold the requests or wishes of deceased relatives?

One may say it depends on how long your love of tradition, heritage or guilt last? What lingers most about this poem for me is also it's use of space. There's a line break between two long stanzas and then there's the introduction of white space. Giving the reader a chance to breathe before the words "behind him, you see, the one time he didn't." A line that suggests that what is truly haunting the boy is the past, his mistakes and his mother. What's also interesting is this poem invites the reader to consider what the living do with the space, rooms and homes that are left behind. Do they live in them or do they go "out to tend what little remains."  

In the last line "his hands, almost a man's, into the blue" could be very symbolic. I'm still unsure of what's so special about the blue bowl though.  I can't wait to hear other people's interpretation of what filling it up with water represents or why we're reminded that his hands are still growing?   Who among us takes the time these days to dust off our own belongings or tribute those who uphold legacy and cherish the gifts of our mothers or ancestors in a poem? 

I like to propose that it could be guilt and a sense of obligation that also produced or triggered this poem. Does one write poems for distant cousins or cousins across seas in hopes that it will give them comfort or does one also seek to be a better family member themselves? These were the questions or thoughts that came to mind for me after reading and rereading this poem.

As I think it is a poem that plunges in the bucket of truth to find what is the role of family and who is truly keeping alive "the dreams of the dead. Each night."

Thank you

I just wanted to say thank you to everyone who came out to the first Works in Progress reading last night. It was great! I was glad to see so many familiar faces there :)

Also, i LOVE this class. Our discussions are so thorough and vibrant, and they linger with me throughout the week. I appreciate everything all of you bring to the table. Please, let's keep going at it. Have a great weekend!

An Evening with Ruben Martinez

ENG 252

Poets of Color

Reading Response

An Evening with Rueben Martinez

Venus Jones

Ruben Martinez opened up Mills College’s Contemporary Writers Series on Tuesday, September 11, 2012 at 7pm. He was chosen for Latina/o Heritage Month. 

“I’m the son of a poet.” says Martinez shortly after he questions the lines and architecture of the room, shows gratitude for the lighting on the podium that allows him to read text and places his drink on the floor behind him.  He’s very much in the moment. Dressed in black to prove that he’s obsessed with anarchy. 

“Everyone in El Salvador is born into poetry!” he said jokingly. He was raised on Neruda and his dad worked with photos so, “he had the eye of a poet.” Martinez felt like he came from a “literary cradle.”

He’s far from a conventionalist. He admitted to dropping out of college and wanted to remind us that during that time he felt like the best writing was done “out there” as he pointed to the window with a sense of urgency. Then followed up by saying, “There are many paths to written expression. Some things you prepare for and other things you just do. I know I have something to write about when I become obsessed with something.”  He believes the universe opens up when you decide to look at something in a new light.  The sun can shine on a rock a little different one day and one can be inspired to move to the dessert.

When he got his advance from his publisher he was “broke, broken and on drugs.” Martinez is a tenured professor and has an impressive resume and is currently the artist in residence at Stanford University’s Institute for Diversity in the Arts, an Emmy-award winner and is the co-author of a documentary and three successful books. He also talked about how he wanted to play guitar for us but it didn’t’ work out.  So sharing such personal info seemed easy to him maybe because in this culture it may be expected from self-proclaimed “hipsters” and those artist writer types.

He reads a passage from his big and it begins with “Get the fuck out of my life!” This solidified it for me Martinez is simply a rebel or one not afraid to take risk in his writing and his topics.  Not that dropping the F bomb is unique but he wanted to show his ability to become a different character.  And “The act of representing the other person is a terrible power.”  He stated. The question is:  "Am I bridging the gap between self and others?"

In his latest book Desert America: Boom and Bust in the Old West, the author, brilliantly draws distinct parallels with America and how she sees her close neighbors and how we see each other in our local communities when dramas erupt concerning drugs and violence. We mind our own business because as it says in the book, “We must not feel compassion, love, fear or anything.”

Tabu is strikingly humble and transparent in his poem Crusader. The last stanza is my favorite.

All I have to offer

is a relentless embrace of right now,

terrified resolve to walk towards fear

because I’m bigger than apprehension…

…even if I don’t know it yet.

 Tabu uses an accessible language. The poem has a realistic fairy tell vibe and provides a human super hero narrative. It’s intimate, and rolls into a whisper of self- affirmation in the very last stanza.  I like the way Tabu is able to bring knights in shining armor to the twenty first century. 

The damsel in distress is even present and can be heard in the first line of the third stanza

Asked me if I could replenish her faith in brothers.

The last stanza starts off heavy, yet visually is tiny. 

All I have to offer

This is the smallest line on the page and yet holds a lot of weight.  His capabilities, effort, and will all wrapped up in 5 hard words.

The line relentless embrace also carries on this duplicity of emotion that the poem has done so well at describing.

He’s persistent and determined to continue his growth as a man, as a warrior.

The fear we hear about in the last stanza is echoed in three similar words terrified, fear, and apprehension. This anxiety is shadowed by resolve, relentless, and bigger. These opposing words in the same small stanza do an amazing job at reflecting the personal struggle of an individuals self -esteem. 

I appreciate the candid journey Tabu takes us on. It is refreshingly different than what we today see men willing to expose and illuminate. In this poem we see a desire to please, a desire to succeed and to overcome natural fear by admitting it exists. 

"Come real or don't come at all." -- The World Stage mantra

Oh, LA, LA, LA, LA, LA. Home. Los Angeles will never leave me. Its relentless calling will always take me back into its winding arms.

I have to say I had a definite emotional response reading Voice from Leimert Park. Coleman and Tabu's words just hit (not to sound cliché or lame or anything like that) home. The poem I'm going to map tonight (and I hope I do it right) is "Dedication" by Tabu. The first line was a visual homerun for me. I saw it instantly.

"This is not for the thugs.

This is for the tired security guards catching the bus home, southbound on Vermont."

Southbound on Vermont. You don't know how many times I sped down that narrow ass street, heading to the 101 for Hollywood, heading to the small church building where FilAm Arts had their weekly meetings for FPAC, heading to the bomb ass Korean tofu house next to Wilshire, heading to this or that and being pulled over when I had a bunch of USC kids in my car and the cop didn't like our brown-skinned faces. After the cop looked at all our USC IDs (I guess he didn't believe we were students), he let us go and I didn't get a ticket for doing nothing but being colored.

Southbound on Vermont. I love that street. I love the green, gray, and yellow apartment building on the corner of Wilshire and the people walking about to get home and the cars, cars, cars, all hustling and honking just to get home. So much imagery jammed-packed in three words: "southbound on Vermont."

I lived off-campus at USC, so I was just a few blocks away from Leimert Park. But let's get back to the poetry.

What I love about Tabu and Coleman was the Los Angeles affection I felt through the language. Tabu did it in a sexual, Stevie Wonder lovemaking kind of way. Coleman's "For Women Who Cruise the Night" spoke directly to me--because she was talking about me and literally to me. When you grow up in LA, and you're lucky enough to have a car, your car becomes the repository for every experience, every growing pain, everything. "alone you speed where nothing exits." I can't tell you how many times I cried in my car, how many times when family got rough, I'd just drive away to nowhere on the freeway until I was at the end of the line in ghetto San Pedro or Old Town Pasadena. Opposite ends of the world but with the same effects. In LA, my roommates and I also used to compare freeways and would ask each other: which one is your favorite? Mine was the 110. Jervey Tervalon (my first creative writing professor at USC) was the next poet after Tabu, and I just collapsed at his line: "the 101 runs through my life."

I think what I loved about these poets were their use of succinct and distinct imagery. Tabu's lines were rife with epithets of incredible, normal people: "This is for liquor store managers with southern accents / sixteen-year-olds with comic books tucked in back packs, / freelance reporters in denim button shirts and / the suited publicists who appreciate them more than either can say."

It was a call to Los Angeles, a place that gets too much bad rep for not being literary enough or not being a 'real city' enough or what-have-you. But Los Angeles is real, it's home, and its pockets of geographically segregated neighborhoods create a diversity of enclaves that produce great works like these poets. You either hate it or love it. But like the constant traffic, southbound or northbound on Vermont, it will always be there, growing and never changing. My time back in LA last week for my grandmother's funeral reminded why I left it, and why I know I'll come back one day.

"Asked me if I could replenish her faith in brothers,
but found war and hope chests were bare.
Boulevards of broken dreams
lie behind facade of my button-downed battlements.

All I have to offer
is a relentless embrace of right now,
terrified resolve to walk towards fear
because I'm bigger than apprehension...

.. even if I don't know it yet."

Boulevard of broken dreams. How many times have I blasted that song in my car is endless. Have I ever asked this class yet whether they can 'write' back home? For me, I can't. I can't write a word about LA until I leave it. And I know it's because LA, for me, holds that "fear" Tabu is talking about.

the form of peanut butter

I want to dedicate this blog post how Wanda Coleman executes her poem Of Cucarachas and Peanut-Peanut Butter. 

First off, the title. It swoops us in with musicality and reference, and intrigues us with the dedication and the already obvious tongue and cheek, perhaps mocking tone of it. 

We see those long lines and initially long stanzas - indicating a kind of too-much-to-say exasperation which winds down into shorter stanzas with a punch. The poem, a de-masking of portended liberalism and fame, directed at a particularly offending man, of symbol of a man, works its magic, besides its obvious smart and cutting content, through it's shape and line-breaks.

Take the first line; "he is always crunchy, followed in crowded museums." End stop. This brief description, drawing attention to the spectacle of the man, also contains a distancing quality. Wanda Coleman will not follow any crunchy Mr Birdsong through crowded museums. The rest of the lines to follow drop down on one another, spiraling across of depiction of his elite "edged-closer life." The second stanza becomes more choppy in it's line breaks, cutting off compound phrases and pausing a quick moving line in the middle. The second line ends "sitting under his/" and leaves the propietary pronoun hanging before falling down to "ass." Which enhances both the humor and the contempt int he poem. Further down Coleman write:"who speaks, replies, and/receives." Breaking the line in places where the breath might not normally break and adding a sense of being pulled downward while also emphasizing fragmentation. This emphasizes Mr. Birdsong's distance from the realities that this poet and those he feels charity for experience.

The third stanza drops and separates out even more. The sounds are staccato and fast paced, which adds to the funny and angry exasperation. We break after to be verbs, again after the possessive pronoun his, after he has, and between for and himself. The line breaks feel at times like unnatural places to take air, but for me don't actually interrupt the flow of the poem. It pulls me from one line to the next, and gives a kind of heightened accent to the mocking and contemptuous and calling out poem that it is. What Mr. Birdsong sings about and what the underside or truth of that is unwravels with Coleman's telling him off. The third stanza ends with two difficult lines about the violence down with Mr. Birdsong's ignorance and entitlement, but then lead into the last two, much shorted stanzas with are straight slams. Coleman disses Mr. Birdsong with such eloquence and shape that we can only imagine him left stripped and cowering.

Hell yeah, Wanda.

Sarcasm Works For Me

Wanda Coleman's "OF CUCARACHAS & PEANUT - PEANUT BUTTER: A POEM FOR & ABOUT MISTER BIRDSONG" is a sarcastic poem and I LOVE sarcasm.

"Mister Birdsong" reminds me of pretentious politicians, and the royal family because many were born into wealth, and are far removed from everyday people or common citizens.  The entire second stanza talks of self-promotion and the desire to control "who speaks, replies and receives." Birdsong is only surrounded by servants or yes people.

"His femm followers follow closely his every move and dropping. He's even followed when licking his spoon/ or eating out her liberal pan as she bows to the west." I have a feeling this line is layered with meaning but the first questions it brings up are:

Why are they"femm"?  Would masculine followers be to threatening? Why a spoon is it a reference to the phrase..."being born with a silver spoon" in the mouth?

I especially love the last line because after the third stanza, she tells us the truth of Birdsong's state of being and his only true intention which is:

"...to keep his position of power over weaker bards."

Yet it closes with his complicated conditions regarding who he really respects...

"Birdsong is a man who wouldn't crush a cockroach, who'd share his last peanut butter sandwich with any homeless-but-cultured member of the subspecies."

SO many words for Wanda and Hannibal, but I'll try to keep it brief

"We rarely indulge in wishy-washy poems that slide off your plate like a greasy egg; Leimert Park poets seldom write flimsy, flowery things that smell good in the morning, not always. We don't have time for that."
--Shonda Buchanan, Introduction to Voices from Leimert Park

I have to first of all say I am jumping to the CEILING that Elmaz has included these poets as a part of our syllabus. Again, it was starting to get a lil' lonely out here for me, having surrounded myself with folks who use their poetry as a platform to speak for the streets that have been silenced, whose stories aren't even worth a soundbyte on the nightly news. I am so appreciative that an anthology, albeit strictly about Los Angeles, is on the shelves to illuminate those tales. And again, this is no diss to experimental poetry everywhere, as I'm glad to share the space with such rich, enlightened works, which break me out of my own elements to just write to be heard, and forces me to look at my work stylistically and with more depth.
These are the same streets, asylums, hospitals, and streets that will forever take the stage in my own work, so it's hard not to be personally affected by the depth of her words. Also, have y'all seen her perform??? OH. MY. GOD. If not, please peep her recent reading of "Luvina": http://www.youtube.com/watch?feature=endscreen&NR=1&v=Izl8ktxEI6U


I will say, though, it's disappointing to only have two poems from Wanda Coleman here -- one lengthier one, and a much shorter one that packs a punch. I'm equally disappointed in myself that this is my first encounter with her work, as she has instantly become an inspiration to me. I took this quote from her bio on the Poetry Foundation website: "Coleman frequently writes to illuminate the lives of the underclass and the disenfranchised, the invisible men and women who populate America's downtown streets after dark, the asylums and waystations, the inner city hospitals and clinics. . . . Wanda Coleman, like Gwendolyn Brooks before her, has much to tell us about what it is like to be a poor black woman in America."


Anyways. The intentionality of lengthy lines and ripe details in her poem "Of Cucarachas & Peanut-Peanut Butter: A Poem For & About Mister Birdsong" are rooted in her tremendous ability to paint a picture, to relocate yourself inside her world, and the world of Los Angeles. This poem isn't about the placement of words on a page, so much as it's about her delivering a tale of a man that needs to be chastised for his actions, for his treatment of poets and non-poets around him. But, because he's him (most likely white, definitely upper middle class), this probably won't happen. She just feels as though she has a right, through her words, to tell this story of the poet who believes he's god's gift to words. Something about this man leads him to having a following of loyal cronies who don't even understand why they're being kiss-asses to him, and allow him to keep this position of power in place. I already know he's got to be a real person, someone she's watched closely, and who pissed her off so much that she had to dedicate a poem to him. She unapologetically discloses his name and the countless acts of disrespect he's committed to other folks. He was probably deeply revered before this poem, but she had to call his ass OUT to set the record straight. (I tried my damndest to search for "Mr. Birdsong" on the internet, and found no such person, lol.)

Her positionality as a Black woman from Los Angeles who grew up impoverished deeply and rightfully informs her work, her politics, and the seething honesty that bleeds from it. She feels she has a true responsibility to the people who are in her community, those who end up in her work, and especially to Los Angeles (she's been running workshops since the Watts riots for God's sake!). To comment on the "burden of responsibility" for poets like herself or Hannibal is an afterthought, as the personal is political for them. They're not writing poetry to represent Black folks, as their responsibility lies in breaking through those silences, and shining light on the folks who aren't given voice, and showing a multitude of our experiences.

Case in point, Hannibal Tabu's "Dedication", which starts out, "This is not for the thugs", and repeats, "This is not for the hoes" midway. We Black poets have to unfortunately remember the slither of awareness that most people have about Black life and culture, as the media has pretty much shot any positive representations of us to hell. These are everyday people that end up here: the liquor store manager, the kids who love comic books, the "fifty year old brothers..." sitting on "a recliner, the throne they can afford". Moreover, it is a joy to see him highlight "the overweight nurses with carpal tunnel syndrome/everyday women dividing worry/between daughter at home and son who moved away." Hannibal and Wanda bring us into a glimpse of the neighborhoods they live, and those same neighborhoods nationwide, through their works. And for me, it has never been a question to highlight what goes down in our neck of the woods, the histories, the present, and the unforeseen future. Reading their works made me a slice of homesick. :-(

These are poets that are meant to be heard, meant to be the ones who uplift, and to tell it truly like it is. I've been reading a lot of poems lately at Mills that want readers to be "generous", to lead to many different interpretations of their writing, who evoke silence and use white space and create an atmosphere in their poetry of the cryptic...on purpose. Hannibal and Wanda display the strength of knowing that sometimes, you just have to tell it to people straight up, colloquially, and directly, in order to do justice to your community, and feel that your work has purpose. And ain't nothing wrong with that, ever. 

cars

i'm going to make a stretch now.

i think wanda coleman's "for women who cruise the night" is really interesting because driving (and cars in general) as a leisure activity/pleasure activity is so gendered. it took me awhile to realize what it was about this poem that stood out or struck me, but i think it has to do with the fact that we see so many examples in pop culture of men on the open road, men enjoying driving, men driving to escape problems/to blow off steam/to be alone, etc. men are allowed the indulgence of driving and the solitude it brings. the act of driving for women isn't as symbolic or extraordinary. women drive to pick up their kids from school, to go grocery shopping, etc. what we also get is that women don't know how to drive or maneuver cars. and then there's all the weird sexualization of cars in advertising, men giving "sexy" cars female pronouns, calling them "baby," etc. and also cars as sites of danger for women (in the form of men cruising women, verbally harassing women from cars, etc). cars can definitely be used to wield power and communicate status.

so, in this poem, women are accessing that leisure, agency, and independence. especially because she's acknowledging women who cruise at night. women are expected to protect themselves from danger by staying in, avoiding being out late or at night, due to the reality of sexual violence, harassment, and assault... women are often chastised for being out late, and held responsible for harassment or violence against them if they haven't taken the precaution to stay in. coleman is applauding women who take back the night, who are self-determined, strong ("bared and daring"). but obviously, there's also sadness here, because the woman/women in this poem are "wary and slit-eyed" and driving to escape years that "screech and scream" as they're left behind and "bad plumbing." so, there's a class element there, too.

the car is a place that allows you to transport yourself physically and emotionally away from certain realities, for a time.

also Terry Wolverton is a feminist lesbian poet and activist whose work explores identity and place.
so there's definitely some element of questioning power and sexism and carving out space for women.

and after writing all this and looking up some of Wolverton's poems, i found her "Poem to the Detroit River" (http://www.poetryfoundation.org/poem/237610) which is about the brutal beating of a woman who was dragged from her car by a man who was enraged after she sideswiped his car on a bridge. a bunch of witnesses were around but did nothing and while he was attacking her and cursing at her/threatening to kill her, she wound up jumping off the bridge to her death. i'm not quite sure, in terms of content, if there's a clear connection between this poem and Coleman's poem, but it could feed into the 'taking back' of the car and night i mentioned.

Cultural Diversion

Dominguez’s poems depict minute details of his marriage, job and inner outlook concerning his life. The prevalent Latino culture, both at work and in everyday life, places Dominguez as an uncertain man attempting to place his culture as he struggles with internal turmoil about his worth as a man and husband. In his poem Fingers, he reacts to the loss of coworker Julio’s finger by reflecting upon himself and wondering “would I have screamed, could I have taken the pain(?)” Dominguez expresses feelings of subordination in his poetry, particularly through small details such as “my wife doesn’t like the mango I bought her” in Framework, speaking to his feelings of inadequacy as a husband. In Roof he notes how the Mexican men he works with “have names for (him): poncho, gringo.” Dominguez is placed as an outsider and feels constantly on the edge of cohesion with his Latino coworkers, yet is unable to achieve adequate familiarity.  I found Dominguez’s work particularly evocative in that he does not speak to his emotions, yet carefully selects details that induce inadequacy, cultural otherness and uncertainty in his roles as a man and husband.

The other text that stood out regarding cultural uncertainty was Luna’s collection. In Two Girls From Juarez, girls inquire about the race of a book character, asking “was she white or black?” This serves as a testament to the need to place oneself and others in racial categories, underlining Luna’s confusion in standing in between races. Like Dominguez, she feels that she is on the edge of her culture, lamenting “quiero aprender espanol” in Learning to Speak. Luna describes herself and others as carriers of history, her Latino history broken by her shift to English. Luna notes that her body feels to be “an invisible border,” a testament to the conflict she experiences as one culture becomes dominate to the other. The works read this week all stood out as incredible, but Luna and Dominguez captured cultural uncertainty with an attention to detail that was relatable and compelling.

--Casey Vittimberga 

As Yet Untitled

Being a visual artist, I find titling art work might be the hardest or the easiest thing to do and I get a sense that other artist feel the same way. There's probably over millions of paintings, sculptures, videos, etc. that are titled Untitled.

Untitled because they never came up with a title that was good enough or because anything else might have taken aways from the integrity of the work, etc.

Reasons are plenty as to why each piece is entitled, Untitled, but I, myself have not seen a piece called, As Yet Untitled. It's usually assumed by most that an untitled piece is presumably as of yet untitled...

I was intrigued by Hannibal Tabu's name because as an artist, a name like that cannot be any more bad ass. His name just grabs the visceral psyche of a reader and shakes one out even before you get to his poem...

Tabu sings sweet interludes of worshipping the yoni in As Yet Untitled, speaking praise of curves and apricot lips. At first, I saw Tabu's work to be over indulgent and hyperbolic, but then I came into some realizations: Firstly, I'm probably too much of a cynic and secondly, the poem touches base on mankind's humility...

"I am a man longing to attend perfection."

"I am a man longing for synchronicity." 

Focusing on the point of humility, I saw that human beings just need foundations and structural integrity for comfort and most importantly an omnipotent untouchable figure that motivates one into becoming a "moral" being. Isn't that a big factor on why religion is so popular with the human race? Or am trying to tackle a notion, too lofty from a love poem that celebrates light and rhapsody?

On a lighter note, I was so enthused by Tabu's name I decided to read more about him. He's pretty active on the internet and I happened upon his site: The Operative Network (official website for hannibal tabu)

I'm just hoping he didn't pay who ever designed his website because the sites design aesthetics reeks of someone who just discovered html in 2001 and went crazy with his first freelance gig...

He's an interesting figure that fits into the eclectic and diverse Voices from Leimert Park anthology seamlessly. I also took a look at his twitter and went to bed knowing that on Friday night he "Loved DJing the Boyz 2 Men/Babyface/En Vogue concert, but I'm worn out like new school clothes. I could use a BJ & a nap, but work calls."

Tabu must be a hit with the ladies....

I have a lot to say about Wanda Coleman's poems, but I'm leading the in-class discussion on her work, so I will wait for that. Instead, I would like to discuss Hannibal Tabu's ridiculously sensual and visceral lines.

Love poems are a dime a dozen. And many of them aren't worth the dime. But then I luck up on poems like Tabu's "As Yet Untitled" and I remember how it feels to be wooed with words. "As Yet Untitled" isn't just a love poem. It's an ode to his appreciation for the most cherished parts of this woman. But it's not merely a praise for her physical beauty. Tabu begins with:

Born from the belly of a loud-ass, redbone bayou woman,
you stand firm on the foundation of yourself
demand I let go tedious thoughts and be god. 

Tabu acknowledges his lovers confidence and strong sense of self. Instead of being intimidated by her "firm foundation" he basks in the way that she makes him recognize his own greatness. She "demands" him to stop thinking idle, bothersome thoughts that don't serve him well. The entry into this poem is also kinda funny. It hints at a typical love/hate relationship that many men have with their significant others mom (that loud ass, redbone bayou woman), but clearly, he acknowledges her mom for passing down such self-esteem and love for self to her daughter.

Tabu continues his praise in the latter part of the first stanza:

To be in your presence, I must emerge unblemished from valleys of bat-wielding yesterdays.
To be worthy of your touch, need to recite your mantras in twelve tongues.
I am a man longing to attend perfection.

Here he is still speaking of the ways in which he must be a better man in order to fully deserve her. He has to redeem himself and heal from his past which may have been tumultuous and volatile.(bat-wielding??)  The last line of the stanza strikes me. "I am a man longing to attend perfection" I read that in two ways.  He is longing to be in the company of someone whom he upholds as his version of perfection OR he is longing to attain perfection himself so that he may truly be what she seems to deserve. Either way, she has worked a number on him!

Rub my shoulders with savior's hands.
Align me between your wings, teach me all the levels of your identity. 
No shame drinking in your round the way curves.

Tabu starts to focus his gaze and appreciation outward on her beauty. But his way of doing so doesn't feel pervy r objectifying to me. "Align me between your wings, teach me all the levels of your identity" Tabu has game. This can be taken as a sexual innuendo, spread your wings (legs??) and allow me to explore all of you in depth. It sounds soooo much better here than other "come-ons" I have heard. Trust me. smh. And that last line shows how much attention he doesn't mind lavishing on her body as he admires her curves. I love his attention to detail. Her curves are "round the way". Meaning she isn't model-thin. She's curvy, voluptuous, an around-the-way kind of girl.

The following are my favorite lines:

See, you delivered me from ladies of carnelian soul,
rescued me from anxious nights, kisses of poison and infidelity.
It's you that balances my heavy scales. 
I am a man longing for synchronicity. 

Carnelian soul???  I love that reference. It's so unique. I have never heard anyone described that way but it sounds both tempting and completely dangerous at the same time. Is a woman with a carnelian soul evil? Sinful? Carnelian evokes images of deep red, which is equated with either love or evil/hell (go figure). The woman Tabu is writing about has saved him from those type of women. He is no longer caught up in meaningless acts of random sex. She has "tamed" him in a way. Yet, he is still secure in his manhood. "I am a man"...but now he wants balance, and he wants someone to work in unison with him.

I can go on and on and on about this poem.

The way to win you can't be found on web pages or in Sun Tzu...
it is written in the language of sacrifice.
Carved in forgotten runes along the bones of the left side of my body.
Teach me to remember. 

Um...yes. To ALL of this.  Who doesn't love someone who appreciates and acknowledges your worth. He is saying here that she is a diamond in the rough, and it's not easy to find her. He has to put in the work to get and keep her. I'm wondering if that third line is an elusive reference to Eve being carved out of Adam's rib...made for him. He wants her to teach him how to remember...what? Perhaps how to love. How to open. How to give and take. How to win her heart.


I just really love this poem. Tabu has such classically beautiful lines, but retains a bit of modern edginess that I can appreciate and relate to. I was fully drawn in to this one. And if someone ever writes a poem like this for me....it's a done deal. Signed, sealed, and delivered :)

Placemant in David Dominguez's "Fingers"

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 I decided to write on one of the poets that we will not be focusing on in class this Tuesday. I’m intrigued by the multidimensional way David Dominguez employs space and placement in “Fingers.” Time leaps through images and objects that the speaker associates with his own experience. There is a double narrative and a double seeing in “Fingers.” The way the images and narratives are placed disrupt a sequential narrative and creates a layered effect that adds weight and depth to the poem that is structured around short declarative sentences.

The poem shifts, or moves, through the present, past, and future through associations of images and objects.  The poem suspends linier time until everything appears to be occurring.  Time exists, but it is fluid and denies exact placement. Images and objects make their own time in relationship to other images and objects. For example, the speaker begins by retelling his own experience:

            Because of the frozen meat and a silver ring,

            my index finger swelled and dimmed.

           

            The men held down my wrist and used a saw.

            I fought back the need to squirm and watched

            where the nicked up teeth missed

and the scars began to form. (1-6)

The scar acts as a critical image. Its placement activates  multiple layers of time.  For instance, scars are formed after skin is healed— not in the moment the skin is split open. By referring to the wound as a scar forming the speaker is alluding to the future where the skin has already healed.  Consequently,  as soon as the speaker mentions the scar and activates the idea of present, past and future the poem shifts:

           

I remember the Julio longed to go home.

           

            nothing passed the time like work

           

            unconscious work when the bones pounded

            and the mussels stretched. (7-10)

As the “scar” moves us forward in the poem it also moves us further backward. We move into the speaker’s memory. Instead of continuing the narrative around his own wound the speaker introduces Julio. The poem leaps backward to another event connected by the images of scars and saws.

So when the stuffer jammed, Julio jumped on a stool,

            lowered half his body into the machine,

            and when his thigh brushed against the go button,

            The blade moved an inch

 and sliced off his index finger. (10-15)

The speaker ends the poem wondering what would have happened if he were Julio  “Would I have screamed, could I have taken the pain, (23)” but we are left without an answer. We never see the speaker’s physical scar or what happened when the men held down his wrist.  Instead of the physical placement of his scar or pain we are shown the speaker’s relationship to another man’s experience. There are scars that are more than physical in “Fingers.” There is meaning in what we don’t see.

Dominguez, David. ed. Francisco Aragon. The Wind Shifts: New Latino Poetry.

Tucson: University of Arizona Press, 2007. Print.