Daniel Ramírez Guadrón: The Oils, Pencils, Chalks and Charcoals of an Artist (Los Ángeles, California/Guadalajara, Jalisco, México/Santo Tomás, El Salvador)

  When Daniel Ramírez Guadrón is not at work as a senior character
  artist for the video game industry, his palette connects to his paternal
  and maternal roots, México and El Salvador. Ramírez Guadrón’s love for
  painting and sculpture drives him to find a balance between the digital
  and the traditional art world.
 

                                               El barril

 

                                       Esperanza

 

 

                                                 Niña Tarahumara

 

 

 

                                              Bisabuela 

 

 

 

Jorge Negrete for the Pasadena Chalk Festival

 

 

 

                                          Revolución

 

 

 

Daniel Ramírez Guadrón sculpting a mask with WED clay.

 

To learn more about Daniel Ramírez Guadrón, visit Facebook.

 





Eduardo Estala Rojas: The Magic of Distance/La magia de la distancia

      EDUARDO ESTALA ROJAS, poet, journalist, and professor, teaches

      at the University of Nottingham. His poem, "Tepoztlán," appears in

      Blanco Oro Negro, his debut 2012 publication.

 

Tepoztlán

Mi Madre

es Maga.

Siempre que le pido

un consejo

viaja a mi corazón.

 

Tepoztlán

My Mother

is a Magician.

Every time I ask her

for advice

she travels to my heart.

 

Translation by Sonia Gutiérrez

 

               Blanco Oro Negro disponible en Bubok

 

Eduardo Estalas Rojas at the University of Nottingham

 

 

To learn more about Eduardo Estala Rojas, visit his blog or find him on facebook.

 



Judith Durán: Vestígios de mujeres/Judith Durán: Vestiges of Women (Guanajuato, México)

Visual artist, Judith Durán, dedicates her symbolic dresses to all the murdered women around the world, not only in Ciudad Juárez, but also to those women in Guatemala, Iraq, Afganistan, Africa and everywhere.

 

           "About 60 women and girls have been killed in the city so far  

            this year."     

                           —Damien Cave, The New York Times (June 23, 2012)

 

           "The putrid head looked human again, with full lips, large pores

           and a massive bruise on the forehead."

                        —Karla Zabludovsky, The New York Times (October 15, 2012)

 



 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Las Artistas

Judith Durán, June Wayne (3/7/1918 - 8/23/2011), Poli Marichal, and Kay Brown (Counter-clockwise)

Photograph by Marianne Sadowski

 

 

To learn more about Judith Durán, visit facebook.





Grace Barraza-Vega: Mujer de mitos y leyendas/Woman of Myth and Legends

Contemporary Chicana artist and educator, Grace Barraza-Vega,  lives in Corpus Christi, Texas. Her roots stem in Durango, México, known for its historical buildings, cultural centers, and religious art. With strokes of bright vibrant hues, Barraza-Vega's work captures the lives of mujeres, using pre-Columbian, Mexican and Chican@ iconography.

Vida

Ixchel, Goddess of Fertility

No me amares los pies

 

 

Malinche

 

 

   La pasión de Sor Juana

 

 

Lupe "La Chola"

 

 

Barraza-Vega and Her Grandson, Julio

 



To learn more about Grace Barraza-Vega, visit her website: Lo Mío: Grace Barraza-Vega.

 

You can also find Grace Barraza-Vega via facebook.

 

Upcoming Readings/Próximas Lecturas

El Cubo, Tijuana

Galería Mariposa, Tijuana

Palomar College, ESCRITORES POR CIUDAD JUAREZ (Global)

San Diego, Califas

Hispanic Literacy Day, South Chula Vista Library Branch

When: September 15, 2012



Elena Díaz Björkquist: Woman Saguaro (Tucson, Arizona)

             "Why should I run?
              Abandon the life,
              The nicho I’d created
              For myself by returning
             To the land of my birth?"
              —EDB's "From the Frontlines of SB 1070"

 

I CALL OUT

by Elena Díaz Björkquist

 

Las Beautiful Comadres!

Linda Leatherman and Elena Díaz Björkquist from Sowing the Seeds Writers’ Group, standing strong like invincible saguaros. Díaz Björkquist holds her April 2012 Arizona Humanities Council Dan Shilling Public Humanities Scholar Award with Leatherman, recipient of the 2011 AHCDSPHS Award.

"You are another me, and I am another you."
                                                  —Mayan saying

Upcoming Sowing the Seeds Writers’ Group and YWCA Event: Mujeres Writing Conference

          
            "Remembrance: Writing Memoir"

            Date: May 26, 2012
            Place:
            YWCA

            525 N. Bonita Ave.

            Tucson, AZ 85745

            For more information, e-mail sowing@comcast.net.

Books by Elena Díaz Björkquist:

Suffer Smoke  (BANNED IN ARIZONA!)

Water from the Moon

Sowing the Seeds, una cosecha de recuerdos: Sembrando las Semillas, a Harvest

Our Spirit, Our Reality: Celebrating Our Stories

              ". . . Animo to fight for what
              Is right."
              Animo to fight for what
              Is Just."
                          —EDB's "From the Frontlines of SB 1070"

Sandra González: The Persistence of Her Memories (Texas, Pennsylvania)

    To the Loving Dedication of WOMEN—the Artist's Grandmother and the Poet's Mother (3/9/11) †  

Always Faithful/Siempre con Fe

Two Become One

Always by Your Side (After Frida Kahlo)

   Fading/Desapareciendo

   Dreaming II (After Gustav Klimt)

         

         Freedom from Within

 

 Sandra González and Her Beloved Nene

González's Letting You Go (2009) is part of the Texas A&M University-Corpus Christi Permanent Collection

   

  

To see more of Sandra González's work, visit facebook.

Sophie Carreto traduzindo para a prosperidade da poesia, narrativa, e sonhos: Uma tradução de Martín Camps (França)/Sophie Carreto traduciendo para la prosperidad de la poesía, narrativa y sueños: Una traducción de Martín Camps (Francia)/Sophie Carreto Translating for the Prosperity of Poetry, Narrative and Dreams: A Martín Camps Translation (France)

História do poema astronauta
Por MARTÍN CAMPS

Quando a revista neoyorkina de poesia The Bitter Oleander (Adelfa amarga) publicou uma tradução do meu poema “Petição à NASA para incluir em sua próxima expedição um poeta” (A tradução esteve a cargo de Anthony Seidman e Traci Roberts) num arranque de emoção decidi mandar a revista à NASA. Dizendo-lhes que seria importante enviar um poeta ao espaço para que fizesse experimentações com metáforas em gravidade mínima. Mandei-o como uma broma, imaginei que algum engenheiro com bom humor leria o poema, depois atirá-lo-ia ao lixo ou pôr sobre um aparelho cheio de tornillos. Mas não. A NASA tomou-o em sério.

Um mês depois chegou-me um envelope com o selo da NASA. Por um momento imaginei a surpresa do carteiro que pensava em quem habitaria esta casa onde recebem correspondência da NASA. Dentro do envelope estava a revista e uma carta a qual me dizia que devia preencher uns formularios para considerarem a minha proposição. Se tudo era um divertimento poético, de facto com a mesma emoção com que se escreve um poema: para ver o que se passa.

Passaram meses e na Universidade onde trabalho conheci um senhor que nasceu no vale de Califórnia (em French Camp). Os seus pais tinham trabalhado nos campos. Perguntou-me o que fazia como actividade profissional, e disse-lhe, que dava aulas e depois, fiz-lhe a mesma pergunta, à qual ele me respondeu que era astronauta. Era nada menos que José Hernández, um modelo de esforço e dedicação. Começou recolhendo fresas até chegar a orbitear a terra na Estação Espacial Internacional. Nunca se desanimou quando o recusaram do exigentíssimo programa espacial. Cada ano acrescentava uma habilidade, num ano aprendia russo, no outro ano aprendia a mergulhar, todas habilidades úteis para os astronautas. Quando o conheci, expliquei-lhe a história do poema, apresentei-lhe uma cópia e disse-lhe se o podia levar para o espaço quando fosse. Disse que sim.

Meses depois recordo-me escrever-lhe à estação espacial, através “tweeter”. E lembrava-se do poema e desejava-me sorte educando a juventude. Mandou-me também a sua foto, assinada.

Sempre me interessaram as histórias que acompanham os poemas, como encontram sua própria vida e crescimento. Acho que a criatividade humana é o que nos levou ao espaço, a imaginar possibilidades. Este episódio não é só para animar audiências em leituras de poesia, para recordar que a poesia tem sua própria vida.

Tradução por SOPHIE CARRETO

Historia del poema astronauta
Por MARTÍN CAMPS

Cuando la revista neoyorkina de poesía The Bitter Oleander (Adelfa amarga) publicó una traducción de mi poema “Petición a la NASA para incluir en su próxima expedición a un poeta” (La traducción estuvo a cargo de Anthony Seidman y Traci Roberts) en un arranque de emoción decidí mandar la revista a la NASA. Diciéndoles que sería importante mandar a un poeta al espacio para que hiciera experimentos con metáforas en gravedad mínima. Lo mandé como una broma, imaginé que algún ingeniero con buen humor leería el poema, después lo tiraría a la basura o lo pondría sobre un aparato lleno de tornillos. Pero no. La NASA lo tomó en serio.

Un mes después me llegó un sobre manila con el sello de la NASA. Por un momento me imaginé la sorpresa del cartero que pensaba en quién habitaría esa casa donde reciben correspondencia de la NASA. Adentro del sobre estaba la revista y una carta donde se me decía que debía llenar unos formularios para considerar mi propuesta. ¿Mi propuesta? Si todo era un divertimento poético hecho con la misma emoción con que se escribe un poema: para ver qué pasa.

Pasaron meses y en la Universidad donde trabajo conocí a un señor que nació en el valle de California (en French Camp). Sus padres habían trabajado en los campos. Me preguntó qué hacía, le dije que daba clases y después le pregunté lo mismo, él me dijo que era astronauta. Era nada menos que José Hernández, un modelo de esfuerzo y dedicación. Empezó recogiendo fresas hasta llegar a orbitear la tierra en la Estación Espacial Internacional. Nunca se desanimó cuando lo rechazaron del exigentísimo programa espacial. Cada año añadía una habilidad, un año aprendía ruso, otro año aprendía a bucear, todas habilidades útiles para los astronautas. Cuando lo conocí le platiqué de la historia del poema, le regalé una copia y le dije si lo podía llevar al espacio cuando fuera. Dijo que sí.

Meses después recuerdo escribirle desde “tweeter” a la estación espacial. Y se acordaba del poema y me deseaba suerte educando a las juventudes. Me mandó también su foto, firmada.

Siempre me han interesado las historias que acompañan los poemas, cómo encuentran su propia vida y crecimiento. Creo que la creatividad humana es lo que nos ha llevado al espacio, a imaginar posibilidades. Esta anécdota no es sólo para animar audiencias en lecturas de poesía sino para recordar que la poesía tiene su propia vida.

de "Martín Camps: El espacio de los poemas/Martín Camps: The Space of Poems (Tijuana, Stockton)

The History of the Astronaut Poem
By MARTÍN CAMPS

When the New Yorkian literary magazine, The Bitter Oleander, published the translation of “Petición a la NASA para incluir en su próximo viaje al espacio a un poeta” (Anthony Seidman and Traci Roberts were in charge of the translation), in a fit of emotion, I decided to send the poem to NASA. Telling them that it was important to send a poet to space to do experiments with metaphors of minimal gravity. I sent the poem as a joke. I imagined that an engineer with a good sense of humor would read the poem and then throw it in the trash or would place it on an apparatus filled with screws. But no. NASA took it seriously.

A month later a manila envelope arrived with a NASA seal. For a moment, I imagined the mailman’s surprise as he would wonder who lived in that house that received correspondence from NASA. Inside the envelope were the magazine and a letter informing me that I would have to fill out forms for my proposal to be considered. My proposal? Everything had been done for poetic entertainment—written with the same emotion as one writes a poem: to see what happens.

A few months went by, and at the university where I work I met a man who was born in the California valley (French Camp). His parents had worked in the fields. He asked me what I did. I told him that I taught and then asked him the same question. He told me he was an astronaut. He was the very José Hernández, a model of effort and dedication. He began by picking strawberries until he orbited the Earth at the International Space Station. He never became discouraged when he was rejected from the exigeant space program. Every year he added a skill, one year he would learn Russian, another year he would learn how to dive—all useful skills for astronauts. When I met him, I told him the story of the poem, I gave him a copy as a gift and I asked him if I he could take a copy to space on his next voyage. He said yes.

Months later I remember tweeting to the space station. And he remembered the poem and wished me luck with educating youth. He also sent me a signed photograph.

I have always been interested in the stories that come with writing poems, how they found their own lives and growth. The creative imagination is what has taken us to outer space—to imagine possibilities. This anecdote is not only for poetry reading audiences but to remember that poetry has its own life.

Translation by SONIA GUTIÉRREZ

           Sophie Carreto e Maia Delport                              

"On Top of a Treetop" from My Manuscript, Kissing Dreams from a Distance (A Novel)

One of My 2012 Projects—Finish the Novel!

The birth of "On Top of a Treetop" began in late December 2011 after I was mourning the loss of my USB drive, which held the latest version of Kissing Dreams from a Distance. Words I have learned I can reconjure but my mother in flesh—never. Many thanks to Zachary "Zak" Pugh, who rescued a few vignettes. I am especially greatful for Zak finding "Aurora in the Time of Dreams." ¡Gracias Zak! And many thanks to Arduizur Carli Richie-Zavaleta for reading "On Top of a Treetop." And Carolina Feria, my former Upward Bound student now attending UC Santa Barbara, who requested that I share a vignette from Kissing Dreams from a Distance with her writing class. ¡Gracias Caro! And A. Don Juan for the inspiration!

On Top of a Treetop

Whirlwinds of muffled sounds came from their chainsaws shearing at the long branches of the barren mulberry treetops. Piled on top of each other, the dry branches spread across the dirt like fallen soldiers. These were the trees and branches of well to do folk. What had looked like blazing matches surrounding the estate—long after the trees were heavy with sweet white mulberries—were now skeletons with signs of a biting winter well on its way.

For Julian’s father, el señor Cipriano, with fifteen years of tree trimming experience climbing trees required less effort than balancing himself on top of treetops. And although Cipriano believed his old chainsaw, El Chango,[1] would never fail him on the job, he warned his amateur son.

            “Cuidado con E-l C-h-a-n-g-o muchacho. Es muy traicionero. No te confíes. Un minuto piensas que estás seguro y el otro—pácatelas,”[2] Cipriano assured his son, who looked closely at the chipped paint and even closer at El Chango’s jagged teeth.

That’s what Julian needed to remember: life on top of a treetop was dangerous. And he had heard the stories his uncles shared—of falls, concussions, and broken bones that required a hospital visit or two, equivalent to thousands of dollars no family of five could ever afford.

Julian was wearing his steel toe boots—perhaps he should have worn spurs that Christmas Eve. On an outstretched mulberry’s arm, stood Julian’s meager body doing the job of his uncle Alfredo who was well in his twenties.

On top of the tree, thinking about what his hard-earned money would buy, Julian imagined the crisp dollars running through his fingers, knowing he could now afford a gift for Mariela, the girl in his history class.

After a precarious step, Julian fumbled with the chainsaw, and that’s when El Chango gnawed deep.  With the sight of white flesh exposed, Julian toppled off the mulberry tree like a lifeless rag doll falling from a tree house. His warm blood seeped into the dirt.

“¡Chacho pendejo! ¿Qué hiciste?”[3] Cipriano screamed as he rushed to his Julianito.

Ciapriano, with his fists clenched onto the steering wheel, pressed on the gas as he drove off in his 1959 Chevy Apache truck.  Fastened and asleep, his son didn’t moan nor showed signs of pain.

Bewildered, Julian woke up past the local hospital and past anywhere near home, across the border on a table, where it looked like a hospital—but was smaller and held the sounds of barking dogs.

---

[1] The Beast
[2] “Youngman careful with The Beast. He’s very backstabbing.  Never trust him. One minute you think you’re all right and then another—boom.”
[3] “Dumb kid! What did you do?”