The following poem was translated from Zarpamos, a selection of poems by the Oaxacan poet Guadalupe Ángela, translated from Spanish into English by Yael Kiken. This is the first time this poems has been translated into English. Rights have been secured to publish this translation.
English Translation [We were several women]
We were several women who had built vessels out of leather to heed the call.
The fortress was arranged in a spiral and that day they opened the entrance for us.
We began to enter the water. Some pedaled, others used sails, propellers, paddles, others had gathered so much strength that they were blowing.
We were going towards the center where waiting for us was the bird who would hand down the word which belonged to each one of us.
We were in a hurry; we had lost the scent of land.
Some preferred drowning before arrival. We knew the word would burn our clothing but still, we did not want to waste any more time.
We would have to take the word gingerly between our palms even though its texture would change us.
We’d left behind all those who we had helped, believing we were their caregivers.
Even though I knew of some who, after receiving the word, could no longer maintain balance and became so dizzy they vomited.
It was not easy because before giving us the word with its beak, a man with a wheel sharpened it and sparks flew as we heard a sound that tickled.
By now I was close. The bird observed from its tower how I anchored my raft and ascended the first rungs. The word in its beak looked like a yellow flower and it came to me.
Original [Éramos varias mujeres]
Éramos varias mujeres quienes habíamos construido las naves de cuero para acudir al llamado.
.La fortificación .se había dispuesto en espiral .y ese día nos abrieron .la entrada.
.Comenzamos a entrar al agua .algunas pedaleaban, otras .llevaban velas, hélices, remos, .otras tenían tanta fuerza .acumulada que soplaban.
Íbamos hacia el centro donde nos esperaba el ave que nos daría la palabra que nos pertenecía a cada una.
..Teníamos prisa, ..habíamos perdido ..el olfato hacía la tierra.
.Algunas prefirieron ahogarse .antes de llegar .sabíamos que la palabra .nos quemaría la ropa, .pero aun así, no deseábamos .desperdiciar más tiempo,
..Habría que tomar ..con delicadeza ..la palabra entre las manos ..aunque nos alterara ..su textura.
Habíamos dejado atrás a todos aquellos a quienes habíamos asistido creyéndonos enfermeras.
Aunque supe de algunas que , después de recibir la palabra no podían mantener el equilibrio y mareaban hasta el vómito.
No era facil porque antes de darnos la palabra con su pico, un hombre con una rueda la afilaba y salían chispas mientras oíamos un sonido que cosquilleaba.
Ya estaba cerca El ave observo Desde su torre Como anclaba Mi balsa y subia yo Los primeros peldaños La palabra en su pico Parecía flor amarilla Y venia.
author of poem: Guadalupe Ángela (1969-2020) was a prolific writer and beloved teacher from Oaxaca, Mexico. Her work is part of the anthologies Tres ventanas a la literatura oaxaqueña actual (2005), Oaxaca: Siete poetas (2006), and Anuario de poesía. Her work is anthologized in Zarpamos, which has been translated into Italian and German. Ángela was an integral part of the robust literary community in Oaxaca, organizing frequent readings and workshops.
translator of poem into English: Yael Kiken is a professor and poetry translator who has studied literatureat the University of Michigan and Georgetown University and has taught writing in a wide range of settings, including DC and Michigan correctional facilities, DCPS elementary schools, and international classrooms in Honduras and Oaxaca. She currently teaches writing at Howard University and lives in Washington, D.C.
A recipe passed down from her Mama when she was twenty-four and hungry.
Some kind of tomatoes, whatever noodles you can find, and any cheese you have around.
That mac and cheese fed us all when pantry shelves were bare— when empty pockets echoed louder than the rumbles in our stomachs.
Prayer answered—
testament to mouths finally fed
History
I. Stories tell us we’re invincible; history reminds us all we’re not.
II. My people— mountain people— work stories into this clay and weave our memory into this hazy Appalachian horizon.
III. The onion roots my granddaddy plants each and every season; the muddied boots he’d wear, day after day working that field—this is what history will remember about people like him.
IV. Remember us all for the songs we sing—all string, all spirit; remember us all for everything we’ve given; everything we’ve yet to give.
Twenty-Nine, And Still I. Twenty-eight years spent living as ghost-child, turned teen, turning phantom-limb—longing for alignment, for all my nerve-endings live-wiring themselves to something greater than the sum of all my hollowed parts.
II. Twenty-nine, and still haunted—still shrugging off past selves. The old, scratchy, worn winter coats never fitting just right, just barely keeping that frost-bitten bitterness outside my cold, clumsy reach.
III. And I’m still waiting, witness to all versions this serendipitous soul holds to its horizon. But I am getting tired.
IV. There’s only so much hallelujah left in this softening marrow.
Brittany Morgan is a poet and writer who earned her BA in English with a concentration in Creative Writing from Longwood University in 2020, and her MFA in Creative Writing from West Virginia Wesleyan College in 2023. She is also a poetry editor for Heartwood Literary Magazine and is currently at work on several writing projects.
An impressive murder of crows does not make national headlines nor does the murder of young Tai Black, trans, beautiful in an alley just down Lafayette
above a brick church locked during the day neighbor ravens decry the slaying perched on rusty lampposts calmly blanketing in excrement vehicles of good people praying inside
Who will emerge from the sermon to wash the feet of trees that shelter ravens? their sinewy tendons weave into uneven concrete like floating tendrils of the dead nurse’s locks she wanted heal the sick
but the dead do not rise only the dirty sidewalk and discerning corvids at dawn
Brigittine French is a writer and teacher who divides her time between Baltimore and Iowa City. She is author of three books (UArizona Press 2010; Routledge 2018; Rutgers U Press 2020) and her work has appeared in Welter, Ms.com, Salon.com, and Lyrical Iowa.
In a sideboard shuttered away, I find it. Shake it. let it fill my palm— this brown surface smooth and firm. Who held it, carried it to this shore? I shake it, beads rattle, as I stand hoping to hear voices— Ayiti— voices lilting from a land I long to know (whispers, secrets) to know how I am moored to them. And who placed this gourd in the chest of a drafty dining room on Cape Cod beneath old books, recipes for this home, a bed and breakfast listed once in The Green Book? O Gourd— abandoned, buried in mahogany wood— chest of darker shade, I wait —trusting I can live somewhere in between yearning, to settle, at last, in one skin—here Ayiti— Ayiti— Ayiti… people from Senegal, Guinea, Sierra Leone, Angola, songs, once distant, now one I shake it, search for what has been inside and now is summoned summoned in sound.
The Collector To M. Clement Denizé, grandfather
In the one photograph I have you sit composed, staring calmly into a camera lens, looking almost almost as though you would or could speak.
A handlebar moustache frames your face— from your black jacket, black bow tie, white shirt you were, perhaps, a government “official”? And I surmise— how would you see me — half Haitian, half American.
I’m a collector of remains of remains locked in stillness, dreams, lost stories thriving in silence. Collector of vanishing days, nights, gathering salt and sounds vibrations on the eardrum, moving over one membrane, thin as parchment or the skin of a drum.
Frozen as a clock that never moves your gaze and smile— leave me seeking wondering what happened before silver before sugar before slaves before rum before you, grandfather, find your way to a lane that leads to the lycée where your body is found, a bullet behind the ear. Did your wife feel absence before someone shut your eyes. Did she feel life beneath this life.
Now I sit with only a photo, feel your presence in absence. And, I suspect, no one but me — your legacy— will remember. So, was it luck—me finding this— your face where all that’s left of you epicenter of story, is one solitary image…
What’s left I will collect.
Touch For Marie Elliott I. Seventy years of remnants. In a sideboard with tarnished silver, place mats, recipes of desserts and meats torn from newspapers. Memories. I find the small book, its pages, frayed and yellowed, where handwritten notes, lists— catch me off guard— ailments, treatments, equipment needed—everything how to, when to, where to: nasal feeding, gastric aspiration, vaginal exam, evening operations. How to report to the head nurse, or attending physician. How to clean, discharge patients who to call, where to send tests how to … The little book, its front and back cover lost, has history, purpose: do no harm. A log not about machines, but hands showing how much care a body needs to heal, a spirit to rest. Not machines— hands on something, on someone.
II. when segregation is law
The nurse buys the three-story house at auction— when segregation is law— and the State Department of Health calls asks the nurse to take just one elderly, black and then calls again, to say If you have one patient, will you take two? and so on, until the house is full, is doing well, so well, (her family on one floor, patients on another) the nurse hires a cook, extra help. But after the office learns social security checks still go out, after the office sees payments, payments for aging, vulnerable weak-bodied blacks—are too big, after all is well, a woman in the office of health calls the nurse, says What are you doing? We send them there to die, and you keep them living? A nurse—after all— knows to care for the unwanted, knows do not deny life. Keep folks living— do more more than do no harm. I stand still, hold it like a book of prayer— I did not know. This small book, its notes, treatments, procedures again gives life. Solace opens, roots me in place. Notes, handwritten, show how to heal, grow old how to touch and touch another.
VISITING MIMMI, EYES ON THE SPARROW
95 years old and blind by then Mimmi, my grandmother’s mother, was in a nursing home when we’d visit her. We’d announce ourselves as we entered the room. Our ritual never differed. Mimmi would repeat our names, as if to assure herself or us that she could see us, know us, still, or perhaps it was relief she’d not been forgotten among strangers. However it was, she’d give the same greeting, “Is that my Marie?” and gram would answer, “Yes, it’s Marie, William, and Donna, here.” And Mimmi’s reply, familiar, “Oh, I knew you’d come; let me touch your face so I can see you.” Reverently, one by one, we’d each move forward like churchgoers going for blessings. She’d place her hands on each forehead, then open her fingers like fans, and run gently downward, caressing each cheek. When she’d reached a chin, she would begin to sing, “His Eye is on the Sparrow,” her favorite hymn. When done, we’d sit and tell her how every family member was doing, but never who died, I surmise, because we didn’t want to sadden her, remind her that she too was close, closer to death, didn’t want to remind her of that. (Such a short time for visits). And we did not want to call to memory ancestors who’d passed on unnamed, unknown. In our last visit before Mimmi passed, gram said, “Don’t tell her Mr. Riggs, (her second husband) had passed last week.” I promise to say nothing. I can be trusted, though only ten.
We entered her room in the home. Mimmi was seated on the side of her bed, calm, focused. She’d heard us before we announced ourselves, and said, Is that my Marie? Gram answered, Yes, it’s Marie, William, and Donna. We’re here. She asked for her ritual of touching faces, but did not sing this time:You know, Fred died a few days ago, and he visited me last night. We went up into the clouds and we danced and danced. I had such a good time. He asked me if I’d like to go with him, and I said no, but next time, I think I’ll go because we had such a good time.
I looked at my grandmother’s face. It said, be silent, as though Mimmi had said nothing supernatural, strange. One by one, gram told Mimmi about the family, never saying who else had died. When it was time, time to leave, Mimmie sang out joyfully, “His Eye is on the Sparrow.” She died the next week. We never mentioned our last visit. We simply cleaned out her apartment. And these, the only remnants of love I recall, not the place or space.
bike, wind, canal flow
(Back then wedid notknow what we did. not know).
Cape Cod. Me, a girl of nine or ten, tomgirl. Cape Cod not Cap Haitian— tomgirl roving the land, riding the bike to the beach the store the pier.
That girl half-Cape, half Haitian stands on the pier staring in waters below. Under the pier, grey and wood-worn, a hen, ducklings in tow, glides past pilings covered by barnacles, ashen white. Gathering minnows winding in and out of seaweed— wispy, green filaments that rise and fall with waves. Dull-eyed gulls stare into air. Girl hair: two kinky braids tight with Dixie Peach.
Here, no steely blue eyes peer in. The ride against only wind the glimpse only water’s brisk flow.
Pass lobster pots, ropes, weathered ropes ashen and braided, frayed and green green with seaweed and salt. Traps rest on rocks— single, and alone—traps out of water, out of place. Peddle past rocks, seagulls, lonesome cries. Raw North winds press against brown skin, skin so thin a girl might rise, rise up, out of body a fledging flailing, wildly flailing.
What did I know of Toussaint, Wampanoags, wars on these shores, Paul Cuffee, Cape Verde, or Portugal? (Back then wedid notknow what we did . not know). I know salt water, lilacs, grapes, wild berries. Senses— spirit craving Spirit. Back then—only single alone the bike the wind canal’s brisk flow.
Donna Denizé is Haitian American. Her poems appear in “Gargoyle,” “Provincetown Arts,” “Innisfree Journal of Poetry,” and a new anthology entitled From the Belly: Poets Respond to Gertrude Stein’s Tender Buttons Volume II (Food). Her essays appear in Sonnets of the American, The Folger Guides to Teaching Hamlet // Macbeth // Romeo and Juliet // Othello and English Journal. She has a Master of Arts from Howard University, and a Master of Fine Arts from Pacific University.
Big sky, how you fill with hope mid-ocean mid-prairie, mid-uplands. Mountain tops recall ferocious winds worthy of note.
They sing the one note in the roof rack, the one whistled tree downed in clover leaf overpass last tumbles of median debris on shoulders.
At sunset, grey, wind jammed clouds yellow at the furthur edge distant speckles called to the wall of day’s end. An amassed scramble of cumulus conflagrate at the horizon.
The earth’s mechanic makes adjustments seals hope in the breathless rush that tomorrow will break whisked again – fresh.
Dreams of Lyra Glockenspiel Dream #070
Lyra Glockenspiel wears an ankle length white peignoir that sways in the breeze of the rooftop patio. She is also taking pictures of herself from a chair as she tosses her long hair off her shoulder.
A large mirror stands next to the chair. The mirror reflects Lyra as she was when she was thirteen.
Her reflection steps out of the mirror and takes flight.
The young Lyra gently slips into the sky and sails over the town, the airport, the river to the hills filled with wild horses. She laughs. She smiles as she rides one of the horses. She sees blood on her gown. Her face breaks into a wide grin.
Dream #071
Lyra’s skin tightens over her small boned frame tightens in the spring sun that bloats the field/ meadow of buttercups who whisper off melodies in soft breezes that bloat/swell her heart.
In the small of her slender back, as she gravitates/ turns into high noon, she warms in dark places on the run of herself. This is a dream she reminds herself, a dream from my adolescence. The acorn colored horse wades the rippling yellow flowers up to her quilt. The horse drops his head to nuzzle into the umbrella of Lyra’s breath. He nudges her cheek.
She rises/swings onto his warm back. The horse trots as she straddles until trespassing the dark wood where the fresh branch tips rove softly at her passing. The woods break at the canyon’s edge where her body dissolves into the horse. From within her arms stretch out through the hide becoming wings/racks of feather stacked into the shafts of air rising from the canyon’s deep. Lyra and the horse lift in the draft. Weightless, she awakes.
Dream #701
The Widow Lyra Glockenspiel,
Bathed in Debussy, scrubbed in Ducoudray, showered by dreams. The short mallet strikes. Feathers in my uniform cap and hers at the back of the marching band. Flags flutter.
A flatbed trailer float before; Legion of Veterans behind, “y’er left……y’er left….. y’er left, right, left” up the hill into the sun. Solo we dance the light beams. My right arm around her waist. Her gold tassels shimmy. Her notes sparkle in the outdoor cafe.
Magic wands bright the end of the bar, a flashing model of La Tour Eiffel. She nuzzles into my side. She chortles, the Widow Layra Glockenspiel.
Forever rattling on the cob stones, pushcarts of flowers.
Dream #710
TV Show: Community Auditions Star of the day, who will it be? The ice cream truck speakers shake with the TV show jingle. Lyra Glockenspiel’s balcony curtains sway. Two dogs chomp the edges of a four by seven foot Foamcore check for $20,000.00. The TV crew, a dozen dancers and a rotund suited man with black lacquered hair mill the front yard licking orange popsicles.
A whipped cream wind pulls Lyra behind the Rose of Sharon bush. The Mexican dress dances to: Star of the day, who will it be?
Lyra Glockenspiel becomes the Rose of Sharon opening with the sun closing with the moon.
Craig Edward Flaherty; Grandfather trained at Andover, Everett High, Boston University and Eden Seminary. Lifelong church musician. Published poet in all the joys of discovery.
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