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Overview
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9781609403997 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Wings Press |
| Publication date: | 07/01/2014 |
| Edition description: | New Edition |
| Pages: | 104 |
| Product dimensions: | 6.80(w) x 8.30(h) x 0.40(d) |
About the Author
Read an Excerpt
This River Here
Poems of San Antonio
By Carmen Tafolla
Wings Press
Copyright © 2014 Carmen TafollaAll rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-60940-402-4
CHAPTER 1
This River Here
This river here
is full of me and mine.
This river here
is full of you and yours.
Right here
(or maybe a little farther down)
my great-grandmother washed the dirt
out of her family's clothes,
soaking them, scrubbing them,
bringing them up
clean.
Right here
(or maybe a little farther down)
my grampa washed the sins
out of his congregation's souls,
baptizing them, scrubbing them,
bringing them up
clean.
Right here
(or maybe a little farther down)
my great-great grandma froze with fear
as she glimpsed,
between the lean, dark trees,
a lean, dark Indian peering at her.
She ran home screaming, "¡Ay, los Indios!
Aí vienen los I-i-indios!!"
as he threw pebbles at her,
laughing.
Till one day she got mad
and stayed
and threw pebbles
right back at him!
After they got married,
they built their house right here
(or maybe a little farther down.)
Right here,
my father gathered
mesquite beans and wild berries
working with a passion
during the Depression.
His eager sweat poured off
and mixed so easily
with the water of this river here.
Right here,
my mother cried in silence,
so far from her home,
sitting with her one brown suitcase,
a traveled trunk packed full with blessings,
and rolling tears of loneliness and longing
which mixed (again so easily)
with the currents of this river here.
Right here we'd pour out picnics,
and childhood's blood from dirty scrapes on dirty knees,
and every generation's first-hand stories
of the weeping lady La Llorona
haunting the river every night,
crying "Ayyy, mis hi-i-i-ijos!" —
(It happened right here!)
The fear dripped off our skin
and the blood dripped off our scrapes
and they mixed with the river water,
right here.
Right here,
the stories and the stillness
of those gone before us
haunt us still,
now grown, our scrapes in different places,
the voices of those now dead
quieter,
but not too far away ...
Right here we were married,
you and I,
and the music filled the air,
danced in,
dipped in,
mixed in
with the river water
... dirt and sins,
fear and anger,
sweat and tears,
love and music,
blood.
And memories ...
It was right here!
And right here we stand,
washing clean our memories,
baptizing our hearts,
gathering past and present,
dancing to the flow
we find
right here
or maybe —
a little farther
down.
There've always been rattlesnakes
especially if you live in Texas,
quietly coiled potent surprises
filled with regrettable poisons
scorpions startled under rocks
tails poised for incisive action
flash floods submerging the floor, the bed
wiping away anything not rooted yards deep
droughts that wilt the cactus,
bake the trees, suck dry the elderly
there've always been rattlesnakes,
husbands collapsed to the ground, stores gone broke
grandmothers fading away, bills eating the grocery money,
heart attacks at midnight, heat strokes at 4 p.m.
wagons, cars, bikes, crumpled into broken skeletons
tornados that wreak havoc, lightning that incinerates homes into
black ash
cancers that appear when least expected,
disasters that life or nature makes
But even the cruelly unexpected fangs of rattlesnakes
grow brittle over time
crumble into the offended earth
even droughts bathe eventually in the abundant August chubascos
even long-staring skeletons become rich abono
fertilizing the persistent pecan trees
the hope-filled shoots of chile serrano
the motivation of survivors trying to rebuild
bone by desperate bone
to rebuild
Survival Instructions: Summer, 103°
Feel yourself sizzle on the streets
Sizzle on the streets
Sashay sassy as salsa
Slip survival into sunglare like a native
Toughen up the soles
Strengthen the heart muscle
Reinforce the mind with steel and sunrise
Drink more water
Bless the air conditioner
Fry your huevos rancheros on the sidewalk
Sweep the schedule, Clear space for the wake
Hand a dollar to the homeless man on the corner
holding his bright blue windshield cleaner spraybottle
wiping circles in the empty air
hoping for a yes
some coins
a bed
Lasso the chaos of your collapsing life like a lost steer
Wrangle it with this well-worn rope
made to survive the torrid heat
the chaparral of baked dirt
the creeping cancer of years peeled to bone
Feel yourself sizzle on the streets
Sizzle on the streets
Sashay sassy as salsa
Warning
Don't smell the smoke of a brown ghost
who keeps starving white
and dying brown.
He causes mitotes like a Texan Indian
and then goes through the winter
sucking on cactus skins and searching
for overlooked mesquite beans
gone brown.
Instead he finds Spanish missionaries too
eager to adore him, and nations too
foreign to respect him, but only one
or two
mesquite beans.
Wind
Like the breath of a dying person
you fear it's gone for good
until an erratic drag on the oxygen around you
pulls more life out of what's left
That's the way it is sometimes
especially in the heat of August
and not enough air to think clearly anyway
Wind changes here like the moods of a toddler,
extreme and sudden, fierce, difficult, but always innocent,
an overwhelmingly ominous Chubasco,
that magic moment, that season in minutes
when the sky dresses in black to scare you but instead
Wind excites you, warns you, whispers shivery change
into your ear, points to clouds heavily pregnant with
drops ready to fall, to pour, to crazily conquer everything
in gleeful, unrestricted abundance, wild and without caution
on a joyride of ecstasy with a Wind you are starting to
fall in love with ...
Then, She changes. Still, but not static
Charged with potential, holding sparks of danger,
pain, power, beauty, the promise of
ice, maybe the miracle of
snow, surely the sharp comfort of
cold, a flesh-stunning contrast to the sweet-burning
fires, which also blow wind, of a different face
She doesn't stay this way
(like the saying goes, if you don't like the weather
in Texas, just wait a minute.)
Wind of spring or late fall
even midwinter and if you're lucky summer
is most often quick and sweet, rejuvenating
young and playful, pleasant, refreshing
against the persistent heat of the sun
Whipping through in laughter
She reminds us of the canyons of deep time
the adobe structures of our heritage
our kinship to the river, to the love-filled wildflowers
her cousinship to clouds, to trees, to the
air borrowed in our lungs, borrowed and recycling
constantly, life to life, origin to origin
The blowing mane of our vibrant mother
her breezes kiss this planet
with every movement
every toss of her voluptuous locks
City of Wings
(A word pantoum in centuries)
eagle floats low on the wingpath between clouds
dips on the cool cradle of the rippling river
visions resting place in the laughter of the pecan trees
children of the pecan, of roast rabbit and sacred deer, cradle
firstbabies, weave reeds together with laughter, dip gurgling water
from springs, breathe vision from the sweet wings of home
tired strangers, marching through the heat, thick brush,
weighted down with orders and papeles, steal laughter from the
schedule
vision river as aqueduct, pecan cradles as prayer wings folded
covered wagons wing in immigrants visioning land
new cradles, new lives, laughing pecan groves
settle, promise allegiance, stake out corners of wooden homes
captive warriors, eagle feathers cradled tenderly in their hands
their own wings clipped and laughter swallowed, search pecan
horizon
request deer and wildlife brought to fort, to still vision a world of
fair hunting
oppressed eyes search for safety, full stomachs, fair treatment
rock other families' cradles, wash dishes in rooms behind the
laughter
dig holes, weeds, gather pecans, vision river fiestas to survive,
sprout wings
homesick soldiers, shiny wings on chests, cradle memories of
home,
tears now touched by aroma of warm pecan laughter,
vision fiesta, passion, peace, a new flavor, romance, home
tiny train, all brightly colored, chugging children of all ages
through the pecans and over the river, cradling small cubes
of laughter, love, enchantment, visions flying like eagle, wings
stretched
creatures of rainbow plumage, papel picado colors, cultures, ideas
varied, like Texas wildflowers, seeded of different anthems, skins,
tongues
pulled to this place, draped in laughter, cradled in pecan histories,
possibilities
wings of laughter and creation spread to full span, freed to reclaim
yesterday, tomorrow, now, to read pecan-carved signs,
cradled visions together — in this city of wings
Aquí
He wanders through the crooked streets
that mimic river beds Before
and breathes the anxious air in traffic
filled with tension left from wooded crossroads in attack
He shops the Windows, happy,
where the stalking once was good
and his kitchen floor is built on bones
of venison once gently roasted.
"It's a good place for a party!" he concurs
to friends now dressed in jeans.
The ground was already beaten smooth
and festive by the joy of ancient dances.
He feels the warmth,
and doesn't know his soul is filled
with the spirit of coyotes past.
River Music
Curving into its cálido colors
mirrored against its own marbled movement
this stream has always sprung simply
smoothly from the heart of song
making soft melodies ring from the leaves
from mission bells and tender voices
of children who play here between the centuries
rippling in and out of laughter
Strong as silt, they stay unchanged
unweakened even by the years
their large dark eyes still staring, boldly
begging miracles of this green liquid gem
that washes quiet through city's soul
healing, hearing, hoping
From sunpeak's sound of rest
a moment's cool peace stolen from
Payaya-speaking trees,
to midnight's festive dance of colors
shimmers on the river singing
weaving past the barges named
María and Elena
and the paddleboats' soft splash,
glimmering through and past
its sons and daughters
grown and multicolored like its flowers, barges,
like its Christmas lights,
comes this river music,
comes this harmony
to make the spirit-breath
dance peaceful
and flow strong,
reflecting
the very rhythm
of you
Bongo Joe
See him? See him there? Middle o' downtown. Right on that spot!
I do. Sunsparkle, starlight, joylight, drumshine. It's Bongo Joe.
Drumming on everything that makes a sound
Trashcans, oilcans, barrels, cymbal pans
filling for forever this corner with this man.
Just listen to those drums sing your soul happy
Dance the river harmony to padda rappa bang
Yeah, we know he's been long dead. Maybe ten,
or twenty years, but we who heard 'im Know
See and Hear and Feel it in our bones
Clang clang, ting ling, tingalong tingding
Holding up a smile, pouring through the tough patch
Hurting, sad or worried, whistling all the while
Hope stirred by a brave and gentle King, assassination only
Caused him to sing padda rappa tap, bang bong bing
You wonder why we stop and suck joy deep into our lungs
shake our ribs until they clank, tap feet, roll hips
each time we see this samba-saturated spot
between the traffic lights and clunking, clattering crowds?
Cause we still hear him everytime we pass
We still dance the drumdance with our bones
feel the clang clang reverberate in every car that chugs along
every city bus rattling like those steel cymbal pans
a shuffle shuffle bam rhythm in every shoe that steps on by,
every March, every Move, every breath, every sigh.
Hearts pick up, turn happy to the rhythms floating high
Spot holied by the years of making hearts beat to the drum
to the steel barrel bang and the clong clong cymbal hum
making feet at work or play tap-tap-a-rap skip-step in time
Life's sounds breathe away a symphony in mime
Saturday Night Downtown Spirits samba past, joy so fine,
all lights and dance and fiesta, Bongo Joe, right there in line.
El Mercado / Farmer's Market
-¡Molcajetes!
All ready to be cured
with little grains of rice.
Velvet Pictures!
For your living room, Señora —
Just look at this magnificent tiger here, or here —
Jesús, with his crown of thorns,
Or President Kennedy
(he was so good to us Mexicanos)
Get it for your comadre - the one that's so involved
in las neighborhood meetings!
"EXCUSE ME - DO YOU HAVE SOM-BRAY-ROES?
THOSE GREAT BIG ONES, YOU KNOW?"
-¡Chiles!
Fresh, hot, (and at a good price)
¡Chile Petín! ¡Serranos! ¡Jalapeños!
¡Chile Colorado, all ground up already!
"EXCUSE ME - ARE THESE HOT?"
-It feels so hot already. It's bugging me.
My father used to call these days La Canícula, the Dog Days.
-Y La Tencha? Why isn't she here today?
Did she miss her ride?
-Oh, you didn't hear? Eeeee — what a tragedy!
Well, it's that her brother — the one that lives with her —
went to the Social Security office
so he could get paid his retirement,
and that they can't pay him, they say, because his boss
hadn't taken out anything for Social Security
after 40 years.
And that his chest is hurting him
but he doesn't want to go to the doctor
because he doesn't have the with-what, you know?
And he's still not sixty-five
for Medicare —
so he just kept quiet and took it,
and didn't complain no more
"IS IT FAR FROM HERE TO THE ALAMO?"
-And that yesterday when Tencha gets home
with that big ole mountain of paper flowers in her arms,
the ones she sells, you know, and that the gringos
like so much,
well, on getting inside the door,
loaded down with everything and not seeing what was there,
that she stumbles on the body of her brother
on the floor, and she falls on top of him
flowers and all.
And the poor guy deader'n a ...
Well! That La Tencha feels like dying of pena
que why didn't she make him go to the doctor
and pay it for him,
in little down payments or something,
like the lay-a-way at the stores, or algo,
all feelin bad, poor thing.
What a shame, hombre.
-Yeah, poor Tencha.
Listen, if you go by her house,
bring me the flowers and whatever she has to sell,
and I'll sell them for her here,
so the poor thing has for her expenses.
-Okay, Mano. And the corn and the fruit
That I don't sell today,
I'll take it to her —
After all, que tomorrow is another load.
-Yeah, tomorrow is another load.
A-ay, that's life.
-That's life.
-¡Molcajetes!
All ready to be cured
with little grains of rice.
Allí por la Calle San Luís
West Side — corn tortillas for a penny each
Made by an ancient woman
and her mother.
Cooked on the homeblack of a flat stove,
Flipped to slap the birth awake,
Wrapped by corn hands.
Toasted morning light and dancing history —
earth gives birth to corn gives birth to man
gives birth to earth.
Corn tortillas — penny each.
No tax.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from This River Here by Carmen Tafolla. Copyright © 2014 Carmen Tafolla. Excerpted by permission of Wings Press.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.
Table of Contents
Contents
I. Listen to the voices in this breeze, your ancestors, the trees the river that remembers ...,This River Here,
There've always been rattlesnakes,
Survival Instructions: Summer, 103°,
Warning,
Wind,
City of Wings,
Aquí,
River Music,
Bongo Joe,
El Mercado,
Allí Por la Calle San Luís,
Fragile Flames,
San Antonio,
Our Abuelos, the Trees,
Seeds,
Feeding You,
II. The Mestizo Molcajete's Mezcla,
Both Sides of the Border,
De Volada Insurance, faster than a flying chancla,
San Anto's Mezcla Mágica,
What to Say to Your Chicano Lover of 25 Years,
Burying the Hatchet,
Spreading My Mexican Blood,
Threshhold,
At the Table of cariño,
Woman Weaving Words,
Angelina, Anastacia & Emma: A Trialogue of Place,
III. A Site to See Deep Time,
Witte Museum Calls a Meeting of Scholars and Artists to Discuss Deep Time in South Texas,
Sitting at the Ice House,
Big Red ... and Barbacoa,
Something About the Clouds,
Mitote Spirits: Spurs Fans on the Streets,
Mission San José,
Searching for Mission San Jose,
La Llorona's Tattoo,
CounterClockwise,
Secret Laughter,
marked,
San Antonio is a Young Yanaguana Woman,
Glossary,
Acknowledgments,
About the Author,