Edward Vidaurre’s writings have appeared or are forthcoming in The New York Times Magazine, The Texas Observer, Grist, Poet Lore, The Acentos Review, Poetrybay, Voices de la Luna, and other journals and anthologies. Vidaurre has been a judge for submissions for the Houston Poetry Festival, editor for the Rio Grande Valley International Poetry Festival anthology Boundless 2020, and editor of Cutthroat, a journal of the arts. He is the author of seven collections of poetry, and is the 2018-2019 City of McAllen, Texas Poet Laureate. He is a four-time Pushcart Prize-nominated poet and publisher of FlowerSong Press, and its sister imprint Juventud Press. Vidaurre is from Boyle Heights, California and now resides in McAllen, Texas with his wife and daughter.

MEMORIAL


for  Woody  McGriff, dancer
1957-94

The blood-dimmed tide is loosed....
-- W.B. Yeats

​
An obsidian wing glanced my shoulder
Amid the languid trance of cicadas
Seething in the midday heat.

It fluttered like an errant leaf
And summoned the splendor of your dance,
Flight frozen like a Rodin bronze,
Fixed by a flash of incorruptible light.

But the heavy tide drew you under,
The once supple leaps reduced
To a lumber toward a distant sea.

Steven Sanchez is the author of Phantom Tongue (Sundress Publications, 2018), chosen by Mark Doty for the Rochelle Ratner Memorial Award. He is a CantoMundo Fellow, Lambda Literary Fellow, and the inaugural winner of the Federico García Lorca Poetry Prize for an emerging Latinx poet. His poems have appeared in Agni, American Poetry Review, The Missouri Review, North American Review, Poet Lore, and elsewhere. ​

​The Canción Cannibal Cabaret, a collection of poem songs and prose poems set in a post-apocalyptic future, tells the story of the revolutionary leader “La Madre Valiente” who aims to incite future revolutionaries to join in intersectional feminism and activism. After an environmental apocalypse, a refugee raised under an oppressive state, La Madre Valiente studies secretly to become the leader of a feminist revolution. Her emissaries, Black Bards and Red Heralds, roam the land reciting her story, educating, and enlisting allies in revolution. This is the premise of my punk musical.

…….
​
Questioning authority is at the heart of my work. Ultimately, The Canción Cannibal Cabaret constitutes the synthesis of much of my past work. It combines activism, politics, writing, music, performance, costumes, visual arts, and POC aesthetics. It also claims a rightful space in academia as the work of an educated woman of color. What this book cannot capture on paper is expressed in live performance. As Denzin explains, “We should treat performances as a complementary form of research publication.” Like Cynthia Cruz, I am skeptical of the literary world’s new, self-interested embrace of political poetry. As so many grapple with the question of how to move forward in the shadow of a presidency at war with the weakest, least able, and most marginalized among us, I also agree with her assessment that, “The solution is a drastic reimagining.” So suggests La Madre.

​                                     I eat the cries of the dead.
     I am a hunter               a huntress of men.
Some people think me a monster.
For others, fantasies of vengeance I foster.
​
                                    I am Diana the huntress.
We are Diana the huntress.

                                     I wear the moon on my head.
I am a hunter               a huntress of men, born in the barrio in a mass grave threatening to those holding chains to enslave

                                    I am Diana the huntress.
We are Diana the huntress.

                              Hello, from the gutters of Juárez.
Hello, from the slums of Mumbai.
Hello, from the brothels of Thailand. Hello, from sweat shops in LA.
You will know my name. You will know my name.

                                    Hello, Malala assassins.
Hello, Boko Haram.
Hello, from my Pussy Riot.
Hello, from my Gulabi Gang.

You will know my name. You will know my name.

                                  My hounds are free and unfed.
I am a hunter                 a huntress of men. My Wild Hunt’s broken loose— ghost riders crunching bones beneath their boots.

                                    I am Diana the huntress.
We are Diana the huntress.

                                                  Join me all you who have bled.
Become a hunter            a huntress of men.
Fight corruption.      Protect the powerless.
Left with no recourse, unleash your huntress.

                                     You are Diana the huntress.
Become Diana the huntress.

                                     Hello, from the classrooms of Yemen.
Hello, from Radical Monarchs.
Hello, my Arming Sisters. Hello, Hijas de Violencia.

They will know your names. They will know your names.

                                   Hello, auto-defensas.
Hello, Nevin Yildirim.
Hello, my Ovarian Psycos. Hello, to my Red Brigade.
                                                  And they will know your names.
They will know our names.
They will know my name. They will know my name.       
justice frozen in our crosshairs--

​Amalia Leticia Ortiz is a Tejana actor, writer, and activist who appeared on three seasons of “Russell Simmons Presents Def Poetry” on HBO, and has toured colleges and universities as a solo artist and with performance-poetry troupes Diva Diction, The Chicano Messengers of Spoken Word, and the Def Poetry College Tour. The first of many other awards, her debut book of poetry, Rant. Chant. Chisme (Wings Press), won the 2015 Poetry Discovery Prize from the Writers’ League of Texas Book Awards and was selected by NBC Latino as one of the “10 Great Latino Books of 2015.”
The Canción Cannibal Cabaret is due for release July 27, 2019, in San Antonio, Texas. For more information and to purchase copies of the book, contact Aztlan Libre Press at: 
​editors@aztlanlibrepress.com and aztlanlibrepress.com.

​Violeta es la mañana
sin preámbulos

se filtra la luz
en las grietas

se escurre el delirio
en los pétalos

saetas de color rompen
la superficie que tocan

tiñe aurora los recuerdos
polícroma melodía

violeta fue la luz
se desvanece

con la brisa
ráfaga de fuego

tiempo violeta
delinea la partida

tic-tac, tic-tac
tic-tac, tic-tac

​Without Preamble

Violet is the morning
without preamble

light filtering
through crevasses

delirium sliding
down petals

colored arrows broaching
the surfaces they touch

polychrome melody
tinting memories dawn

violet was the light
it dissipates

with the breeze
bursts of flame

violet time
delineates the departure

tick-tock, tick-tock
tick-tock, tick-tock


Refulgente oleaje

Nacarada luz 
golpeas la intimidad
perforas la soledad.

Se arrastran luminosos rayos
en los pisos de piedra
canto lunar.

Inhalo el opalescente aroma
y descubro las manos
que fijan las letras.

Las sílabas intersecan
con los recuerdos
refulgente oleaje.

En el horizonte
la rutina invade
las páginas.

Las cadenas se abren.
Una lluvia de tinta
inunda el papel.

Glistening Waves

Pearly light
you strike privacy
puncture solitude.

Luminous rays crawl
across stone floors
lunar chorus.

I inhale opalescent aromas
and discover the hands
that deploy the alphabet.

Syllables intersect
with memories
glistening waves.

On the horizon
routine invades
the pages.

Chains open.
A shower of ink
inundates the paper.


Es la lluvia saturada de perlas

Sólo es la lluvia 
que perfora el mar.

Voz de fuego.

Llevo enredado
un collar de perlas

traídas de donde
nace el trueno.

Voz de agua.

Los tatuajes engañan
seducen las páginas.

Iguanas de oscura tinta
zurcidas en el papel.

Voz dolorosa.

El viento ulula llanto
es la lluvia saturada de perlas.

​It is Rain Saturated with Pearls

Only the rain
pierces the sea.

Voice of fire.

I wear twisted
a necklace of pearls

obtained from where
the thunder is born.

Voice of water.

Tattoos deceive
pages seduce.

Iguanas of dark ink
mended on the page.

Dolorous voice.

The wind howls sobs
it is rain saturated with pearls.


Cenizas

Entierro las manos en el barro.
Guarda mi esencia.
El agua me rodea.

Isla de palabras sembrada de luz
donde las sílabas brotan.
Dadora de versos.

Ritmos luminosos en la montaña
sombras lunares dan vida
a mi silueta en esta isla.

Aquí enterré mi corazón.
Ulula, viento, espárceme.
Cenizas lunares renacen.

Ashes

I bury my hands in mud.
It preserves my essence.
Water surrounds me.

Island of words sown with light
where syllables sprout.
Giver of verses.

Luminous rhythms on the mountain
lunar shadows give life
to my silhouette on this island.

Here I buried my heart.
Howl, wind, scatter me.
Lunar ashes are reborn.

​Xánath Caraza es viajera, educadora, poeta y narradora. Enseña en la Universidad de Missouri-Kansas City. Escribe para Seattle Escribe, La Bloga, Smithsonian Latino Center y Revista Literaria Monolito. Es Writer-in-Residence en Westchester Community College, Nueva York desde 2016. En 2018 recibió de los International Latino Book Awards primer lugar: “Mejor libro de poesía—un autor—español” por su poemario Lágrima roja y primer lugar: “Mejor libro de poesía—un autor—bilingüe” por su poemario Sin preámbulos. Su poemario Sílabas de viento recibió el2015 International Book Award de poesía. También recibió mención de honor como mejor libro de poesía en español por los International Latino Book Awards de 2015. En 2014 recibió la Beca Nebrija para Creadores del Instituto Franklin, Universidad de Alcalá de Henares en España. En 2013 fue nombrada número uno de los diez mejores autores latinos para leer por LatinoStories.com. Sus poemarios Donde la luz es violeta, Tinta negra, Ocelocíhuatl, Conjuro y su colección de relatos Lo que trae la marea han recibido reconocimientos nacionales e internacionales. Sus otros poemarios son Hudson, Le sillabe del vento, Noche de colibríes, Corazón pintado y su segunda colección de relatos,Metztli. Ha sido traducida al inglés, italiano y griego; y parcialmente traducida al náhuatl, portugués, hindi, turco y rumano.

Xánath Caraza is a traveler, educator, poet, and short story writer. She teaches at the University of Missouri-Kansas City. She writes for Seattle Escribe, La Bloga, The Smithsonian Latino Center, and Revista Literaria Monolito. She is Writer-in-Residence at Westchester Community College, New York since 2016. In 2018 for the International Latino Book Awards she received First Place for Lágrimaroja for “Best Book of Poetry in Spanish by One Author” and First Place for Sin preámbulos / Without Preamble for “Best Book of Bilingual Poetry by One Author.”  Her book of poetry Syllables of Wind/ Sílabas de viento received the 2015 International Book Award for Poetry. It also received Honorable Mention for best book of Poetry in Spanish in the 2015 International Latino Book Awards. Caraza was the recipient of the 2014 Beca Nebrija para Creadores, Universidad de Alcalá de Henares in Spain. She was named number one of the 2013 Top Ten Latino Authors by LatinoStories.com. Her books of verseWhere the Light is Violet, Black Ink, Ocelocíhuatl, Conjuro and her book of short fiction What the Tide Brings have won national and international recognition. Her other books of poetry are Hudson, Le sillabe del vento, Noche de colibríes, Corazón pintado, and her second short story collection, Metztli. Caraza has been translated into English, Italian, and Greek; and partially translated into Nahuatl, Portuguese, Hindi, Turkish, and Rumanian.

​Excerpts from Vivas to Those Who Have Failed

By Martín Espada


The Right Foot of Juan de Oñate

On the road to Taos, in the town of Alcalde, the bronze statue
of Juan de Oñate, the conquistador, kept vigil from his horse.
Late one night a chainsaw sliced off his right foot, stuttering
through the  ball of his ankle, as Oñate’s spirit scratched
and howled like a dog trapped within the bronze body.

Four centuries ago, after his cannon fire burst to burn hundreds
of bodies and blacken the adobe walls of the Acoma Pueblo,
Oñate wheeled on his startled horse and spoke the decree:
all Acoma males above the age of twenty-five would be punished
by amputation of the right foot. Spanish knives sawed through ankles;
Spanish hands tossed feet into piles like fish at the marketplace.
There was prayer and wailing in a language Oñate did not speak.

Now, at the airport in El Paso, across the river from Juárez,
another bronze statue of Oñate rises on a horse frozen in fury.
The city fathers smash champagne bottles across the horse’s legs
to christen the statue, and Oñate’s spirit remembers the chainsaw
carving through the ball of his ankle. The Acoma Pueblo still stands.


Thousands of brown feet walk across the border, the desert
of Chihuahua, the shallow places of the Río Grande, the bridges
from Juárez to El Paso. Oñate keeps watch, high on horseback
above the Río Grande, the law of the conquistador rolled
in his hand, helpless as a man with an amputated foot,
spirit scratching and howling like a dog within the bronze body. 

​Now the bells speak with their tongues of bronze.
Now the bells open their mouths of bronze to say:
Listen to the bells a world away. Listen to the bell in the ruins
of a city where children gathered copper shells like beach glass,
and the copper boiled in the foundry, and the bell born
in the foundry says: I was born of bullets, but now I sing
of a world where bullets melt into bells.  Listen to the bell
in a city where cannons from the armies of the Great War
sank into molten metal bubbling like a vat of chocolate,
and the many mouths that once spoke the tongue of smoke
form the one mouth of a bell that says: I was born of cannons,
but now I sing of a world where cannons melt into bells.

Listen to the bells in a town with a flagpole on Main Street,
a rooster weathervane keeping watch atop the Meeting House,
the congregation gathering to sing in times of great silence.
Here the bells rock their heads of bronze as if to say:
Melt the bullets into bells, melt the bullets into bells.
Here the bells raise their heavy heads as if to say:
Melt the cannons into bells, melt the cannons into bells.
Here the bells sing of a world where weapons crumble deep
in the earth,  and no one remembers where they were buried.
Now the bells pass the word at midnight in the ancient language
of bronze, from bell to bell,  like ships smuggling news of liberation
from island to island, the song rippling through the clouds.

Now the bells chime like the muscle beating in every chest,
heal the cracks in the bell of every face listening to the bells. 
The chimes heal the cracks in the bell of the moon.
The chimes heal the cracks in the bell of the world. 

Young Man Holding Puerto Rican Flag
Photo by Frank Espada
The Puerto Rican Diaspora Documentary Project, 1979-81

​The Spanish means: I died, I lived. In Puerto Rico, the leaves
of el moriviví close in the dark and open at first light.
The fronds curl at a finger’s touch and then unfurl again.
My father, a mountain born of mountains, the tallest
Puerto Rican in New York, who scraped doorways,
who could crack the walls with the rumble of his voice,
kept a moriviví growing in his ribs. He would die, then live.

My father spoke in the tongue of el moriviví, teaching me
the parable of Joe Fleming, who screwed his lit cigarette
into the arms of the spics he caught, flapping like fish.
My father was a bony boy, the nerves in his back
crushed by the Aiello Coal and Ice Company, the load
he lifted up too many flights of stairs.  Three times
they would meet to brawl for a crowd after school.
The first time, my father opened his eyes to gravel
and the shoes of his enemy. The second time, he rose
and dug his arm up to the elbow in the monster’s belly,
so badly did he want to tear out the heart and eat it.
The third time, Fleming did not show up, and the boys
with cigarette burns clapped their spindly champion 
on the back, all the way down the street. Fleming would
become a cop, fired for breaking bones in too many faces.
He died smoking in bed, a sheet of flame up to his chin.

There was a moriviví sprouting in my father’s chest. He would die, 
then live.  He spat obscenities like sunflower seeds at the driver
who told him to sit at the back of the bus  in Mississippi, then
slipped his cap over his eyes and fell asleep. He spent a week in jail, 
called it the best week  of his life, strode through the jailhouse door
and sat behind the driver of the bus on the way out of town,
his Air Force uniform all that kept the noose from his neck.
He would come to know the jailhouse again, among hundreds
of demonstrators ferried by police to Hart Island on the East River,
where the city of New York stacks the coffins of anonymous
and stillborn bodies. Here, Confederate prisoners once wept
for the Stars and Bars; now, the prisoners sang Freedom Songs.

The jailers outlawed phone calls, so we were sure my father must be
a body like the bodies rolling waterlogged in the East River, till he came
back from the island of the dead,  black hair combed meticulously.
When the riots burned in Brooklyn night after night, my father
was a peacemaker on the corner with a megaphone.  A fiery
chunk of concrete fell from the sky and missed his head by inches. 
My mother would tell me: Your father is out dodging bullets.
He spoke at a rally with Malcolm X, incantatory words
billowing through the bundled crowd, lifting hands and faces.
Teach, they cried. My father clicked a photograph of Malcolm
as he bent to hear a question, finger pressed against the chin.
Two months later the assassins stampeded the crowd
to shoot Malcolm, blood leaping from his chest as he fell.
My father would die too, but then he would live again,
after every riot, every rally, every arrest, every night in jail,
the change from his pockets landing hard on the dresser
at 4 AM every time I swore he was gone for good.

My father knew the secrets of el moriviví, that he would die,
then live. He drifted off at the wheel, drove into a guardrail,
shook his head and walked away without a web of scars
or fractures. He passed out from the heat in the subway,
toppled onto the tracks, and somehow missed the third rail.
He tied a white apron across his waist to open a grocery store,
pulled a revolver from the counter to startle the gangsters 
demanding protection, then put up signs for a clearance sale
as soon as they backed out the door with their hands in the air. 
When the family finally took a vacation in the mountains
of the Hudson Valley, a hotel with waiters in white jackets
and white paint peeling in the room, the roof exploded
in flame, as if the ghost of Joe Fleming and his cigarette
trailed us everywhere, and it was then that my father
appeared in the smoke, like a general leading the charge
in battle, shouting commands at the volunteer fire company, 
steering the water from the hoses, since he was immune
to death by fire or water, as if he wore the crumbled leaves
of el moriviví in an amulet slung around his neck.

My brother called to say el moriviví was gone. My father tore
at the wires, the electrodes, the IV, saying that he wanted
to go home.  The hospital was a jailhouse in Mississippi.
The furious pulse that fired his heart in every fight flooded
the chambers of his heart. The doctors scrutinized the film,
the grainy shadows and the light, but could never see: my father
was a moriviví. I died. I lived. He died. He lived. He dies. He lives.

​Martín Espada was born in Brooklyn, New York in 1957. He has published almost twenty books as a poet, editor, essayist and translator. His new collection of poems from Norton is calledVivas to Those Who Have Failed (2016). Other books of poems include The Trouble Ball (2011), The Republic of Poetry (2006),Alabanza (2003), A Mayan Astronomer in Hell’s Kitchen (2000),Imagine the Angels of Bread (1996), City of Coughing and Dead Radiators (1993) and Rebellion is the Circle of a Lover’s Hands(1990). His many honors include the Shelley Memorial Award, the Robert Creeley Award, the National Hispanic Cultural Center Literary Award, an American Book Award, the PEN/Revson Fellowship and a Guggenheim Fellowship. The Republic of Poetry was a finalist for the Pulitzer Prize. The title poem of his collection Alabanza, about 9/11, has been widely anthologized and performed. His book of essays, Zapata’s Disciple (1998), was banned in Tucson as part of the Mexican-American Studies Program outlawed by the state of Arizona, and will be issued in a new edition by Northwestern University Press. A former tenant lawyer in Greater Boston’s Latino community, Espada is a professor of English at the University of Massachusetts-Amherst.