Guest Poet Archive: 2011
Scroll down to find a specific poet.
(in chronological order of original posting):
Kahlil Almustafa
Jim Sanders
Martín Espada
Lindsey Collen
Greg Bee
Edmund Conti
Carol Dine
Kahlil Almustafa
A 14 year-old girl
dies in the desert
while walking alone
to the Estados Unidos
No Liberty Statue to greet her
offering to change her name
from Yoselina to Rebecca
like some bad action thriller
sick as she walks
she tells her little brother
to walk ahead without her
he needs to be with mama
and Yoselina dies alone in
the desert an American
(Day 66 of the collection "From Auction Block to Oval Office—100 poems
in 100 days of Obama's Presidency.")
Originally posted, March 8, 2010
To contact Kahlil Almustafa send an email to: hello@mvmtmilk.com
or visit www.kahlilmustafa.com
Jim Sanders
LEFT TO ME
I commit
words to memory.
They are the remains
of greatness
that needed air, and water,
and a meal.
That found life
in senses
that knew
and mostly didn't.
From cave drawings
and icons
to language
never perfectly shared
we try to convey
and on...
I inherit words
beyond the giver's breath
at once
enshrine and profane
Too many intentions mine
no doubt
but I can only wear words
as they fit me
It's not immortality
but it keeps death from taking everything.
Originally posted, June 11, 2010
To contact Jim Sanders send an email to: jimsanders954@yahoo.com
Martín Espada
(See below for Spanish translation by Oscar Sarmiento)
THE SWIMMING POOL AT VILLA GRIMALDI
Santiago, Chile
Beyond the gate where the convoys spilled their cargo
of blindfolded prisoners, and the cells too narrow to lie down,
and the rooms where electricity convulsed the body
strapped across the grill until the bones would break,
and the parking lot where interrogators rolled pickup trucks
over the legs of subversives who would not talk,
and the tower where the condemned listened through the wall
for the song of another inmate on the morning of execution,
there is a swimming pool at Villa Grimaldi.
Here the guards and officers would gather families
for barbeques. The interrogator coached his son:
Kick your feet. Turn your head to breathe.
The torturer’s hands braced the belly of his daughter,
learning to float, flailing at her lesson.
Here the splash of children, eyes red
from too much chlorine, would rise to reach
the inmates in the tower. The secret police
paraded women from the cells at poolside,
saying to them: Dance for me. Here the host
served chocolate cookies and Coke on ice
to the prisoner who let the names of comrades
bleed down his chin, and the lungs of the prisoner
who refused to speak a word ballooned
with water, face down at the end of a rope.
When a dissident pulled by the hair from a vat
of urine and feces cried out for God, and the cry
pelted the leaves, the swimmers plunged below the surface,
touching the bottom of a soundless blue world.
From the ladder at the edge of the pool they could watch
the prisoners marching blindfolded across the landscape,
one hand on the shoulder of the next, on their way
to the afternoon meal and back again. The neighbors
hung bedsheets on the windows to keep the ghosts away.
There is a swimming pool at the heart of Villa Grimaldi,
white steps, white tiles, where human beings
would dive and paddle till what was human in them
had dissolved forever, vanished like the prisoners
thrown from helicopters into the ocean by the secret police,
their bellies slit so the bodies could not float.
* * * * *
(Spanish translation by Oscar Sarmiento)
LA PISCINA DE VILLA GRIMALDI
Santiago, Chile
Más allá del portón donde las caravanas derramaban su cargamento
de prisioneros vendados y las celdas demasiado estrechas para recostarse
y los cuartos donde la electricidad convulsionaba el cuerpo
amarrado a la parrilla hasta que los huesos se rompían
y el estacionamiento donde los interrogadores rodaban camionetas
sobre las piernas de los subversivos que no hablaban
y la torre donde los condenados escuchaban por el muro
la canción de otro preso la mañana de la ejecución,
hay una piscina en Villa Grimaldi.
Aquí los guardias y oficiales reunían familias
para los asados. El interrogador entrenaba a su hijo:
patalea. Gira la cabeza para respirar.
Las manos del torturador sujetaban el vientre de la hija
aprendiendo a flotar, debatiéndose en la lección.
Aquí el chapuzón de los niños, ojos rojos
con demasiado cloro, subía para alcanzar
a los presos en la torre. La policía secreta
hacía desfilar a las mujeres de las celdas desde la piscina,
diciéndoles: Bailen para mí. Aquí el anfitrión
servía galletas de chocolate y Coca-Cola
al prisionero que permitía que los nombres de sus compañeros sangraran
por su mentón, y los pulmones del prisionero
que se rehusaba a decir una palabra se inflaban
de agua, cabeza abajo al final de la soga.
Cuando un disidente tirado del pelo de una cubeta
con orina y excrementos clamaba por Dios y su clamor
acribillaba las hojas, los nadadores se sumergían bajo la superficie,
tocando el fondo de un silencioso mundo azul.
Desde la escalera a la orilla de la piscina podían mirar
a los prisioneros marchando vendados por el paisaje,
una mano en el hombro del próximo, camino
a la comida de mediodía y de regreso. Los vecinos
colgaban sábanas en las ventanas para mantener los fantasmas a raya.
Hay una piscina en pleno centro de Villa Grimaldi,
escalones blancos, azulejos blancos, donde seres humanos
se zambullían y chapoteaban hasta que en ellos lo humano
para siempre se había disuelto, desvanecido como los prisioneros
arrojados de helicópteros al océano por la policía secreta,
los vientres rebanados para que los cuerpos no pudieran flotar.
Poem posted in this space, June 11, 2010.
"The Swimming Pool at Villa Grimaldi" originally appeared in the Café Review
and also appears in Espada's collection of poems, THE TROUBLE BALL
(Norton, 2011).
To contact Martín Espada send an email to: mespada@english.umass.edu
or visit www.martinespada.net
Lindsey Collen
Excerpt from THERE IS A TIDE
[Note: Lindsey Collen is a novelist from Mauritius. Here we reproduce the entirety
of Chapter Ten of her book, "There Is a Tide." The event described, a fire in a sugar-
cane field set by two field hands, takes place in 1945 just before a tropical cyclone
strikes the island.]
The neighbour burst back in.
“A cane fire. The cane's on fire. Dife dan kann. A great volcanic heat rises in balls
with every gust of wind, out of the cane. You have to stand back it's so wild. Hot as
hell itself. The heat of Hades is out. The fire itself is red as molten iron. And as the
smoke rises up, it rushes headlong into the sky, arid with the help of the sun, makes
a bright red blanket in the sky, the horizon itself is crimson. The universe is crackling
with noise. It's deafening. Can't get anywhere near for the heat. Thick black smoke
keeps curling into the sky. Old smoke, as it hurtles across the sky, is making a new
cloud, and when the cloud gets whipped upwards by the heat, it is getting carried
away by the cyclone clouds, and is starting to tear across the heavens along with
the cyclone clouds. Welcome's cane is burning down fast. His cane. Their cane.
“The wind is whipping it up even more. You can hear it from just up the road. All
the mongoose have fled. Rats are pouring out. Fleas jumping as high as they can.
Frogs flying out from the marshy bit. Dogs, tails between their legs, hide behind
humans. Beetles, by the thousand, are swarming out of the cane fields to get away
from the flames, and the martin birds are flying around like a dark swarm of bees on
the leeward side of the fire, dive-bombing and eating the beetles as they fly out. A
field day. What creatures they are, martin.
“Welcome is rounding up men like beasts to go and beat the fire out. But, they're
refusing. Non, they say. No. No. and again No. It's the boss's cane, tell him to come
and put out the fire in it, himself, they say. No. No. No. There has to be a cyclone
around for us to say 'no', does there? They're saying the gusts are too strong, the fire
will jump, they're saying it'll get put out by the rain, they're saying they didn't light it
so why should they put it out they're saying anything at all, so long as it's "no" to
Welcome.
“What a time for them to say no, what a time for us to say no. A cane fire. And we,
living in grass houses. At last, at long last, we have succeeded, we have said no. We
are saying, 'no.' But what a time.”
She went raving mad. Danced around. 'Mardeveren,' some said, meaning her spirit
had taken over. 'Sen Veronik,' others mumbled, knowing about this saint. Some said
she was doing a Sen Expedit prayer, wishing ill on the tablisman. Dangerous, they
intimated. 'Tit-Alber' was decided momentarily, a poltergeist who sometimes got up
to worse mischief. Like in a 'servis buk', maybe, they said, like when the dolok drum
beats out its frightening thud and the ancestors start to speak to those present
through someone.
“Let her be. Jayde,” the old ladies said. “Let her be.”
And yet she said things I still remember, girl. Till today. She went on raving:
“The first thing humans should learn to say is 'no.' 'No, don't touch my body.' 'No I
don't want milk right now. No, don't hit me. No, don't smother me with sickly love.' But
instead we are accomplices. Always bowing down. Yes, sir. Yes, misye. Yes, gran
misye. Yes, great boss. Yes, sir. Yes, yes, yes. Anything you say. Yes, father, yes
husband. Yes, slave owner, yes coolie boss, yes, mister. Yes. Yes, sir. Yes please. Yes
thank you. Anything you say, sir. Try to please, madam. Yes. Certainly. Yes. Of course,
sir. Naturally, boss. Yes, yes, yes.
“They broke the 'no' in us. Brought us on slave ships, cut the 'no' out of our tongues.
Chained us. Changed our names. Named us. Bred us. One with another. Sold us.
Bartered us. Raped us. Sodomised us. Forced the Code Noir on us, a black code,
baptised by force. All Catholics in a fell swoop. Even the Church bought and sold us.
Part of their property. Made us say yes. Yes, wi, wi. Rip my babe in arms from my tit,
boss. Sell it. Yes. Yes. Anything to avoid the whip. Anything you say. Yes, take it.
Anything to avoid being tied to the ladder and beaten. When I say the word ladder,
'lesel' even now, the very word resounds with the echoes of generations of torture, as
though a ladder were not a useful thing for climbing up something with. 'Lesel.' Yes.
Yes. 'Take my young daughter, cross her with your neighbour's slave.'
“Cross her,” she said, tapping the insides of her two wrists together in a sudden
movement.
“Yes. Yes. Of course. Anything to please. Torture us. Yes. We will not seek anything.
Not even our daily bread. We want no rights. Don't even know the word. We will
flatter you in our segas. We will dedicate them to you. We will say and even sing,
that you, our boss, are better than all the other bosses. It goes without saying that
you are better than us. Otherwise why would we be slaves?
“Yes. Yes sir. We will bow down. We will. We always have so far, so why shouldn't
we continue. Yes. We will submit. We will. We will pray your prayers, and forget ours.
Yes. Of course, we will obey. Those who said no, those who refused. They were
the heroes. But they didn't survive. They were done away with. Fini. Our brave
forefathers were killed. Our cowardly forefathers lived, those who agreed to cower,
to cower and to lower their loincloths. We were raped, be we men or women. Our
noble foremothers were hanged. Like Ana de Bengal. And our noble forefathers like
Anthoni de Malabar. Both hanged by the Dutch East India Company. Like hundreds
by the French East India Company. Those who bowed down and leant over, bent
over, they are the ones who survived, who lived on, and trained us, from when we
were suckling on the breast to cower, to remain silent, to curb our protests, to submit,
if we were to survive. Napa fronte. Don't show your forehead. Give in. Give up. How
else will you survive? Please. Bizin kurbe. You must be pliant. Give in. Give up. To
survive, you have to. You must submit, be subservient. Please. I beg of you, my child.
I beg, I beg, I beg you, do not raise your voice, do not say 'no.' Please. For my sake.
You must accept things. Bizin reziyne. You must resign yourself. You cannot resist.
Please. Give in. Give up, my child, the elders who survived said, because it was the
only advice that had ever done them any good. Bizin aksepte. You have to accept
reality. You can't change reality. Any memories to the contrary must be banned.
Any new thoughts to the contrary must be nipped in the bud. Fode pa rezone. Don't
argue, don't even use your powers of reasoning. It isn't worth it. You must submit.
Give in. Give up. Give right up, my child of the first generation. You, born into slavery,
you cannot create, you must just obey.
“And yet these youngsters, trained by their cowering mothers to cower, did
something. They made up a language, a language more efficient than yours, you
stupid sugar cane owners. More elegant. Our language. Kreol. And in it, we usually
say yes, sir. Usually. The only thing we know to say. The language reminds us that
you took everything we ever had away, yes. And yet it reminds us that we could still
invent a language, yes. Couldn't take that away from us. Although you try to take it
away. How you try. Not a language, you say. Only gutter talk. Just a patwa. Has no
grammar, you say. Broken French. And yet today, a miracle, a miracle. We are saying
'no,' we are refusing. Every now and then 'no' comes back. No, no, no. In our language:
no no no. Only when we can say 'no,' can we know the value of saying 'yes.' Freedom,
freedom. When will we be free. We be free.
“But there's good news too, folks. Better news. Really good news. Not just saying no.
Good news. Yippee. The fire was arson. Someone in this village really said 'no' this
time. Bravo. We shall overcome. We shall overcome.”
She who had breezed in like a gust of the cyclone to announce this, had, after her
song, like a gust, gone again.
“Gone stone mad, she has. Will get us all into trouble talking like that. What arson?
What refusal? Can't sing songs like that. Overcome. Can't say things like that.
Sounds like a rebel. Be free. We be free. She's gone loony. Must be the moon. Or
just be the low pressure because of the cyclone coming. Perhaps her head's tired.
Jayde. Let her be.”
Posted in this space, September 12, 2010
To contact Lindsey Collen send an email to: bambu@intnet.mu
For information on ordering novels by Lindsey Collen send an email to:
lptmail@intnet.mu
Greg Bee
COME OUT
I know you’re not sure where you are, but if you open your closet door just a little,
you’ll see the light from the kitchen. Come out among us – find yourself here. Coffee
aroma is wafting down the hall to lift you up. There’s tea if that’s your preference
but I can’t speak to its backbone like I can the coffee’s. Take a full-bellied whiff and
come out.
The Christian Right is wrong.
Hateful religions and scared homophobes and closeted politicians are wrong and
neither they nor your parents are here, so step lively down that hall. There’s a warm
white robe on the back of your door and fuzzy slippers right there on the floor that
may not fit you now, but you’ll grow into them. The first few steps might feel chilly
and uninviting but fellowship and fluffy robes will warm you soon enough. Leave
your hair like it is; we’re not judging you here. It’s just breakfast.
There’s crisp bacon in the skillet, warm hash browns on the back burner and I don’t
wear a gingham apron every day, so come find your place at this table; there is
plenty of room.
Queer community is this: at some point we all decided that running from our lives
was exhausting so we stopped.
It’s exhausting. Stop.
Stop running from your life and take a step toward it.
Come out.
We’re here…all of us…around the table. There’s a lesbian over there wondering if
she can build an outfit around soccer cleats and a gay man next to her trying to figure
out how his football buddies will mix with his dance club buddies. On the other side
is a transgender man feeling what it’s like to pack for the first time and next to him a
mostly straight woman who gets a little tiny tingle around women in red boots.
Come out.
There’re warm biscuits from the oven and sausage gravy on the sideboard and a chair
for you between the father of 3 who has shelved his self-loathing long enough to join
us and the mother of 4 who just this morning discovered that she’s deserving of joy.
There’s room for you at this table with us and we’re waiting for you to come out.
It’s a new day.
Poem posted in this space October 1, 2010
To contact Greg Bee send an email to: gbrisendine@gmail.com
Edmund Conti
LONER
Aram Shdeed indeed. A guy I knew.
Indeed I did. Back in junior high. I
think he was a Syrian, something like that.
No, not Assyrian, we studied them in Ancient
History. Though he did have a big nose like
their pictures in the school books. Our school
was filled wtih Italians and Armenians. So
Aram and his name and his nose didn't stand out.
Not with guys like Shahab Shahabian. No sir.
We didn't care that Aram was an Arab.
(Truth is, we didn't know.) So we accepted him.
That is, they accepted him. They never
accepted me.
Poem posted in this space October 1, 2010
To contact Edmund Conti send an email to: edmundpoet@gmail.com
Carol Dine
OVER LIMOGES
—after Violette Szabo*
Behind the lines, they catch me breaking their code.
In Ravensbruck women’s camp, they break my ribs,
force open my thighs. They starve me, shear my
long black hair. I am not a Jew. My cipher name is Louise.
On my back on the beating table. They lean in with
sour breath: “Tell us, and then you can sleep.” I will not tell,
I whisper to Tania, my daughter. Tomorrow at dawn,
l stand before the executioner. Behind my closed eyes,
my parachute opens again, a white petunia floating over Limoges.
*Violette Szabo, agent with the French Resistance, was awarded
the George Cross and the Croix de Guerre, bestowed posthumously.
Poem posted in this space November 18, 2010
To contact Carol Dine send an email to: Steve@stevebloompoetry.net and he
will pass it along for you.