El Cubo, Tijuana
.jpg)
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
10 August 2012
23 May 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 whatSuffer 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
Is right."
Animo to fight for what
Is Just."
—EDB's "From the Frontlines of SB 1070"
09 March 2012
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
.jpg)
Two Become One
Always by Your Side (After Frida Kahlo)
Fading/Desapareciendo
Sandra González and Her Beloved Nene
Always Faithful/Siempre con Fe
.jpg)
Two Become One
Always by Your Side (After Frida Kahlo)
Fading/Desapareciendo
Dreaming II (After Gustav Klimt)
Freedom from Within
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| González's Letting You Go (2009) is part of the Texas A&M University-Corpus Christi Permanent Collection |
05 February 2012
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
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
18 January 2012
"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
[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?”
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.
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?”
18 December 2011
Sergio Vásquez: The Painter and His Aura/El pintor y su aura (Tecolotlán, México/Los Angeles)
Self-portrait with Monkeys
Colonial Cholo
The Different Moods of Eddie
The Jungle of Memory
Through the Window
Like Father Like Son
Windows of the Past
José Lopes and Sergio Vásquez
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The painting, Eufemio y Emiliano Zapata, is a collaboration piece by Sergio Vásquez and José Lopes. To see more of Sergio Vásquez's work, visit Sergio Vásquez Art, facebook, or e-mail him at smonosolo10@aol.com. |
18 November 2011
Martín Camps: El espacio de los poemas/Martín Camps: The Space of Poems (Tijuana, Stockton)
Petición a la NASA para incluir en su próximo viaje al espacio a un poeta
Porque falta probar el efecto de gravedad cero en ciertas palabras.
Porque nadie ha leído “Muerte sin fin”
a todo pulmón en la noche del espacio.
Porque tengo una hipótesis:
Los sueños gravitan lentamente
como una burbuja de agua en la boca.
Porque si al ingeniero corazón de hierro
la tierra a trescientos mil kilómetros de distancia
le provoca una lágrima pequeña
como una astilla, el poeta es posible
que lo entienda todo de una vez,
la función de los hoyos negros,
la llamada de auxilio de los pulsares,
el corazón roto de una supernova,
la curvatura del espacio y la antimateria.
Porque hace falta llevar un barril de cerveza
y brindar al mutismo de Neptuno,
acariciar con la lengua el brillo del sol
y atraparlo con los dientes como una gragea.
Porque la luna es abundante
en un material precioso y no renovable: silencio.
Por eso la NASA debe enviar
en su próxima expedición a un poeta,
para que todos los demás mortales
que nos quedamos viendo las estrellas
desde nuestra calle, sepamos qué pasa allá
arriba cuando los astronautas
se meten en sus sacos,
después de un día de experimentos importantísimos,
como quien duerme bajo el agua.
Request to NASA to Include a Poet in Their Next Space Shuttle
Because it’s necessary to demonstrate the effect of zero gravity in certain words.
Because no one has read Shakespeare, out loud, in the night of space.
Because I have a theory:
Dreams gravitate slowly
as a water bubble in the mouth.
Because if to the engineer with an iron heart,
the earth at three hundred thousand kilometers of distance
provokes a tear
as little as a splinter, the poet would possibly
understand at last,
the function of black holes,
the call of help of pulsars,
the broken heart of a supernova,
the curvature of space and antimatter.
Because it is necessary to take a beer barrel
and drink to the silence of Neptune,
to caress with the tongue the sheen of the Sun
and to catch it with the teeth as a tablet.
Because the moon is abundant
in a beautiful non-renewable resource: silence.
That's why NASA must send a poet in the next journey,
so that all the rest of mortals
can continue seeing the stars from our street,
knowing what happens
up there when the astronauts
get into theirs sacks,
as if sleeping under water.
(Translation by Anthony Seidman and Traci Roberts)
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.
The History of the Astronaut Poem
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 sudden burst 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)
Porque falta probar el efecto de gravedad cero en ciertas palabras.
Porque nadie ha leído “Muerte sin fin”
a todo pulmón en la noche del espacio.
Porque tengo una hipótesis:
Los sueños gravitan lentamente
como una burbuja de agua en la boca.
Porque si al ingeniero corazón de hierro
la tierra a trescientos mil kilómetros de distancia
le provoca una lágrima pequeña
como una astilla, el poeta es posible
que lo entienda todo de una vez,
la función de los hoyos negros,
la llamada de auxilio de los pulsares,
el corazón roto de una supernova,
la curvatura del espacio y la antimateria.
Porque hace falta llevar un barril de cerveza
y brindar al mutismo de Neptuno,
acariciar con la lengua el brillo del sol
y atraparlo con los dientes como una gragea.
Porque la luna es abundante
en un material precioso y no renovable: silencio.
Por eso la NASA debe enviar
en su próxima expedición a un poeta,
para que todos los demás mortales
que nos quedamos viendo las estrellas
desde nuestra calle, sepamos qué pasa allá
arriba cuando los astronautas
se meten en sus sacos,
después de un día de experimentos importantísimos,
como quien duerme bajo el agua.
Request to NASA to Include a Poet in Their Next Space Shuttle
Because it’s necessary to demonstrate the effect of zero gravity in certain words.
Because no one has read Shakespeare, out loud, in the night of space.
Because I have a theory:
Dreams gravitate slowly
as a water bubble in the mouth.
Because if to the engineer with an iron heart,
the earth at three hundred thousand kilometers of distance
provokes a tear
as little as a splinter, the poet would possibly
understand at last,
the function of black holes,
the call of help of pulsars,
the broken heart of a supernova,
the curvature of space and antimatter.
Because it is necessary to take a beer barrel
and drink to the silence of Neptune,
to caress with the tongue the sheen of the Sun
and to catch it with the teeth as a tablet.
Because the moon is abundant
in a beautiful non-renewable resource: silence.
That's why NASA must send a poet in the next journey,
so that all the rest of mortals
can continue seeing the stars from our street,
knowing what happens
up there when the astronauts
get into theirs sacks,
as if sleeping under water.
(Translation by Anthony Seidman and Traci Roberts)
Petição à NASA para incluir em sua próxima viagem ao espaço um poeta
Porque falta provar o efeito da gravidade zero
em certas palavras.
Porque ninguém leu Carlos Drummond de Andrade
a todo pulmão na noite do espaço.
Porque tenho uma hipótese:
Os sonhos gravitam lentamente
como uma bolha de água na boca.
Porque se ao engenheiro coração de ferro
a terra a trezentos mil kilômetros de distância
lhe provoca uma lágrima pequena
como uma farpa, o poeta é possível
que o entenda tudo de uma vez,
a função dos buracos negros,
a chamada de auxílio dos pulsares,
o coração partido de uma supernova,
a curvatura do espaço e a anti-matéria.
Porque faz falta levar um barril de cerveja
e brindar ao mutismo de Neptuno,
acariciar com a língua o brilho do sol
e prendê-lo com os dentes como uma drágea.
Porque a lua é abundante
num material precioso e não renovável: silêncio.
Por isso a NASA deve mandar
em sua próxima expedição um poeta,
para que todos os demais mortais
que ficamos olhando as estrelas
desde a nossa rua, saibamos o quê acontece lá
em cima quando os astronautas
se metem em seus sacos,
depois de um dia de experimentos importantíssimos,
como quem dorme embaixo d’água.
(Translation by Shawn Stein)
Porque falta provar o efeito da gravidade zero
em certas palavras.
Porque ninguém leu Carlos Drummond de Andrade
a todo pulmão na noite do espaço.
Porque tenho uma hipótese:
Os sonhos gravitam lentamente
como uma bolha de água na boca.
Porque se ao engenheiro coração de ferro
a terra a trezentos mil kilômetros de distância
lhe provoca uma lágrima pequena
como uma farpa, o poeta é possível
que o entenda tudo de uma vez,
a função dos buracos negros,
a chamada de auxílio dos pulsares,
o coração partido de uma supernova,
a curvatura do espaço e a anti-matéria.
Porque faz falta levar um barril de cerveja
e brindar ao mutismo de Neptuno,
acariciar com a língua o brilho do sol
e prendê-lo com os dentes como uma drágea.
Porque a lua é abundante
num material precioso e não renovável: silêncio.
Por isso a NASA deve mandar
em sua próxima expedição um poeta,
para que todos os demais mortais
que ficamos olhando as estrelas
desde a nossa rua, saibamos o quê acontece lá
em cima quando os astronautas
se metem em seus sacos,
depois de um dia de experimentos importantíssimos,
como quem dorme embaixo d’água.
(Translation by Shawn Stein)
Historia del poema astronauta
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.
The History of the Astronaut Poem
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 sudden burst 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)
 |
Martín Camps y Los Tigres del Norte To learn more about Martín Camps, visit University of the Pacific. To purchase Cruces fronterizos: Hacia una narrativa del desierto, visit Libros Latinos. |
17 November 2011
America Is Burning / Life through Our Eyes (Libros Cartoneros)
A warm thank you to Olga García Echeverría, author of Falling Angels, who introduced me to Libros Cartoneros!
Olga García Echeverría reading at UCSD's Visual Arts Facility: Performance Space (Photograph by Tomás Huitzilcohúatl Lucero, April 6, 2011)
America Is Burning, a libro cartonero, was crafted by the Palomar Poets and Encuentros United members at Palomar College for our Biannual Poetic Justice.
America Is Burning, a libro cartonero, was crafted by the Palomar Poets and Encuentros United members at Palomar College for our Biannual Poetic Justice.
(Sonia's Second Libro Cartonero Project)
Upward Bound's Life through Our Eyes Libro Cartonero Summer Project (Poetry and Prose), California State University San Marcos
(Sonia's First Libro Cartonero Project)
July 29, 2011
The History of Libros Cartoneros: Eloisa Cartonero
Buenos Aires, Argentina
16 October 2011
Upcoming 2011 Fall Readings
Literatura Hispanoamericana de Estados Unidos
Participan: Sonia Gutiérrez (San Marcos, CA), Martin Camps (Tijuana- Stockton, CA), Olga García (LA), Carlos Zacarías Gómez (San Diego-Paraguay), José Hernández Díaz (LA, CA) y Gerardo Cárdenas (Chicago, IL)
Moderador: Francisco Bustos
07 September 2011
Olga García's Heteronymic Poem Reformularé a mi Padre…/I Will Reformulate My Father… (San Diego, Chihuahua)
Reformularé a mi Padre…
Por enriKetta Luissi
reformularé a mi padre a sus ochenta:
demente-cadalso demente en cadalso cadalso-demente
a nadie se culpe
le asignaré tres variables espaciales X1 X2 X3 y
X4 relativa al tiempo la mandaré al centro de un agujero negro
he allí el cerebro encogido de mi padre
he allí la espectro-scopía en jirones del cosmos
he allí la cáscara de una toronja podrida
(Fragmento del poemario, IIE)
I Will Reformulate My Father…
I will reformulate my father at eighty:
demented-scaffold demented on a scaffold scaffold-demented
let no one be blamed
I will assign three spatial variables X1 X2 X3 and
X4 relative to time I will send it to the center of a black hole
there beholds the shriveled brain of my father
there beholds the spectro-scopy in the tatters of the cosmos
there beholds the peel of a putrid grapefruit
(Excerpt from the book of poems, IIE)
Translated by Sonia Gutiérrez
THE POET
To learn more about Olga García, visit Peregrinos y sus Letras.
Upcoming Reading:
Letras en la Frontera (San Antonio, Texas)
September 22, 23, and 24
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