My Buffalo Anniversary

I arrived in Buffalo, April 1st, 2008.  All my years abroad I never imagined coming back here to live nor did I expect to stay.  I arrived that day, spotting a pile of blackened snow in a parking lot and asking what it was.  A few months have turned into longer.   An astrologer  told me it was "essential for my soul's growth" to experience this past in a different way.  My first question was, but do I have to stay here?  But I have, at least for awhile.

The poem is still in draft form so don't be too critical!

                             Love this Place

Am I to love this place,

no bridges arch

over a glittering city.

No gargoyles keep watch.

To love this place

where steel mills lay fallow,

hunks of metal shade

gutted homes.

Past the Michigan Avenue

Baptist Church,

my mother and father

enter home on their wedding day,

She dreams of white

And thresholds

 to be carried across.

Love this place,

drip drop of ice

slides off eaves,  

like so many promises.

Modern Love

Have you ever read the column in the Sunday Times in the styles section called Modern Love?  I'm addicted to it, allowing myself to read it only after I finish the front page section and the Week in Review.  There I can find out about the woman who goes all the way to China to meet the man she's been in e-mail contact with, only to find out he's already in a relationship.  Then there's the mother in India who steers her daughter's marriage towards a man from the same village so she won't lose contact with her. 
   So here's the start of mine. 
    The cigar smoking owner of the florist shop convinced me.  "I've got them in the case.  I'll give you a deal."  That was how I ended up with a dozen long stem roses, far more flamboyant than the usual wild flowers or irises that grace my apartment. 
    These red roses on my dining room table carry the weight of blood, death, and the heart.  I visualize them directly entering my heart like so many thornless arrows.  In the twenty plus years I lived in Barcelona, on the day of San Jordi (Saint George, the patron saint of the region) I received a single red rose with a sheaf of wheat, the traditional gift for a woman.  The man received a book which always struck me as the better deal. But carrying the rose as I walked home from work, I felt loved.
     So this is the beginning- to be continued...

    And now directly to an end in line with the very impermanence of life itself:

Cut Your Losses

When I lost you

I lost entire cities,

ancient civilizations,

the crack of shard and bones.

I lost a language

taken for dreamspeak,

pillow fight love words.

I lost the shape

of a peninsula,

your indentation

on the mattress.

Fingers held apart,

filtering the world

in morning light.

   

Haiku

For those not on FB- like I said, it's the best I can do.  Do wish it were better but here it is.  Was debating Pluto instead of Hades for a more astrological touch.

The white clad workers
wash down rods and reactors
see Hades full face.

Turning a Blind Eye

How do you measure risk?  You assume the unthinkable will never happen. My young coworker suffered a mini stroke caused by taking the pill.  What is the probability of that happening?  Do you go ahead and assume that will never happen? 

What about nucleur energy? We've been complacent about it since the last accident. Japan. The earthquake that releases a tsunami that causes a nucleur disaster.  That in the ring of fire on a fault line in a country that lived through Nagasaki and Hiroshima.  But the decisions made were to fuel a highly developed country with little resources.  Renewable resources? 

The instructions given to cope with the disaster are so simple.  Sea Water to cool the reactor.  Leave.  Close the windows.  Clean off your shoes.  Take iodine.   We haven't evolved to the level of our technology.

What's left for us to do?  Prayer?  I had a poem about Chernobyl that was published years ago but lost in all the moves I've made.

A Personal Apocalypse

Candles, crosses,

the low hum of chants

stand between us

and the void.

With death so near

how to breathe?

Step off the sidewalk

into a barreling truck,

drive off a bridge,

or wait for an angel

trumpeting the rapture

that levitates

 the right

to safety.

I stand sinking

in desert sands,

sun  stratches

across my eyelids

till I slide back

into blackness.

  

Tsunamis and what we live that's life threatening

Can you imagine what it would be like to see a wall of water coming towards you?  Or perhaps you don't even have time to react before it swallows you up.  In the movie, "The Last Wave", water was the Aboriginal prophesy of the end.
    What was the most life threatening situation you have ever been in?  Thankfully, nothing as extreme in my life (so far) and most have been of my own making-none of the horrors of the revolts of nature.  Most recently I was swimming in Florida when a fisherman on shore said, "You'd best get out of the water now.  There's a shark."  I moved as if in slow motion to reach the shore. 
    When I was younger and far less mortal (in my mind) there were many incidents.  On a beach at night at Pie de la Cuesta, Mexico armed men tried to hold us up.  The memory I have is still of men pointing shiny guns, blending into the night.  Then there was the time I jumped off a moving train near Brindisi, Italy. 
    Most foolishly was my year spent in Medellin, Colombia in the mid 80's at the height of the drug violence.  There I ducked under a table in a restaurant as a shootout was taking place, saw a man shot on a street corner, and found the windows blown out of the lobby of my apartment building.  And tanks riding up the street while I was sitting at a cafe. Towards the end of my yearlong teaching stint, I was worried I wouldn't get out.
     Youth brings some freedom from fear.  But it's a lot to sacrifice if something goes wrong.  Take Rachel Corrie with all her bravery, facing the Israeli tanks.  And take Christopher McCandless (Into the Wild)dying when he was so close to a highway. 

The Buddhists Say

The Buddhists say
death never jilts you

at the altar,
or finds you

hunched over an e-mail
in eternal wait.

My friend,
tried and true forever,
the black dog nipping
at my heels,
the ever present guest.

We climb Everest,
float down in mists,
drive the empty roads
of West Texas,
speeding past buzzards
perched on posts.
Why not?

 I am never alone.

                                                   

International Women's Day

100th anniversary today!  Improvements yes, but still so very far to go!  Here in the US women are now (as one feminist writer) expected to be "hot".  Does that explain the extreme high heels?  Growing up in the feminist era, I never wore shoes I couldn't run away in.  Perhaps young women feel no need to run but there is evidence to the contrary.
     In my work life I have taught female students in burkas, those coming to class with a keeper, and women whose husbands don't allow them to work. 100 more years to go?

Birthright

Past knots and tendons,

I look

through bone

and see,

in centuries past-

my face shrivel

in flames rising higher.

The point of a sword

slashes my belly

Today, head to toe in black,

I barely breathe,

walk the required

steps behind.

The open hand

of my husband

reddens my cheek.

In  India, China girls

form the Greek chorus,

and chant,

Never born,

Never born.

  

Solidarity

Solidarity.  It's a word I first became aware of with Lech Walesa and his union movement in Poland.  An electrician and union activist, he went on to challenge the Soviet block and win the Nobel Prize as well as become president.  Solidarity is what brought together all the nurses, teachers, firemen, and public workers to protest the Wisconsin governor's plan to cut their collective bargaining rights.  And it's what brought about protests around the country in their support.
    It's not what African oil workers are experiencing in Libya as they are scapegoated by the Gaddafi government and the anti-government protesters alike. 
    And on a less dramatic note, it's not what I found in my workplace as a couple of teachers pressured admin to change classes around at my expense.  How far are you willing to go for your self interests?  At the expense of others?  I discovered sadly that is the enviornment I work in. 
     And spring is almost, the key word is almost, here.  I just received some pictures of one of my favorite places, the Priorat in its moment of glory with almond trees in bloom.  When I lived in Spain, I walked in the groves of pink and white flowers and believed there was a god or goddess, a divinity that brought such beauty.

Almond Spring

For just 2 weeks

of the year,

mid-March,

or earlier now,

with just the precise

rise of degree,

one tree sends

the message,

passing from grove

to grove.

I burst into flower.

Blossoms, white and pink

scatter below

and float high above.

The black of my trunk,

dances beneath.

Molecules of heavy scent

honey sweet,

draw bees and bugs and birds

through me.

Savannah, slaves, and refugees

Savannah is such a beautiful city- the public squares shaded by oaks draped with the Spanish moss I'd always heard about but never seen, the river that gives so much architecture and character, and the bounties of good climate and delicious food. 
    I visited the house of Juliette Gordon Low mostly out of the curiosity to see a Southern mansion.  Daisy, as she was called, was talented in the Victorian arts as women were in those days.  She was able to paint, sculpt, and write.  Of course she is best known for being the founder of the girl scouts and was even buried in its uniform. 
     A tour of the house showed us the dumb waiter and the space that formerly housed the kitchen but there was no mention of those who kept the household running smoothly.  Were they slaves?   How often were they mentioned in the many letters the Low family wrote to each other? 
      Has slavery always existed?  The Romans had slaves as did the Arabians and the Africans.  There have been and still are, jobs that are just one step from slavery.  And what about modern day sexual slavery? 
       So I will read "A Mercy" by Toni Morrison which gives a voice to those voices missing from history.  And I recommend "Purge" by Sofi Oksanen which tells the story of an Estonian woman, a victim of sex trafficking, who escapes from her captors.
      A brighter, more generous aspect of America is its openness in accepting refugees regardless of their level of education and helping them resettle in the US.  Congress is threatening to cut this program.  Please consider contacting your senators to keep this  program that has contributed so much to this land of immigrants, alive.
https://secure2.convio.net/uscri/site/Advocacy?cmd=display&page=UserAction&id=265
Thank you!
   

Post V Day

Even though I'm not in a relationship (of the typical couple type) I had one of the nicest Valentine's Days (or VD Day as a friend calls it) ever.  Virtual flowers arrived from my cousin whose husband just escaped from potentially scary health problems.  There were e-mails and FB greetings and at work totally unplanned by me,  there were chocolates and more chocolates and even brownies. Amazing how quickly students from 14+ different countries adapt to the customs of America.

 
    Rewind back to a different take on romance - from my chapbook.

Aftermath of Love

The waters of Lethe

sprinkle my eyelids

with  a sweet poison.

I sleep and sleep

through this daily dream.

Awaken,

naked, shivering

on a rock,

in the sea,

Waves pounding.

Delaware Park

Today I'm home from work- still struggling with a root canal months later.  Nostalgia- here is a memoir piece that was published but I can't remember where. 


Delaware Park, Buffalo
The most significant and massive intrusion onto Omsted's design occurred about 1960, when an expressway was extended across the park, separating it into two sections and bringing the roar of traffic into the heart of the park. As a part of the construction, significant portions of the park lake were filled. The lake, long suffering from upstream pollution, became little more than an open sewer, and retained little of its Olmsted shoreline. 1989-2007 Stanton M. Broderick

           
With each step around Delaware Lake, I feel their presence.  With the ground squishy with moisture, as I walk, my uncle’s face appears.   Like when I was a child back from a day out, he asks me what I have seen.  “A rabbit?  A fox?’  And as if such things were possible in the city, I vigorously shake my head.   Crossing a grove of trees I relive all the trips to the hospital for chemo, my mother clutching a plastic container she vomits into.  Five years of pain see me through high school and give me the possibility of escape. 

            Yet I can recover great pleasure too.  I find my first love again, Daniel, who resembled a Rafael painting of Jesus.  We lay on a rooftop or under a blanket on the living room floor for hours pulsating to the universe.  His scent acrid like a farmhand’s remains.

Each moist step forgives and brings back the past.  My father worked at Dunlop Tire and Rubber. Asbestos filled his lungs leaving him on mood altering steroids and an asthma inhaler.  The delicacy of his peeling my fruit, mending my clothes, and finishing my home ec projects contrasted sharply with the bouts of rage that erupted from nowhere and found me shaking in silence. 

            This city provided a frame to my existence, the years when I was so shy as to be unable to speak.  The heritage of an immigrant past meant you were taught not to stand out, since such pride could lead to a trip to Siberia.  On my return I find the remains of that person who had no way to construct the boundaries needed just to survive.  I could flow into the rivulets that empty into the lake, a motionless expanse of water. 

            The memory resides in my blood, in my Latvian family heritage.  The Balts inhabited their white winter landscape and the endless sunlight of summer.  This verge of spring fills each cell with longing. 

            Across the street, I gravitate to the anonymity of the local university library, doubting I can still pass for a student.  The clock chimes the quarter hours as definitively as the local cathedral in the Spanish town I inhabited for so many years.  The chimes mark my inability to focus.  Another fifteen minutes and my mind is still racing, facing the blank page in front of me.    From the window, the grey sky is the color of a Paris winter where buildings and air meld together. 

            The old me, who I thought I’d squelched so long ago resurfaces.  In my dream I am lying in bed.  The doctor comes to visit but turns out to be my French dentist.  He examines me and tells me the problem is my heart.  I walk outside to find giant snowflakes filling the night sky. Can I return to this place and recover my heart?

Democracy- personal

      I woke up today with the concept of democracy on the brain. Here it's been the excuse used for deposing both despots and legitimately elected governments.That's why it's so exciting to see a popular movement in action. No surprise that Tunisia had a quick transition to a new government.  Even in Roman times it was the area of North Africa that was most open to outside influences.  What happens in Egypt remains to be seen and determined by decisions made in the US.
     I thought of my own experiences dealing with my own idea of democracy. In my class I sometimes ask the students to vote on which activity they'd prefer- a reading or grammar (it's an exam prep class so neither option is much fun).  When they're disappointed in the result, I tell them, well, you didn't vote or you didn't share the majority opinion; that's how a democracy works.  Usually they sit in shock for a few minutes.
   Years ago I was on strike from a school in Barcelona.  The strike lasted about 4 months and every decision was made by consensus- each of the 40 or so of us gave our opinion about what the next step would be.  After that glorious experience of solidarity I thought I'd never be able to deal with a top down decision making process again.
   Fast forward a few years to the school of modern languages at Barcelona University. Decisions were made by consensus but it was a consensus fueled by the most vocal.  Much of the time it seemed more of a hassle to argue a position than to just let it pass.  Inclusive or exclusive?  Who controls?  How important is your opinion?  Are you represented?  Those are the most basic questions to ask.

Gray day alert

We're long into January with no signs of winter letting up!  The Lake is almost completely frozen- I follow this information as if I were a meterologist or an ice fisherman.  It's important because once this simple phenomenon happens, there is a promise of sun!  No more lake effect snows, at least not from Lake Erie. 
   Monday the snow reminded me of walking on squeaky sand on the beach at Perdido Key and the sun (first appearance and last in days ) made me think of the line "glittering salt diamonds".  So here's the post of the poem, Formentera, which will be appearing in "Barcelona Ink".  Formentera is a small island in the Mediterranean near Ibizza, but nothing like Ibizza.

Formentera

The slow walk

to the cemetery of strangers,

car doors slam

onto private pain.

The ageless old dressed

like little black dolls

their full skirts

swirl in the burning sun.

Good Friday church bells

compete with Guantanamera

sung off key.

Tourists, weathered sailors,

a preponderance of children

inhabit the new money mad

don't stop till every inch is sold realm,

but still bound sheep

hobble over stone fences

fig trees grow horizontal and

goats strive for the

tender top leaves.

By the sea,

salt flats lie shallow,

leave behind

glittering salt diamonds

on white sand.

Barcelona Ink

I'm so pleased 2 of my poems- Formentera and Immigration will appear in February.  I feel like I'm in great company.  Great news in the middle of a long cold winter slog.

http://www.barcelonaink.com/

How do I leave comments on a blog?

How do I leave comments on a blog?

The Latvian Ladies

Last weekend I went to a lovely wedding but there was just one problem (una pega we'd say in Spanish): the groom has a possibly life threatening illness.  Only the Latvians can (as my sister says) mix love and death.  Or perhaps there is always the shadow of death behind us or hovering just in front.  Anyway, that brings me to my poem which was written about my uncle.  He was a tall scarecrow skinny man who played round after round of solitaire and made his own cigarettes with a plastic machine.  Here's to Antons:

The Latvian Ladies   

           

                       

The Latvian ladies

fry up liver, body warm

from the butchered pig

its stink of singed hair

still hangs

over the kitchen

and they chatter.

He won’t last

til the carrots are brought in.

My uncle, thin,

fades in their eyes.

The ground hard,

not yet frozen

yields bitter greens and

small forgotten potatoes.

My uncle’s body worn out,

to be shed as easily

as the fallen leaves,

dry and brittle underfoot.

Jet lag week 1

I left Spain one week ago and now am back in the pure white abstract landscape of Buffalo, NY.  Why did you come back? More than one person asked me and as I was looking out of my ice covered windows, I myself wondered why.  This is my third winter back after twenty years in Spain and by far, the hardest.
This is the quintessential American rust belt city, or even American city per say.  That means a city drained of what makes a European city so attractive- people out on the streets at all hours and public spaces to walk to and enjoy. 

The Lake

Something in me

loves a bus.

Starting at birth.

my father brought me home

in early November snow

on a bus.

There was Marilyn, circa 1956

all Bus Stop glamour,

and in Cleveland,

the sleek Greyhound sign,

recalls Edward Hopper

and the dusty 1930’s.

 “You have a blessed day”

the new goodbye as I board

wondering how to do just that.

Ashtabula, Erie, Buffalo

and all points east,

their vowels satisfy.

Something in America

so hates the city,

it bleeds out

 a slow death

 of the  light

and sound

and life

of this lake.