New publishing concern Humming Bird Dreams Press launched Raul Gatica's poetry collection Broken Man (Hombre Roto) at Vancouver Public Liberry, Saturday November 14, 2015. A co-presentation Hummingbird and Spanish-language online magazine, Cencerro, the author and friends gathered to celebrate the new collection. Several speakers were on hand to sing the bi-lingual book's praises and to celebrate. Gatica, a Oaxacan political refugee and now exile, living in Vancouver since 2005, has remained a high profile activist for social justice and various causes. His activism in his native country led to 13 arrests, torture and the need to flee his homeland in fear for his life. Throughout the formal refugee process, Raul has continued to write, organize and speak out against oppression and tyranny. The poems chronicle every aspect of a doomed relationship. A jagged sense of romance and the fallout of a love betrayed are the primary features of this literary litany of the Hombre Roto (the Broken Man). Raul read selected pieces from the book and after each I read the same poem in English. A lively Q and A followed the reading. If you like your love poems bloodied and your poets bruised and battered, Broken Man will speak to you.
It's
been such a long, long time
Since we loved each other and our hearts were true
One time, for one brief day, I was the man for you
Last night I heard you talking in your sleep
Saying things you shouldn't say
Oh baby, you just might have to go to jail someday
Is there a place we can go?
Is there anybody we can see?
Maybe, it's the same for you as it is for me
I ain't seen my family in twenty years
That ain't easy to understand
They may be dead by now
I lost track of them after they lost their land
Shake it up baby twist and shout
You know what it's all about
What are you doing out there in the sun anyway?
Don't you know the sun can burn your brains right out?
My enemy crashed into the dust
Stopped dead in his tracks and he lost his lust
He was run down hard and he broke apart
He died in shame he had an iron heart
I wear dark glasses to cover my eyes
There are secrets in them I can't disguise
Come back baby if I ever hurt your feelings I apologize
Two trains running side by side
Forty miles wide, down the eastern line
You don't have to go
I just came to you because your a friend of mine
I think that when my back was turned
The whole world behind me burned
It's been awhile since we walked down that long, long aisle
We cried on that cold and frosty morn
We cried because our souls were torn
So much for tears, so much for these long and wasted years
_ _ _
For me, there is something to doing things out of posterity.
That is, documenting here (on the nebulous web) snippets of my life and my
times, simply for sake of the future. It may be important to none other than me
but in that it seems very important.
In conversation people who know me understand the importance
of music, poetry, art in general and Bob Dylan specifically. It’s merely a
perspective but I do believe that Bob Dylan is the Shakespeare of our time and
will be immortalized through his recorded work. I challenge anyone to give me
the name of someone, anyone born in the in 1560’s…Go ahead…
See?
It’s challenging to make a mark in our own time, our own
LIFE. But to have the grace to have been the creator, maker, author of so much
creative material astounds. As one who has tried his hand at poetry, prose,
music and lyric making I am simply amazed at the notion of the volume of
material coming from a single source, a single person. I think we are
conditioned to think it’s easy. Turn on the radio and you are inundated with
songs, hits, chart-toppers. But how many of these are one-hit wonders? How many
will last - how many aren’t simply frivolous articles of fashion? A 50 year recording career, a novel, a biography, at least 3 films, several books of drawings, exhibitions of his paintings all over the world, art installations and a never-ending tour beginning in 1988 that has seen him tour every year since. To say that is creative output is prolific and varied is well below understating it.
On this blog I’ve
conceded to the notions of taste and preference and I will do so again – for some,
Dylan’s voice is like fingernails on a chalkboard, but I love the sound of his
weathered and distinctive wail. However, as with Shakespeare, I believe posterity
will have the final word. Not only did people in his time appreciate the Bard’s
(Shakespeare's) work, but as time went on more and more did also. This I believe will be the
case with Bob Dylan. There will always be an audience of admirer’s of exhibitions Picasso’s
paintings and drawings. In any given city there will always several productions
of Shakespeare’s dramatic work under way. And I believe there will always be an
audience of listeners and musicians to appreciate Dylan’s songs and recording artists continuing to include their versions of his songs on their records. Sure, a person
can have a hit. Some have several. Some have greatest hits packages one and
two. But no recording artist of our time is as universally covered as Bob
Dylan. This means that among his fellow craftsmen and women he is more revered
than anybody. Imitation is the purest form of flattery it’s been said. The
people who write and record songs themselves consistently dip into the well
created by Dylan. I won’t delve into the cultural significance of the artist here
because I believe that to be of less import than his truest legacy - an immense
body of songs of depth and power.
So it was that last October I waffled though I knew Uncle
Bob was playing 3 consecutive nights in Seattle WA., a 3 hour’s drive across
the border and south. Could my finances bear it? Who could go with me on such
short notice? Were tickets yet available? And now several months later I am
so glad I seized upon what may be the last chance I’ll have to see him in
concert though I said the same thing in Oct 2001, when the lights went down at
the start of his show then, when he was a sprite 61 years old.
I am including his performance and the lyrics to Lost and Wasted Years from TEMPEST, his
most recent album of original songs. It’s a wonderful thing that in his 70's he is
still composing original songs of startling lyrical intensity and still traversing the
world modestly to perform night after night like an old bluesman, like a troubadour.
What else was Bob Dylan put here on earth to do? And unlike Shakespeare or Picasso, I got to be in the same room with Bob Dylan several times over the years as he did his thing. There'll never be the likes of him again.
On the way home from the movies the other night I asked my bro if he was up for going down to the water to drop tobacco and pray. We had learned earlier in the evening of the passing of Rose Point and decided to go see a light-hearted fillem to perhaps take our minds off the news. He agreed to stop by his place allowing me to fetch the medicine I had stashed there and we proceeded to make our way to the ocean-side despite the late hour and persistent rain. It felt important to pray and make modest ceremony to honor the late and beloved elder. A tireless advocate for educating our people in all ways you could think of (not merely the formal education one may think of first). At the prayer/memorial Thursday evening down in Musqueam it became apparent how formidable she was and how easy it may have been to underestimate this tiny bundle of beautiful energy. As was frequently mentioned, Rose was EVERYWHERE. Every event for every conceivable reason, political or artistic, and everything in between, she was always there and as anyone who knows what a hike it was just get out of Musqueam, a certain type of determination was implicit in everything Rose did.
I carry my own special experience because I lived next door to the elder at Musqueam reserve for a couple years (renting a room from her son) and was able to spend many hours with her in her home. She learned how to cook Chinese food in a class and was proud of this skill and it did not take much convincing to get her to whip us up some good vittles, it was a source of well-earned pride. It just never occurred to me coming out to the coast, me, - a plains Cree man being served gourmet Chinese dishes from this sweet little old Coast Salish Lady. But I will cherish most our long talks about her life. Ours was a very easy-going and informal relationship and I dare-say I was given special insight into some of her most intimate and profound personal views. Our exchange was of a sort that this week, though I went down to Musqueam to pay respects and support the family, I find myself glad for Rose because she knew some things and someone were waiting for her in the next part of the journey. I will miss her but I cannot think of loss, or any connotations of that sort. I am simply in a place of gratitude because she worked so hard, touched so many and I got to know her a little bit. If each of us did a fraction of what Rose did in her lifetime, what a world it would be. What a world it is to be able to experience such people.
The 4th International Indigenous Leadership Gathering (June 21-24) went down this weekend and it was amazing. Overseen by the St’át’imc Chiefs’ Council in their un-ceded territory (at Lillooet, BC) and once again fronted by Darrell Bob, it was once again proved that a powerful, grand-scale, traditional event can come off beautifully if people take ownership of their intentions and actions. I attended for the second the year in a row to camp, take part in ceremony and hear the words of (mainly indigenous) leaders and speakers from all parts of the globe. Each day saw speakers from all over the world address the crowd on various global and local issues that affect not only indigenous but all people and the earth - the "first mother". Great speakers, some of them, and you'd have trouble sitting still when so stirred by meaningful words - truly medicine for the heart and mind. The St’át’imc people hosted but everyone attending pitched in to work the kitchen, serve and clean up the 3 meals a day that were provided for all attendees at no cost to anyone…It was touching at the closing ceremony when Mr. Bob commented: if anyone went hungry, then I failed at my job…of course no one went hungry and you are left with admiration and honor for the commitment displayed by the St’át’imc people to get the word out and make people feel welcome and like family, they are skillful but sincere – very, very accomplished people. One simply had to be at any one the gatherings to fully appreciate what an undertaking it is to host and feed a few thousand people from all over the world. Keep in mind the logistics involved regarding space to for everyone camp, clean water, family safety and enough food for everyone. There were sweats, prayer vigils and drum circles constant drum circles everywhere, a few scruffy hippies, a few dippy new-agers (always will be when Indians are involved) but all-in-all mainly everyone’s heart was in the right place.
I brought out my hand drum during the closing gratitude ceremony to drum alongside, Peruvian, Nigerian and Asian drummers…a buzz! As with any outdoor event the weather was a factor and after nearly freezing my schnitzel off last year, I was better prepared and this year the main concern was rain. Mostly the weather was fair with inter-mitten rain but Saturday night a mighty rain storm appeared in the south valley, the direction the weather arrives from and you could this was going to be a doozy. At dusk the ominous dark and swirling clouds appeared and you could see sheets of rain looming. In mere minutes, swollen drops turned into torrential rain chasing most into tents, trailers or whatever cover they could secure (for me it was into the safety of my buddies’ Honda). As I sat in the vehicle listening to the rain pelting the car and watching as it fell almost sideways outside I was struck by the fact that the drum group made mainly of boys from East Van did not surrender to the weather. In fact, the drum group and a few dozen die-hards remained steadfast in their determination to celebrate the drum…and life. They danced, though drenched to the bone, and the drummers paused long enough between songs to drink some water and soothe their throats for a minute or two only to pound away once more at songs which repeated verse after verse giving dancers songs to live by. This is special shout out to the drummers and singers (some ladies, too) of East Van and the rain-dancers who exemplified the spirit of what the event seems to be about.
Years ago, in a poetry workshop at UBC an established and esteemed Canadian writer (won’t say which one) questioned the wisdom behind my writing practice when I told her and my classmates I seldom saved copies of any of my poems up to that point. People in the room seemed incredulous (disbelieving). “Well, what on earth do you do with them?” - one of them interrogated.
“I put them in letters.”
“Letters?”
“Yes.”
“You don’t keep a copy for yourself?”
“Maybe some of them do, but I don’t.”
“Don’t you want to publish any of them?”
“Only one person, anywhere has that poem - doesn't that make it special?”
You could see wheels turning as the writer remarked, rather dismissively, “well, if you published any of them then at least you’d get to do things like come here and read for you guys.” I couldn’t argue with that rationale but it also occurs to me that in all truth I can’t remember any of that woman’s poetry, a Governor General’s Award winner, mind you, indicating that somebody, somewhere must like her work. I’ve always said that one man’s junk is another man’s treasure – which more or less means that you can’t account for taste and this includes areas such as that routinely referred to as art. But I've also asked: is it memorable?...will I or anyone else remember it? I can think of only 2 authors whose poetry I can read for an hour or longer in one sitting - e.e. cummings and Al Purdy - NOBODY else (not even my own stuff, haha!)...and I love poetry. Some collections of poetry? you need only open and turn to a page, any page and read a stanza or selection then turn to any other random page and read and you will think you are reading the same poem. Leaf through it and it is like reading the same poem over and over again - one...long...poem. One doesn't seem distinguishable from any other. Many are called, but few are chosen, haha!
Entertainment is a different beast in my mind. I won’t get into providing examples of expression I feel are art and those which are entertainment, cause some…are both. At any rate, I listened to a fantastic interview with Maurice Sendak, author of Where the Wild Things Are. The writer remarked - “my gods are Herman Melville, Emily Dickinson and Mozart,” and I have long felt and said the same thing. The writers (though not always necessarily what might be considered the “great” writers) told and taught me most about what it meant...to be alive. As a passed-around Indian kid I never experienced an adult or elder figure who shared with me or provided me with context or background about the world I inhabited. It was only through literature (with a Big L), certainly not comic books, or children’s television or movies that I found the insight that would resonate with what I call my soul. It is not an exaggeration to say the great and lesser writers were more a mother, father or grandparent to me than any actual living human being until I was well into in my twenties (and people wonder why I'm such a strange guy haha!). But I also feel, about writing, and the words which have spoken to me and still exist to speak to me long, long after they were written – I believe in them with all my heart, for they have, as much as anything, changed me. These things are true. So, for me, to write is not an entertainment or a past time or a hobby - it is a compulsion. It is something I must do. If once, even twice in a life a writer can summon, then put down, words with any kind of depth he can go beyond entertaining, he can touch people and he can move them, and he can make them think and he can thereby enlighten them.
For the first time on my blog I am including work by other artists.
Lorraine (I called her Lou) was 19, I was 23 or 24 or so when we knew each other at Lake Louise and worked together in an ancient, rustic, wooden hotel, high in the Rocky mountains in the early nineties. In our off-hours, she and I were in the habit of reading to each other until the one being read to fell asleep. There was a lot of napping going on up there and I’m sure it had nothing to do with how much pot was being used. Either way, I was given this poem during our time together and I kept it and it is very dear to me. I don’t claim it to be about or inspired by me - I don't wish to convince you of it's literary merits or impact - it is just something beautiful for me and I have held onto the words. Thanks Lou
I See You
You are my window to the world
Brush your finger upon my cheek
a touch that be so daisy petal soft
Our souls entwined, we conquer all mightier
sail the un-sailable seas
Unsure as a new born, my eyes remain closed
Life’s golden hand at love
an attempt to caress the sweetness
only to feel the rose’s prick
The blood trickles to drop free
you’ve pierced my naïve heart
To laugh and dance upon my remains
still,
as I breathe your sweet breath
I lay with no heart
only to see you
continue your journey in another’s hand
- Lorraine F.
Finally, I am posting this poem by Storm (my daughter) who was 7 when she composed this and it just may be my favorite poem…period. Pardon me if I don’t mistake this for evidence of possession of not only an abstract thought process, but an elegant one…
My Special Place
I have a special place
It is quiet as a snake
It is quiet as snow falling
It is so quiet I can hear the sound of wind going by
It is so quiet I can hear the butterflies flying by me
I have a special place -
it is a lake and lots of other things
- Storm Standing-On-The-Road
Like Maurice Sendak said: art has always been my salvation.
..."if only one good memory is left in our hearts - I will meet you there" - (from my poemMAGPIE)
…Was recently in Ottawa and unable to attend the funeral of the late Neskie Manuel whom I had come know a little over the past couple years. Neskie is the son of Secwepemc (Shuswap) activist Art Manuel and grandson of late indigenous rights activist, George Manuel and nephew of the late healer and writer, Vera Manuel. Anyone not familiar with these names should brush up on their Indian history and become aware of the relentless commitment this family has demonstrated to their community, their nation and to all indigenous people - all Indians (at least in the land referred to as Canada) owe a debt of gratitude to these people.
It would be inaccurate to say Neskie and I were close friends, but as mentioned, I did spend some time with him the last couple years having visited his reserve and the surrounding area dozens of times. We took a road trip together to Prince George early last year and he stayed with me at my apartment in the city during his involvement at a conference there. Neskie was one of those people I don’t think you could help but like. He was young (30), handsome, soft-spoken, bright-minded, dignified and exemplified in every real way the attributes of leadership that seem naturally to descend upon certain people and who seem to inhabit this aura effortlessly. But like others in his family, Neskie’s understood role as a leader wasn’t assumed by birthright and lineage to other activists, it was actively demonstrated day in day out. Neskie was, among other things, an elected councilor for Neskonlith Band, a tireless advocate for preservation of the Secwepemc language, an open source computer guy (which means NOT using Microsoft or other corporate software or operating systems), a mobile radio broadcaster (a so-called pirate radio operator after oppression by the CRTC), a filmmaker who seemed to have natural skills at all communications technology - a helicopter mechanic, for pete’s sake! (this tutelage begun during his service in the Navy as a “younger” man!). It’s a little hard to comprehend how much experience some people seem to be able to cram into a day, a year…a life. I dug Neskie’s sense of humor and had to laugh when following a couple hours I did on-air on his radio set-up, I asked if he had listened to my program (I wanted his approval, you see), to which he responded, dryly – "ummm…yes…I did get to experience your witty banter". It cracked me up and I think we were pals.
I recall when, within 2 minutes of being introduced to his mother, I was seated at her kitchen table early one Sunday, eating pancakes with a bunch of the Manuels as though they had known me for years. Days later I was to be present at a birthday party for one of Neskie’s nieces and watched how generous and unabashedly affectionate the family was toward each other from top to bottom. For a person like me, being there (a frequent theme of this blog) was a gift and I was touched when, before we ate, Neskie offered a blessing and said a few words in the Secwepemc language. Those I admire most (of any background) all seem to share and exhibit in an almost imperceptibly subtle way the same type of unassuming humility, selflessness and generosity of spirit. In the company of people like this you feel safe and somehow…important.
I cannot speak or know of the torments, passions or forces which lured Neskie away from beside a campfire at a traditional family campsite in the back country (early in the AM on Mother’s Day this year) and then delivered him to the nearby river where he was found downstream some weeks later after an exhaustive search. Nor is it my intention to speak of loss or unrealized aspirations, for Neskie surely experienced and gave far more in his brief 30 years than many are able to in a much longer lifetime.
Perhaps the best thing I can say is that sometimes you wish only for a little more time with some people and maybe that I am somehow…changed…and better for briefly knowing Neskie and his people.
Film Screening: Aakideh Saturday, April 16, 1 pm & Tuesday, April 26, 7 pm ‘Aakideh’ is an Ojibwe word meaning brave or brave-hearted. Artist Carl Beam earned a reputation for being fearless, visionary and ultimately, unforgettable. From his early years growing up on Manitoulin Island to his turbulent years spent at a residential school, this documentary explores how these early experiences not only impacted Beam’s life but also his art. Location: Museum of Anthropology, Screening time: 65 minutes.
Only in a world this cool could a Cree guy (me), on Coast Salish territory (Vancouver) visit the Museum of Anthropology to learn about the life and work of an Ojibway/Anishnabe (Carl Beam) artist from a Mohawk man (Greg Hill). In a world where many people (it seems) prefer to think of Indian art (and indeed, Indians) as relics, artifacts or something belonging to the past, last night was the perfect example of how a person and their work can transcend time and space. This in my mind is one of the things good art is supposed to do. Carl Beam’s vibrant display of painting, collaged images and text, not to mention his work in other mediums including architecture, installation, pottery, broadcasting and curriculum development and the places he studied and lived the and choices he made, all seem to depict a LIFE that IS art. And though the artist has now passed from this world his work continues to resonate and speak for itself which is another item of criteria that I think validates it. His work is also a clear example of culture that is alive and vibrant and is completely appropriate in a contemporary context. But the work and many of the things Carl Beam did outside of the studio or art gallery deeply reflect his roots and values (which is key) as an Anishnabe person. Only an Anishnabe person could have created this work and only Carl Beam could have created it in this fashion - it is completely original and you will experience nothing like it any other place or at any other time. Dig it while you can.
the 20th Annual Missing Woman’s March (in East Vancouver) is many things to many people; a call for justice, a call for peace, a time to reflect or to grieve or a fleeting moment to pray that no other mother, daughter, sister, niece, aunty ever become one taken as so many have been before. I go simply to honor the ones lost and to support their families with my presence. At the end of the day I believe that each other are all we have. I feel that relatives and people I never met have prayed for me in the same way that I pray for the ones to come after me. It is a deeply held conviction that gets stronger with me as I get older. Time and experience shows there is little consolation or comfort to be found in institutions or society (such as it is) in general. If I, as a native person, cannot be counted on to provide (at a minimum) moral support, how can I expect anything from anyone else? One need only remember how last year the city of Vancouver pressured organizers of the march to postpone the event until after the Olympic party was over. It may have seemed to be something of a downer for all those more keyed on having a good time. Fortunately, the people who knew better did better and the march took place on Valentine’s Day just as it will this year. In my mind, the power in ceremony is derived from the presence and common purpose of those in attendance…it is about being there. Down here, everybody knows everybody it seems and identifying yourself as a member of a community needs to be exemplified in some active fashion. Politics and rhetoric will always find a platform at the periphery of these things but the love and spirit of the people who have lost someone to an angry and insatiable culture can’t be diminished. If nothing else, today’s march may simply be a call for grace…
is like remembering
that with Indians, it is all one:
Velvet rain falling over lush Peace Hills back home -
Old man stone glowing in fire
at Beetle Omeasoo’s sweatlodge at Ermineskin -
Hundreds of black wings beating in the great nation that is the sky
each night high above Coastal Salish ground -
Or…your gentle voice heard in woods at Qu’appelle
photo of larry by j-ro
editing a friend's poetry manuscript and helping another with their work it occurred to me that this poem might shed some light on MY theory and process (in particular), it is simply the way i see and do it...proceed at your own interest...
poetry is NOT for everybuddy...one of my favorite crushes, one of the ten most beautiful people in the world informed me she wouldn't even finish reading one of my poems that she came across...this is not to focus on her (i mean it’s clear she loves my body…but i want her to love my mind - i’m an artist after all) but to indicate how adamant people can be or how adverse to verse some people are...but why should this be? - many theories out there but i tend to think the reasons are mainly these:
a) people tend to think of poetry ONLY as that Shakespearean sonnet they made you memorize while holding a gun to your head back in high school...it was traumatic, you know it was AND you never did figure out what the hell was meant before and after the words: tomorrow, tomorrow and tomorrow...
b) the only poetry you've read since high school was by that ditzy, hippy-chick or the whacked out dude so spaced on the chronic that you thought everything they said was poetry (cause you were a little whack-y AND ditzy yerself back then)...until much later you realized they were committing to paper every pointless, free associative, incoherent pile of syllabic word-turds you ever read but it also occurs to you much later how badly you wanted to get in their pants or how bad they wanted in yours, so much so that even the words "fuck off and die!" seemed to resonate with insight (at last - someone really gets me!), seemed razor-sharp with clarity of purpose and breadth of vision and…romance, even (whoah...think i love him/her).
So people have either read the most difficult and challenging poetry in the English language (the dreaded Elizabethan iambic pentameter) OR the shit that literally means nothing…at any rate had you the chance to read a cross selection of contemporary poetry (that is, poetry written in your time, which typically is free-verse or not in a specific structure on the page) there isn't a doubt in my mind that you would eventually find work by someone that does in fact speak to you, resonates with you and has you come to appreciate what can often be the profound power and beauty of language (more about this topic in future posts)...
for now, it would appear that i must be changing, growing or getting weak in the head because i'm doing something i NEVER do...which is – ANALYZE A POEM...of my own... this one called: Seeing You For The First Time...(located at the top of this post)
using the first line as the title is a device that goes back centuries...couldn't possibly remember where I first saw it, though i know Shakespeare did do this often with his numbered sonnets as did ee cummings, bill bissett, al purdy and many, many other poem-makers have also done this through the ages and i rather like to do this at times when the opening line results in a sense of intrigue or contemplation in the reader...i try to find (use/write) something specific but also it is working if there’s a chance the reader believes they could actually contribute the next line...admittedly, though, writing this first section of explanation reminds me that the first line of THIS particular poem became the title only AFTER most of the rest had been composed...so, the use of this device didn't become apparent to me to until later in the process but it's an example of what i call a happy accident...this might seem to imply that ALL or ANY poem or poetry could simply use as it's title the first line of the poem but this is not the case…
back to the poem…I’ll come clean, now…this one was inspired by (surprise, surprise)…a girl!...i had the opening line (which became the title)…then, very simply…I compared that meeting to 4 different and beautiful things:
1. rainfall
2. rocks in a fire
3. birds flying
4. the woman’s voice
...and that’s all there was to it...more or less...
…seeing you is like rainfall, rocks in a fire, bird’s flying and your voice…
we learned in early grade school what the words “like” or “as” do to a sentence…it takes a phrase from being understood literally and then makes it a figure of speech (a metaphor)…so, seeing her wasn’t actually or in fact (literally) all those things, it was LIKE all those things, this idea goes a long, long way in language…if you say: seeing you IS nice…seeing you is good - these sentiments may be true but they are bland, mundane and hearing them a thousand times will mean much less the thousandth time you hear it…and haven’t we heard “nice” or “happy” used thousands of times by the time we become adults?...nice and good are for babies and puppies…
the craft of writing involves your choice of words and arrangement of them, the specifics that will spur the imagination of the reader - it's in the details...this is where it can be way, way overdone or one uses descriptions heard a million times (but you know what? people love that...ask Hallmark), OR the poem can become something fresh, not said in quite the same way before, evocative of so much OR it may simply sound lyrical to the point where speech and music seem to meld...ALL these things are possible at this stage if you care enough (or if you care little about what you make) - - in this poem, alongside the 4 items, i have also included four specific Indian PLACES; peace hills, ermineskin, coast salish ground and qu’appelle…NOT ALL readers will be aware of all the references but I’m betting the good reader will make those connections without having heard of one or all of the geographical places referred to in the piece…
i confess, i can’t say precisely what: with indians it is all one, means, but i don't need to…i did want to convey the idea that…indians…know…what do they know?...this question in my mind propels the poem, elevates it, transports the reader’s mind, implies so much, opens the piece so that any reader of any background will intuitively define this phrase for themselves…this, in my mind is where god came in, the synaptic exchange, the happy accident, where the rubber met the road, where the exposition became art…
It then occurred to me that indians are only here today BECAUSE WE REMEMBER, we exist the way we do because of the way we keep our histories’ alive…with our voices, through orality, through externalizing memory (in other words, talking - and now, through writing, even blogging, very subversive if you ask me, you may disagree but go ahead,…you’re allowed)…so it also felt intuitive to place the idea of memory or remembering SOMEWHERE in the piece…
This all could be summed up by saying: first seeing her reminded me of these beautiful things – but i wanted her to fall in love in with me, i wanted to inspire the reader to look at objects of their own desire in a way they never had before…it was and remains a tall order but it’s what you want to do every time out…you want to somehow change the universe for someone (sometimes it’s just yourself) with your ideas because it was done for you, to you by others before you and it’s a safe bet that these experiences/exchanges will continue long after my time…you want the words you choose to be vivid and strong and say a lot with a lot of power but often times it is (what you don’t say or) what you say by implication that has the most power.
SO…how much of this, in the end, applies to what i wrote that day?...all of it.
How much of this occurred to me WHILE i wrote it?...none of it.
and I think I can see you –
I can see those brown eyes half on their way to heaven
I look with sight more honest
than my eyes deliver
I listen to you, to your songs
(some unchanged in a thousand years)
with something more true
than my ears can hear
Walk with me awhile
with something more real
than the touch of my hand upon your shoulder
Here, together
there is no more turning away
there is no more tearing ourselves in two
If there is any comfort here for you
know that I too am sick with my experience
I marvel at the strange rivers we have crossed
rivers on whose far banks lie forests
where men, women and children are lost
we seek shelter
and someone with that look in their eye
though our hearts may have grown weary
and just a little shy
In another life
I may have brought bridled horses and game –
for you, for your family
and spoken of good things between us and Nations
For a night or two
I might have stayed outside your lodges
with those horses, and waited
sleeping only after you and yours had done so first
perhaps I carried a powerful bundle or shield –
carried them for everyone
Yet today,
we are here, together
Though there may still be an aching sadness –
for those ones crossed over –
they are not gone – they do not sleep
but have awakened from the dream of life
(as spirits live forever)
It is we who stumble
through these stormy visions
chasing phantoms and madness
Must we still decay and wither
and fall each day with our fear, shame and grief? –
our days before this
little more than cold hopes?
Then pray…and believe
The Oldest One remains
Many will change and pass
but there is a light that forever shines
and while Earth’s shadows fly
our hearts will be opened wide
And when I fall –
when I am caught down deep, beyond all reach
I will keep you safe with me, like a warm wind
like a sweet waterfall
When I close my eyes I see you –
you are walking on a bridge
glancing over the mysterious water
there is still a trace of fear
but I can also see that you know
there is something better
yes, you know there are things better
than to live in dark water
And after all this,
when some gentle night descends
when there is, at last, stillness
when you are no longer alone at sea
but close to my heart
I will look to the West
to see a great and glorious red sky – an eternal sky
I will whisper things sacred
like…hear me
like…remember
like…your name,
and I will wonder
if you too can see that same red sky
New publishing concern Humming Bird Dreams Press launched Raul Gatica's poetry collection Broken Man (Hombre Roto) at Vancouver Public Liberry, Saturday November 14, 2015. A co-presentation Hummingbird and Spanish-language online magazine, Cencerro, the author and friends gathered to celebrate the new collection. Several speakers were on hand to sing the bi-lingual book's praises and to celebrate. Gatica, a Oaxacan political refugee and now exile, living in Vancouver since 2005, has remained a high profile activist for social justice and various causes. His activism in his native country led to 13 arrests, torture and the need to flee his homeland in fear for his life. Throughout the formal refugee process, Raul has continued to write, organize and speak out against oppression and tyranny.
