REVIEW

Javier Huerta’s SOME CLARIFICATIONS Y OTROS POEMAS (Arte Publico 2007) is a book that is bilingual and brilliant. The poems run the gamut between English poems about the difficulty of dealing with poverty and Spanish poems about undocumented immigrants, amnesty, art, frustration and hope.

“Fences: A Scene: Dramatis Personae” opens with a prologue where the dialogue swings back and forth from English to Spanish. The Guards in the poem do not say much, but the fact that there is tension between the father and the son, makes the simple presence of the guards haunt the reader. It is clear the son is visiting the father who is locked in a detention center before being deported.

FATHER: Mi Madre? Dime la verdad./ What does she say?
SON: Tanta maldad.
FATHER: ¿Tanta maldad? ¿Tanta maldad?/ The only thing I have--- this underwear.
SON: Then I refuse to be your heir.
FATHER: So you, too, abandon me.
SON: I must go. Piensa en mí.
Exit Son.
GUARDS: Your son has fled. Tell us what he said.
Exit FATHER led by Guards. Lights down.

The son reports the condition of the mother as being very bad. The father’s response seems to indicate is that his condition is even worse. The father accuses the son and the mother of abandoning him.

Why do the guards want to know what was said after the son flees? The word “flees” in itself implies the son’s desire to escape the father’s situation. Think of me, he implores as he leaves. The ambiguity works its magic because the emotional sense of separateness is haunting. The language itself is sparse, mysterious and magical. This is the type of dramatic tension that fills this collection of poetry.

In “El Reflejo en la navaja” Huerta presents the reader again with the sense of internalized shame brought about by this same sense of separateness, or internalized racism due to undocumented status. The repetition of lines, slightly tweaked, reminiscent of a sestina in English is beautiful. I would like to write the poem in its entirety, but also which to share some other gems, so here is part of it, singing a mournful and unforgettable artistry. In the second stanza, Huerta writes:

Perdón por el reflejo en la navaja, la navaja
En el reflejo. Perdón por la sangre.
Perdón por los ojos que aun tiemblan en sus cuencas.

Perdón por los gritos que huyeron hacia adentro:
No pasa una noche en que no oiga el eco.
Perdon por las esferas que se estrellan contra el piso.

The sense of sorrow crescendos throughout the poem, as Huerta splashes lovely magical and surreal imagery across the page as a true artist. The blending results in an unbelievable sewing of surprising imagery, which titillates a reader with its unexpected turns.

Perdón por las esferas que se estrellan contra el piso.
The speaker asks us to Pardon the spheres that crash against the floor, and river basins, yet the speaker is not to be swallowed by the face of the monster. And of course my own meek ability to translate cannot hold back the power of this lovely poem.

Perdón or no haber pintado de Amarillo
Todo lo que es rojo. Perdón por la noche.

Each line contains language that pulses with the energy of unspeakable truth. The title I believe is translated “The reflection in the knife” so again we get the unease, the masterful language of a poet that knows language’s great mystery, the bafflement and bewilderment of what it means to be human and what it means to suffer, but this speaker’s strength shines through despite the endless repetitive apology. The reader knows that what underlies the apology is a self-determined voice, one that will not be silenced.

Huerta's use of religious taboo, elegy, absurdity, and the experimental twist of words in both English and Spanish are a delight to read.

The movement of “Blasphemous Elegy for May 14, 2003" is about when an abandoned trailer of immigrants were trapped and suffocated and it is haunting. Again, Huerta successfully utilizes a mystical and chant like quality with the repetition of the phrase “ella me espera en Houston”. The phrase appears in two stanzas (quatrains) followed by two stanzas (tersets) before we again get the modest voice, which in its modesty questions the monstrosity of such an act, and the monstrosity of a society that would allow it.

I modestly propose that every year on the 14th day of May as a way to memorialize the 19 journeyers we hold our breath--- better yet, that we abstain from breathing--- for a period of 24 hours. The names and ages of the victims are listed, followed by the speaker’s unyielding imaginative dissonance with language.

Gentlemen,
That the beast
Ran
Off terrified I
Do not
Believe nor
Do I believe that
It gnawed off
Its limp
And lifeless heads

Huerta’s poem then goes on to describe such a beast, which reminds me of Yeat’s poem “The Second Coming.” The monstrosity that is human suffering is unveiled.
Another favorite of mine is called “Velas.”

Tu cuerpo es mi religión.
No inventes.

En serio, no vuelvo a mencionar tu cuerpo en vano.
No seas ridículo
No habrá otro cuerpo antes del tuyo.
No digas esas cosas.

Y de tu cuerpo no hare ídolos ni imágenes.
Como molestas.
Te voy a abrir las piernas como Moisès abrió en dos el mar rojo.
Es que Moisès nunca entró a la tierra prometida.

Huerta is unabashed despite appearing bashful in the work.

“The Good Apotehcary” also reveals this sense of strange word play, an honesty about the in between places we reside.

“…That annoying speck in his right eye, something/truly forbidden in a child. He looked down from his balloon, but the people simply stopped singing. He would always be a student in strange barbershops.”

Huerta’s work is packed with meaningfulness and imaginative language play in both Spanish and English. The work here is the type of work one can return to and harvest something year after year.

Opera, Pop Tarts and Chicharrones

Here in Central Texas I’ve been busy helping with a book festival. The big draw this year was a former Texas Ranger who wrote a memoir. He was a caricature of the infamous Texas lawman (A 6-foot-5, thin, cowboy hat wearing, boot clad man who spit out ain’ts like chewing tobacco) and the crowd ate it up. However, the most interesting writers in attendance, in my humble opinion, were Tony Diaz and Diana Lopez both of whom were overshadowed by the soon-to-be adapted onto film Ranger’s story. These two writers had original ideas, thoughts and things to say.

Diaz spoke about his fears for book publishing and reading in general. He said he was afraid that reading will become like opera—an art form only recognized by the elite and monied and one that falls further into obscurity. He said that as we close ourselves off from reading and writing, we close off our access to the halls of power. Hopefully, a festival like the one in our town will keep reading alive and well.

Lopez read the first chapter from her soon-to-be published young adult novel “Confetti Girl.” I enjoyed the way she blended the American with Mexican in her prose, so subtle, yet, for many a young Mexican American girl so empowering. The way the young girl in her novel nonchalantly listed the things she saw on the kitchen selves of her home, ie. Pop Tarts next to a bag of chicharrones is the subtle way Lopez lets us know this girl is American of Mexican descent. And I liked how in this Mexican American household there were books, hundreds of them lining the shelves of her home, contrary to what some people will have us believe. I can’t wait to read the entire novel in 2009.

All in all, it was a successful festival and I can’t wait for next year.

El Paso reviews

Although I haven’t been writing much prose I have been able to read some reviews and this Sunday the New York Times Book Review skewered John Rechy, the man and his new book “About My Life and the Kept Woman.” I’m trying to decide if this David Leavitt is on target, in love with Rechy, or hates him. See for yourself his review is called “Hustler.”

Roberto Ontiveros has a good review in the DMN about another El Chucoan, Benjamin Alire Saenz. Sounds like another book I need to buy and read. So little time so many books.

Cool El Chuco related stuff I've been reading online

Erasmo Guerra's interview of El Paso’s most famous literati, John Rechy. He also reviews Rechy’s new novel About My Life and the Kept Woman. I loved his book Sexual Outlaw and still have to read City of Night. What kind of El Pasoan hasn’t read that one? Shame on me, shame, shame.


In other El Paso news, Daniel Olivas reviewed The Flowers by another El Pasoan Dagoberto Gilb in the El Paso Times this week. Called Gilb “one of our finest contemporary writers.”



Then there’s former El Pasoan Sheryl Luna’s great blog this week about “being invisible.” It’s got something everyone can relate to. I’m enjoying the discussion her post has started about community.

Existentialism, Magic 8 Balls and Dagoberto Gilb

There’s this journalism ethics code that I’m bound by and it states that it’s a conflict of interest to review a book by someone you know. Everyone knows that it’s near impossible not to know of someone in the writing community and in the Mexican American writing community it’s peor. I mean, everybody knows everybody, we’re one big ol’ dysfunctional family.

I told one publication that wanted me to review a book by someone I know that I would do it if I were allowed full disclosure. That would have meant that I state that I know Dagoberto Gilb and studied with him at Texas State. Would have to tell everyone that he was the reason I went to the university, etc. And because they have journalistic integrity they passed.

I’m not sure if blogs qualify as journalism but for my purposes I’m going to say they don’t, and I’m outta journalism anyways. Sorta. I really never believed in the ethics codes they drilled into us at J-school, took every freebie that was offered so as not to offend the generous giver. So here I sit with a blank page to fill up with my thoughts after reading Gilb’s The Flowers.

Ay, this book, this one really does it for me, as I read it I wanted to cheer because finally, finally someone gives a real picture of what urban youth are like. Gilb’s main character Sonny Bravo, although a teen, is older than his years, smarter than anyone gives him credit for, and self-sufficient, thanks in large part to his absent mother. Gilb really shows how some poor urban youth grow up quickly because they are left to fend for themselves.

Some early reviews have stated that Sonny Bravo is similar to JD Salinger’s Holden Caulfield. In my view, there really is no comparison, one is a weak spoiled child driven by insecurities and imagined fears and the other is a strong survivor driven by insecurities and an innate morality. Holden, who was born into wealth and privilege, viewed life from atop the middle (maybe upper-middle) class power structure, whereas, Sonny sees it all from the bottom up, giving readers a much needed (and never really seen) perspective. I also liked that Gilb dispels the stereotype of poor urban youth as ignorant fools.

And I think it’s misguided to call Gilb’s work “a coming of age story” because Sonny, although just a teen, is mature beyond his years, does teenage things, yes, but is more grounded, rational and thoughtful than those adults who are suppose to be his guardians. These two books offer two very different places, teenagers and mindsets.

If a comparison were necessary, then Gilb’s Sonny would be closer to the narrator in Richard Wright’s Black Boy because this narrator, like Sonny, grew up against the dominant white power structure in an urban environment. However, even this comparison is not accurate because religion played a large role in shaping Wright’s agnostic leanings and Sonny’s walk offers a glimpse to existentialism.

Ah, man, did I just write that? I hate big words and existentialism is one of them words that automatically makes my eyes bob like the die in a magic eight ball when you shake it—reply hazy, try again. So here it is better, Sonny’s mundane life in The Flowers apartment complex reflects the reality of living, living for yourself, without a God and creating your own destiny. Which is another reason I loved this book. No stereotypes of Mexican Americans attending mass on Sundays and nary a Virgin de Guadalupe in the novel. Wow, another side to Mexican Americans. Who knew? We’re not just the clichés we’ve been reading about for ages. He treats Sonny as a complex individual, which makes this story so much better than Salinger’s kid book. The, true to life, racial tensions alone make this a noteworthy effort.

Sonny’s long, boring days spent doing chores at the apartment complex where things and events are forever happening to him, and he reacting, and thus making more things happen—having his first sexual encounter, falling in love, getting involved in people’s lives, making discoveries. This book’s pace reminds me of Gilb’s first novel “The Last Known Residence of Mickey Acuña.” However, this is a more bearable story for me because it is at least hopeful.

Although, I am a Gilb fan, I don’t necessarily like everything he writes and I didn’t particularly like Mickey Acuña. It wasn’t the writing I disliked but the place the book took me emotionally--Mickey’s constant state of going nowhere. It was a bit too real, rung too true. It took me back to my childhood, the stagnant, go nowhere type of life that I was forever repeating and often still do. After I finished the book, I shivered and said to myself, I never want to feel that again. Can you “not like” a novel for all the right reasons?

The Flowers I enjoyed for its romanticism, sweetness and optimism. Sonny’s finding in Nica all that is right and good with the world, and his eventually helping her out, creates meaning out of a seemingly meaningless existence. The bittersweet ending reminded me more of Jane Austen than Camus or the other humorless French dude who writes for all the big word readers.

Perhaps it’s best that I’m confined to review Gilb’s effort on a blog because I’ve yet to read the book again and perhaps on my second go around, I’ll make some more discoveries.

KGB BAR NYC

I read at the KGB in NYC with Erika Wurth the other night, so I have to tell you how it was. It was really good. We met a Native documentary film maker from the Southwest who currently lives in NYC. I enjoyed the aura of the bar. I was surprised people were so very attentive to our poetry! Since it was a bar I thought they would be drunk. Instead they were attentive and respectful. At least 20-25 people showed which is great.
The KGB bar is decorated with what appears Soviet Union decor. Pictures of Lenon and the other guy Stalin were hanging on the red walls; red flags and other communist regalia were a bit unnerving though somehow appropriate. Symbols of communism fallen were everywhere.

It seems we read in the red room since everything was red but I'm not sure that's what it was called. The KGB bar reading made me want to move to NYC. Afterwards we went somewhere else for more drinks. The price of the drinks was reasonable really. I find NYC prices to be okay actually. Finding a place to live is what sounds expensive, although my new apt. in Lafayette, CO (just outside Boulder) is only 100.00 cheaper than the one a woman lives somewhere near Harlem and the Upper East Side.

And what about all those books you haven’t read?

I was looking at the shelves in my bedroom trying to figure what book to blog about and what jumped out at me was not all the good books I’ve read but all the books I haven’t. The books I, with the best of intentions, started to read and got a chapter or a few pages into and then for some unknown reason stopped.

What it is that compels a person to read an entire book? I know when a book gets me, it usually works its magic in the opening pages and then I’m hooked until the end.

I have this friend who has this “reading ethic” I admire. She shames me because my reading habits are lazy. Once she starts a book she feels obliged to read it to its end, even if she gets bored by it or doesn’t particularly like the material. She breezes through two books a week and this is a woman with four children.

I’ve got several armfuls of books lingering on my shelves because I keep telling myself that I am going to read them in the near future, that I must read them for literature’s sake. I guess the truth of the matter is if they don’t hit me emotionally or have something I can relate to in the storyline then they aren’t going to get read. Why fool myself?

I keep hoping that just because I didn’t like something when I was younger doesn’t mean I won’t when I’m older. Tastes change and to prove it, I keep all those unread books around the house.

Which brings me to my Bookmates book of the month—Gabriel Garcia Marquez’s “Love in the Time of Cholera.” I’m trying, trying to get through it right now, but man, some of Garcia Marquez’s sentences still make me roll my eyes.

“Dr. Juvenal Urbino had often thought, with no premonitory intention, that this would not be a propitious place for dying in a state of grace. But in time he came to suppose that perhaps its disorder obeyed an obscure determination of Divine Providence.”

This is not my favorite sentence and the book is loaded with similar ones. I hate the sound, the pomposity, and the alliteration “premonitory, propitious, place.” And this is just one example. Here’s where he gets me though, later in the same graph there is this dead on genius description, “The use of crutches had made his torso and arms as broad as a galley slave’s, but his defenseless legs looked like an orphan’s.” It’s beautiful, perfect, something I can picture and says so much about the observer. So it’s up and down for me with this dude. Up and down when I read him, so up and down that my mind wanders. I can’t get interested in Dr. Urbino or his laundry lists of medicines. I’m just not interested in this love story.

On the other hand, in Octavia Butler’s “Parable of the Sower” she had me hooked from the very first paragraph—a young woman struggling with her role as a daughter. I liked her idea of love in a post-apocalyptic world. Argh, I need help being a better reader or at least liking Marquez because everyone makes such a big deal out of him. What am I missing? What?

Langston Hughes

I have been reading Langston Hughes' THE WEARY BLUES (Knopf 1939). At first, on the page, the poems seem simple, and yet when read aloud the rhythmical blues can be heard, the beat like a slow swaying dance. Weariness is the opposite of energy. He was raised in Harlem with 8 siblings and a father who struggled to feed them. He lived when lynching was popular in this country. Like so many poems, Hughes' poems are meant to be heard and recited, breathed forth from a living body. They are living things. He was exiled in a sense from the South he loved. Here is the beginning of the title poem:

The Weary Blues

Droning a drowsy syncopated tune,
Rocking back and forth to a mellow croon,
I heard a Negro play.
Down on Lenox Avenue the other night
By the pale dull pallor of an old gas light
He did a lazy sway . . .
He did a lazy sway . . .
To the tune o' those Weary Blues.
With his ebony hands on each ivory key
He made that poor piano moan with melody.
O Blues!
Swaying to and fro on his rickety stool
He played that sad raggy tune like a musical fool.
Sweet Blues!

This collection also contains a favorite poem of mine. Possibly the poem is one of my top 10 favorites. It is called THE NEGRO SPEAKS OF RIVERS. My new collection has a poem that echoes this (I can only hope), but the river I write about is the Rio Grande. Hughes' river was the vibrant culture of African-Americans, the beating swoon of the blues, the jazzy horns and glitzy renaissance of his era, the mystical and varied history of a people. Hughes had an ear for musicality of a line, and I think he offers young poets a great lesson in listening.

THE NEGRO SPEAKS OF RIVERS

(To W.E.B. DuBois)

I've known rivers:
I've known rivers ancient as the world and older than the
flow of human blood in human veins.
My soul has grown deep like the rivers.
I bathed in the Euphrates when dawns were young.
I built my hut near the Congo and it lulled me to sleep.
I looked upon the Nile and raised the pyramids above it.
I heard the singing of the Mississippi when Abe Lincoln
Went down to New Orleans, and I've seen its muddy
Bosom turn all golden in the sunset.
I've known rivers:
Ancient, dusky rivers.
My soul has grown deep like the rivers.

The poem takes the first person I, but applies it to his people. Here the political is artistic, subtle, yet strangely powerful, almost surreal, as if a dream. Such bold risk; here the first person "I" defies all criticisms of self-indulgence and shows what a poem can do with the first person "I" singing. And that's all I have to say about first person I, but Robert Vasquez has some interesting commentary on the "I" in contemporary times at his blog California Poet.