Strangeways, Here We Come


Two Maps and A Compass
Originally uploaded by retro traveler

I. Dark Territory
Just sent my manuscript to a friend for feedback, edits and critique. I am hoping that the comments will give me new alleyways and sidestreets that I have yet to explore in the work.

II. Back to Start
I am going to be re-reading Katherine Harmon’s You Are Here: Personal Geographies and Other Maps of the Imagination. While this text definitely helped me birth at least one poem – atlas of nationalism – I think there might be some other poems in here as well. Especially when I think that the Anywhere Avenue is an actual place with dead-ends, alleyways, cul-de-sacs and at least a couple of playgrounds in it. Times like this I wish I had some serious visual artist skills so that I could lay out a real map.

III. Strange, Indeed
If you don’t get a chance to pick up Harmon’s book, you can still get yr cartography on by hitting up the (unaffiliated) strange maps blog.

IV. Diggin’ Deep
Also starting to think that I might have to explore more of the Bronx’s actual landscape history to get more material for the MS. (Yes, that is the first time in this blog I use the term MS. Cue the Golf Clap.)

V. Back in NYC
Not physically but definitely poetically as I am close to finishing up my *first ever* read of García Lorca’s Poet in New York.

VI. Still in NYC
At least when it comes to García Lorca’s eloquent definitions of the hecho poético and the lógica poética which I am interpreting as the points on the map between orature and literature, two places I seem to be stuck between. More later when I find a better compass.

Back / Caught you lookin’ for the same thing


up or down?
Originally uploaded by macwagen

December 2004 marked the debut of my first chapbook Sorta Rican. I would like to say that I put it together out of some altruistic need to contribute in some small way to American poetry, but that would be a lie. I did it purely out of a wounded ego.

Said bruising came from a college gig where I put my best possible effort into a strong 30 minute set of poetry and received a lukewarm response from an undergrad crowd. On the flip side, my co-feature took up almost 90 minutes of mic time – 25 minutes for actual verse and 65 minutes for auto-biographical background, political diatribe, college reflections, and motivational vignettes – which earned him a standing ovation from a crowd that then hurried to line up to buy his chapbooks. I decided right then and there that I would never travel without product again.

It took me about a week to layout a proper template and start printing out copies of my own DIY product which was ready just in time for my next gig where, coincidentally enough, my co-feature was also at. I didn’t keep track of who sold more chapbooks but I do know that I gave on one of my best ever performances (two thoroughly memorized and choreographed poems) and made it a point to plug the chapbook. I ended up selling like five chaps and that covered the cost of printing materials and some coffee so all was good in the world.

In retrospect, I should have put more work into the selection of the poems and heeded the saying “Less is more.” The chap came in at 44 pages, most of which was filler poems, but at the time I figured I should try to jam in every single poem in an effort to prove I was a real poet.

December 2005 is the first time I thought about putting together a poetry manuscript and I knew it was going to be tough battle. I was still writing new work, which I was more than confident to read on an open mic, but was wary of sending out for editorial review. Still I had set a goal for myself and was determined to make it happen.

The resulting manuscript, also entitled Sorta Rican, was my attempt to try to condense my experiences of being caught in between Ecuador and the U.S., living in the Bronx and NYC, being Ecuadorian but mistaken for Puerto Rican, and operating between languages (Spanish, English, Spanglish and Poetry). While a good attempt, rooted in trying to be a better poet and not just an ego project, I consider this collection as a flawed experiment that did not live up to the promise of its potential. I say this because there are only two poems from this collection that I believe to be publication worthy.

Side note: This is the first time I have ever articulated the purpose of that manuscript in words and now I have some hope that the project can be revived one day. ;-)

December 2006 was spent putting together work for my second KSW class, a creative writing workshop about place which dovetailed nicely with the project I began in my first KSW class, a group of poems centered on my 70s Bronx experiences. I didn’t think this would turn into another chapbook but it did. Having learned some lessons the hard way, I went minimal and put together 20 pages of poems and titled it after a line from a Jack Agüeros sonnet- Anywhere Avenue.

December 2007, it’s time to put together a new poetry manuscript, and I’m feeling more paralyzed. Before I was seeing a thread running through the poems but now I see it more like a house of cards, it looks really good from here but one stiff breeze and it could all come down. I figure that I should try to read more, look at other folks word, look at my old work, revisit my older poems, watch some pro-wrestling, anything to try to stay creative. It doesn’t add up to more poems but I do feel more relaxed.

January 2008 – manuscript done. It took another reading to help gel some thoughts I had in my head but it’s done. The good news is I have enough material to put together a 2nd chapbook, which I am doing right now. The order of the poems in the chap is different from their order in the manuscript but that’s cool since I know the two are totally different projects. Originally, I was gonna name the new chap Anywhere Avenue II – cuz I’m original like that – but I think it might be more fair to the new poems to give it its own name, come up with some new side streets and alleyways to this poetry map in my head. This means sitting down with the work and having it speak to me some more to get a better sense of where the poems want to go and not where I want to take the poems.

I also will be working on expanding my Whitman-esque poem to try to be its own chapbook by itself. The idea of writing an epic or even book length poem is a big bad monster but the idea of putting together a chapbook length poem seems like the right next step for my writing.

I will say one last thing, it’s gonna be fun looking back at this post when December 2008 comes along.

360 Degrees (What Goes Around)


copper pipes
Originally uploaded by bluhousworker

Let’s set the way back machine to the Bronx, circa 1982.

A SCAVENGED BUILDING REFLECTS BRONX DECAY
Published: February 22, 1982, The New York Times

“The beginning of the end for the building at 2102-04 Aqueduct Avenue East came when burglars set fire to a top-floor apartment last November, making the apartment house open grounds for building scavengers.

The scavengers ripped out anything made of copper or bronze or aluminum or lead and every fixture or appliance they could sell. They worked quickly, guaranteeing the building’s demise.

Among the things they removed were the brass railings – railings to which, as Nettie Kleppel recalled, the landlord 30 years ago would give his own extra burnish with a white handkerchief. “
Full article here

Now let’s bring it back to the here (the East Bay) and the now (this week’s news).

Recycling Turns Criminal
Published: January 23, 2008, The East Bay Express

“Industry experts and police say such criminal recycling is quickly growing to epidemic proportions. Some might picture scrap metal recyclers as environmentally conscious, politically active, and devoutly organic. But officers from theft units in the Berkeley, Oakland, and Alameda police departments say many are methamphetamine addicts who swipe reachable, removable wires, pipes, or gutters and sell them to junkyards willing to turn a blind eye. Thieves target construction sites, abandoned buildings, basements in older homes, and businesses after dark.”
Full article here


This is the city, and I am one of the citizens


Bronx_Lite
Originally uploaded by Pro-Zak

“This is the city and I am one of the citizens. Whatever interests the rest interests me” – Walt Whtiman


Walt on my mind as I work through an unexpected phase in my work where I take on the lone line and (as Barb points out) have to bring my “I” into the forefront.

Mind you, I am no Whitman scholar and have only made it through bits and pieces of “Leaves of Grass” but as an American poet I feel Whitman all around me and have heard traces of his voice in so much of the work that has brought me to my current stage of poetic development. A stage that I would not have imagined myself in a week ago but the inspiration (led on by a looming deadline) hits and then that recessive Whitman DNA gene kicked in.

Sidenote: The Whitman DNA gene reference comes from Philip Levine’s excellent introduction to Imago, Joseph O. Legaspi’s first collection of poems.

Sidenote 2: See the Projects in the accompanying photo? That’s where I grew up. Jus thought I would slip in some of that BX pride and throw another shout out to Vogelium, the same photographer whose work is on the cover of Anywhere Avenue.

from And God said “Vaya”

I should have been sound asleep, or at least pretending to be, pretending not to hear what goes on at night
Instead I was watching my ceiling change from light grey to dirty white and figuring out a name for this new color
Then I heard that familiar firecracker snap, it went inside me and wouldn’t leave, all stuck in my ears
Then I could taste a spoonful of ash in my mouth like the way you pull on that last little bit of cigarette
My body went all into shakes as if the bullet was inside me trying to get out, hitting every joint it could find
I swear the whole City must have felt it, from here to Brooklyn and back again, this one long bullet
But the night said different, the night was a calm flat lake, the night acted like it didn’t hear a thing
The City was the same way, I was hoping someone else would come out and say something

§

That question is what’s got me motivated enough to walk all over the Bronx in the dead of the night
I’m trying to figure out what happened to that bullet: Where’d it go? Stuck in some wall? Stuck in somebody?
What is it’s still up in the air waiting to drop on some fool? Some poor fool looking for God where their ain’t even a clean subway

§

I am thinking that I am in the right place, this is where that single bullet from last night is waiting to meet me
The rust is growing inside me with every breath, when I exhale it gathers up on the broken slide next to me
I used to be able to ride down on the silver back of this slide on my heels like a plane cutting through clouds
Now I’m scared of gravity, of what it’s doing to me, the way it’s bringing down my home, the way it tumbles buildings
The way it’s pulling my body closer to a dead City and farther from God, who has decided to forget about this place