Wednesday, April 8, 2015

ERASURE DAY 8

the more I live and breathe

Every family has to skip
many kinds of characters. 
Any character can bring
words and speculate:
what isn’t said
isn’t recorded.
Two worlds tease
the story
of Tribal thoughts
from memory.
Sometimes monologue,
sometimes conversations
or what I imagine to be
true writing,
true.

by Deborah A. Miranda



PersonalBest/My Fresh Idea

Reclaim heavy:
some killed 
a familiar.
I made hardly
a fit challenge,
but cherish
the good
only once.
remember  -
because tiny
as a child
that negativity
as sharp
as before -
now harsh words.
help us.
this prayer:
grace-filled plums
and pig fat
honor the rest.  

Margo Solod

Tuesday, April 7, 2015

ERASURE: DAY 7

Found this page from an Irish play in the copy room at work today.  Random submission from Fate.
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 "86 RIDERS"

86 riders in a deep grave,

God beginning to ride

the mare beyond and below,



below.  Wash man, make

the finest find. Would it be

a strong wind



raising a star, the moon,

a hundred horses

jumping in



the west wind?

No one looking

for the grave.



Fall down again

or maybe the wind

is fire, a hard cruel



sea.  Listen to the red mare,

the blessing of the black night,

the blessing and sorrow



on this house.



Deborah A. Miranda



"Overlooked Gems"

Just as most 
are lost,
services
are likely to continue.

In short,
a story day
hums apace,
thoughtful and solemn.

It's obvious
stressed and struggling 
community
was very
prepared
for success.

Power 
rarely works.
A bucket
of shortcomings
explains 
our competence.

Serve
and recognize
more.

Margo Solod

Monday, April 6, 2015

ERASURE DAY 6: "Wondrous Theft" & "Some Stayed"


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Wondrous Theft

North to the overlook,
sharp, almost eager crystal
trapped her heart.
Cloves turned
the shining sphere
of silk into the voices
of the dead.  Someone
named Mule dedicated
a proper sweat,
snapped the surprise:
kept you by permission
of February.

Deborah A. Miranda


Others Stayed

They observed
appeared to have 
few reservations.
Some did not exist
west of the celebrations.
They learned
once again,
earnest from essential.
Supreme effort.

Margo Solod

Sunday, April 5, 2015

ERASURE: DAY 5

 WHY NOT

The stone hour
hit close to home.
We would murder
the different.

At a cross-roads
is a complaint,
a grievance;
Spring events
that handle their own
formation of a violation.

Trust chose not to hear.

A sense of wisdom
has to search 
many a summer
to have one, 
one individual 
that deserves
gray times,
times coming down
with such reality.

Not even a kick,
a murder -
and so 
why
be different.

Deborah A. Miranda
Any Inconvenience Not Recommended

Up ahead was one
of the two, trying
to call for help.
Didn't get through.  
        Do you think you could?
Not likely.  Why?
        It's hard.
Nearby, horrified
and crazed
with grief.
Just behind, 
just over the edge:
a door.

Margo Solod

ERASURE: DAY 4

THE BODY

a home,
is rooted in
creation,
a dynamic
kind of
touch.  All
human lives
open doors,
large spaces.

Offer
and submit
and center.

The present
teaching
of discovery
also mentors
doves,
fosters festivals
of word
and fellowship.
Story is a growing,
intensive work,
a network
of open voices
for our page
and place,
place, place.

Deborah A. Miranda




ART

Despite discipline,
at every turn
restricted, limited.
Who thinks function
alone embraces art?
When I asked,
I wanted how
the excruciating detail –
strength, fatigue, wear
unfortunately an opportunity
to improve before us –
disappeared.
I never did.

Margo Solod

Friday, April 3, 2015

ERASURE POEMS: Day 3



-->
“130.1”

Companion, marvel at the self:
absorb the sea,
an exercise in power.
The song’s spirit
composes, creates
non-human artifact,
a radical maker.
This is why power
represents a union
of blessed rage
and chaos.  The seascape
resists a world beyond
the end; the face of truth
is all skyscapes.  Imagine
the possibility: seduced
by song, forget need.

Deborah Miranda

[If you can guess which publication my erasure poem comes from, I'll send you a surprise in the mail!   -  dm]


































"In Perspective"

Stretch across the fringes,
draw over Europe, America,
the Mountain range 
of migrating swallows.
Neither better nor different,
rising swiftly
          to the horizon.
No tilted tabletops
out of sight or anything.
Some fiercely loyal, others
find variety.
           don't follow national 
           boundaries.

Margo Solod

Thursday, April 2, 2015

Erasure Poems, Day 2

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“The Years”



Glance back –

it is like time-fishing.

Later, soon, back,

back in those days.



At least one summer

my humble luck

changed from fur

to carbon to rock.

Different technology

replaced maps

and incremental

human-shaped bird feathers

made a comeback.

A good piece of “how long” -

just loved to death

sitting in Patagonia

for a decade.



Your first times

last a long time.

A revolutionary

second skin is my own

stainless steel membrane.

More, more – ultimately,

it comes down

to the last more.

Deborah A. Miranda 

Wednesday, April 1, 2015

NaPoWriMo: ERASURE POEMS

April is National Poetry Month, and the annual NaPoWriMo marathon - writing a poem a day for the entire month - is underway.  I've tried this before - mostly made it - but I know that the timing is rough: the end of one academic semester, finals week, spring break, and the beginning of our intense four week spring term.  I don't want to set myself up for failure, so I decided to give myself this challenge: one erasure (black-out) poem per day. 

And to make it even more fun, I challenged my wife (the fabulous Margo Solod) to take the plunge with me.

Starting today.

-->
“In Truth”

I must be a
spooked horse.
I dropped the
skull and bones,
of course.
It is time to go
block the sharp sunlight.
The day abruptly
followed the narrow
wing of thick velvet,
waved eloquently,
not even capable
of hard work.
The faint reverberation
of colliding hands
emanated
mutely.
The bright lights
picked up
a slow, deep wave
and myriad sparkling
eyes whispered please.

Deborah A. Miranda 


"Crowns"

          crowns            spring
by                       starting
                                 desire.

                            Please call.

          We are unable to

                           remember
                                              we cannot.

Margo Solod

Monday, March 30, 2015

6:16 a.m.

-->


6:16 a.m.

At dawn the songs begin again, as if never sung before, as if the jet stream has not wandered from its path, as if the Arctic ice shelf is not melting at an accelerated rate, as if Sudden Oak Death does not leapfrog across the continent; Shenandoah Valley songbirds lean into the indigo air as if two thousand snow geese did not fall from the sky in Idaho, as if ten thousand sea lions are not washing up dead in the Channel Islands, as if a train full of chemicals has not crashed into the Kanawah River’s waters in West Virginia, as if California’s Central Valley agriculture is not pumping twenty-thousand-year-old water out of ancient aquifers that cannot be refilled; these song warriors pitch morning as if the territorial calls of robins are prayers that keep disaster at bay, as if crows stitch the morning together with their black beaks, as if mockingbirds know the secret combination of notes that command God’s ear, as if the low purr of mourning doves weaves a feathery comfort; they persist as if pine warblers, bits of gold along the treetops, coax the sun up by degrees, as if these musical notes don’t know the word extinction, as if, knowing it, the silvered melodies would insist like the yellow warbler: sweet-sweet-sweet; little-more-sweet.

Deborah A. Miranda


My beginning poetry workshop students are working, this week, on "research poems" - poems that incorporate facts and/or statistics, yet make the leap into poetry with them.  Poets do this frequently, but I wanted my students to be conscious about it; to look around them for all the potential poetry waiting to be found.

Then, this morning, this poem found me.  I've been reading the news, albeit reluctantly; I thought I'd been turning away from the ugliness of it, admitting that I couldn't bear it, but at night I've been dreaming of apocalyptic worlds.   

Saturday, March 28, 2015

DONATE TO OHLONE-COSTANOAN ESSELEN NATION'S PROTEST AGAINST JUNIPERO SERRA'S CANONIZATION


NEW!  DONATE $50 OR MORE AND I WILL SEND YOU A SIGNED COPY OF MY NEW BOOK, RAISED BY HUMANS.  It's so new, it isn't even in the bookstores until April 15th!



You can read more about Raised By Humans here and here. 

As I've mentioned elsewhere, the impending canonization of Junipero Serra by Pope Francis is an extremely offensive act in the eyes of California Indians, especially those affected by Spanish missionization. 

On April 5, 2015 American Indian Movement-Southern California, The Ohlone-Costanoan Esselen Nation of the Greater Monterey Bay Area, and The Amah Mutsun Tribal Band will jointly lead a protest and educational event at Mission San Carlos (Carmel).  This is an important historical moment in which the descendants of those who survived missionization speak out, with our allies, against the continued lies, misrepresentation and romanticization of genocide and crimes against humanity on the part of the Catholic Church.

As the host tribe, OCEN would like to provide food and water for those joining us in the protest on our homeland.  Tribal Chairwoman Louise J. Miranda Ramirez notes that this is a large expense for a small, unrecognized tribe.  Any donations to help us fulfill our hospitality obligations are deeply appreciated!  See donation button below.




 
NIMASIANEXELPASALEKI
THANK YOU!
 

Sunday, February 22, 2015

Report From the California Indian Think Tank



Report from the California Indian Think Tank
 
Taking our leave of one another is hard. We’ve tended old friendships, founded new relationship with other nations, given words a sovereign space, fed the future with dreams.  Old songs and jokes and endearments rained on us in languages of home: over books, over coffee, over salmon.  A clapperstick gave elderberry voice in the heart of the city.  Testimony and story flowed in and out of time's basket.  Good words, hard words, necessary words, tender words.  Lists made and lists recorded, resources shared; sacred anger sometimes lit up the room, and laughter invited laughter to dance.  We've shed a few tears, admired canons transformed into cannons, given and received blessings; irreverence, thy name is James!  A long-legged spider came out to witness our warp and weft; observed intently, then, satisfied that we had potential, went back to her business in the next universe.  Abalone and pine nut and acorn and clamshell beads created an Indigenous choir in the background.  Ancestors emerged from our mouths, shifted inside of our cells, reminded us that survival takes innovation, risk, compassion, courage.  Yes it does.  Yes it does.  We'll remember.


[for those who asked about the poem I read:]

Rosary


Put me on a train, let me ride all the way from San Diego to Sacramento.  Let me watch the lands I love unroll like a scroll, a story that keeps opening and opening, rich and full of sky, sand, oaks, hills, ocean, pines, snow.  Let me drink in the old voices living there.  Let the old knowledge seep back into me.  Feast my eyes?  I am a glutton!  Unable to turn away, not wanting to sleep.  Let the train rock me back and forth, jostle me over a rough spot in the track; let the steel wheels beneath the floor whine and sing. 



Let the long slow grades ease us down from the mountains like a snake on a summer day, silver scales sparkling in the sun.  Put me on a train; let the world shrink down to this one ragged coastline.  Let this narrow corridor become the only world that matters. 



Rumbling through Los Angeles, I’ll look for the dry cement banks of the river we have never forgotten, see homeless souls living in the mouths of drains that haven’t seen a drop of water in months.  They know what they’re doing: blue tarps over the entrance, a battered lawn chair – would I manage as well?  If I knew how to pray, I would pray for them, those people who never pray for rain. 



San Juan Capistrano, San Fernando Rey de España, Santa Barbara.  Let me pass by the adobe missions, the ridiculously renovated, the melting rubble, with tender thoughts for the souls of my ancestors. Like clay and stone, we transform: that is the string of miracles I follow.

Deborah A. Miranda (forthcoming in Raised By Humans, Tia Chucha Press April 2015)