Big Robe

We picked the cotton, pulled the soft white tufts
when they erupted, piled them in the grass baskets
we carried on our heads. First Thursday market,
we walked with covered baskets toward the river.

Long walk, but only once a month, First Thursday.

My friend’s mother sold the cotton to the master
tailor, and when she left to trade gossip with other
women, we stayed in the shade of the tailor’s
make-shift shelter, mouths silently agape, watched

as he’d take a puff of cotton, touch tips of two

fingers to his tongue, pinch and twist, roll the first
drawn fibers, form a cord. When it had reached
a hand’s-length, he’d secure it to a small rock, lift
the puff in one hand, wind the stone up, let go

and let the rebound spin turn the cotton into thread.

Another Thursday market-day and long past harvest,
but we still came, sat silently in the tailor’s shade.
Those stone-spun threads were now affixed, their
ends knotted to a double-heddle, and he wove them

into even strips, long long and precisely narrow:

each the measured width of his thumb and fingertip.
And another market, still months later, we watched
him push a steel needle through the edges of two
strips held together, form a seam, each stitch was

measured, patient, and when pulled taut, invisible.

Two years of First Thursdays we borrowed shade
and watched as our harvest that he’d purchased
gradually became babba riga, big robe, a fine
and formal garment for a man of great importance,

then embellished: swirls, knives to grace the chest.

Two years of a man’s life spun and woven, stitched
into the fabric of these robes. Two years of a man’s
life, two months blessed embroidery, our cotton.


In response to / inspired by Via Negativa: “Thinned” and “Agape.” For more on Hausa
babba riga robes, see the Powerhouse Museum Collection.

proud women in bright wrappers

middle of dry season, nomadic traders passing through,
their children (no taller than we were) driving drought-
thinned cattle up toward the plateau, and we would
follow after at a distance with our razorblades in hand,

look for gems, butterflies pressed flat by passing
hooves, incise the dry clay beneath and lift them,
save them on small trays, carry them to an artist who
affixed them to white paper — or, for those largest

and most perfect, crushed black velvet in a frame —
collage them into women, the women we hoped
we’d grow to be: proud women in bright wrappers
with large headscarves, grace and balance carrying

bundled firewood, calabashes of gathered greens,
clay pots of water on their heads, women with
their sleeping children snugged tight behind their
shoulders, women at the mortar pounding yam


A childhood memory prompted by an entry at The Morning Porch. To see samples of this type of wing collage, search for “vintage African butterfly art women” in Google – Images.

The discovery of things I’ve never seen: five poems by Oswald de Andrade

This entry is part 3 of 38 in the series Poetry from the Other Americas

 

My long-time friend and fellow blogger Natalie d’Arbeloff volunteered to help out with this Poetry from the Other Americas series, and I jumped at the chance to add some Brazilian poems to the mix. Here are five by Oswald de Andrade that Natalie selected and translated in an admirably straight-forward way, demonstrating that one doesn’t necessarily have to be a professional poet to be a good translator. —Dave


Portuguese error

When the Portuguese arrived
In pouring rain
They clothed the Indian
What a shame!
Had it been a sunny morning
The Indian would have stripped
The Portuguese.

Erro de português

Quando o português chegou
Debaixo duma bruta chuva
Vestiu o índio
Que pena!
Fosse uma manhã de sol
O índio tinha despido
O português.

*

The discovery

We followed our course on that long sea
Until the eighth day of Easter
Sailing alongside birds
We sighted land
the savages
We showed them a chicken
Almost frightening them
They didn’t want to touch it
Then they took it, stupefied
it was fun
After a dance
Diogo Dias
Did a somersault
the young whores
Three or four girls really fit very nice
With long jet-black hair
And shameless tits so high so shapely
We all had a good look at them
We were not in the least ashamed.

A descoberta

Seguimos nosso caminho por este mar de longo
Até a oitava da Páscoa
Topamos aves
E houvemos vista de terra
os selvagens
Mostraram-lhes uma galinha
Quase haviam medo dela
E não queriam por a mão
E depois a tomaram como espantados
primeiro chá
Depois de dançarem
Diogo Dias
Fez o salto real
as meninas da gare
Eram três ou quatro moças bem moças e bem gentis
Com cabelos mui pretos pelas espáduas
E suas vergonhas tão altas e tão saradinhas
Que de nós as muito bem olharmos
Não tínhamos nenhuma vergonha.

*

Song of going home

My land has palm trees
Where the sea twitters
The little birds over here
Don’t sing like those over there
My land has more roses
And almost more lovers
My land has more gold
My land has more land
Gold land love and roses
I want everything my land has
God don’t let me die
Before going back home
God don’t let me die
Without seeing 15th Street again
And the progress of Sao Paulo.

Canto de regresso à pátria

Minha terra tem palmares
Onde gorjeia o mar
Os passarinhos daqui
Não cantam como os de lá
Minha terra tem mais rosas
E quase que mais amores
Minha terra tem mais ouro
Minha terra tem mais terra
Ouro terra amor e rosas
Eu quero tudo de lá
Não permita Deus que eu morra
Sem que volte para lá
Não permita Deus que eu morra
Sem que volte pra São Paulo
Sem que veja a Rua 15
E o progresso de São Paulo.

*

Lord
May I never be
Like the old Englishman
Over there
Asleep in an armchair
Waiting for visitors who do not come.

Senhor
Que eu não fique nunca
Como esse velho inglês
Aí do lado
Que dorme numa cadeira
À espera de visitas que não vêm

*

3rd of May

I learned from my ten-year old son
That poetry is the discovery
Of things I’ve never seen.

3 de maio

Aprendi com meu filho de dez anos
Que a poesia é a descoberta
Das coisas que eu nunca vi

Morning Shadows

The morning porch — mine has no railing
beyond the stems of dandelion, red
and purple clover standing too close
to the concrete to be eaten by the mower.

When the first full burst of light arrives,
sun escapes the tangled brush around
the creek and crests the gambrel
of the barn, these wildflowers cast dark

shadows, charcoal against light gray.
I twist the lid from the small jar of water
that lives beneath the window, reach
for the fine-tip paintbrush on the sill,

begin to fill the silhouettes with water.
I work quickly, make dark marks with this
clear ink. By the time I’ve water-painted
a meter stretch of wildflowers, the sun

has risen further, added another tier to our
collaborative design. Occasional butterflies
alight, stop and sip damp clover before
the shadow blossoms vanish from the sundial.


In response to an entry from The Morning Porch.

Observer’s Credo

Defining ecopoetry, I would begin as follows, defining not in terms of form but as an observer’s credo:

To say that I am an observer, a participant, not the end of a process of design but merely a momentary slice of time that’s wearing skin—

to begin at the assumption that I am no more important to the cosmos than a tube worm or a wood duck—

to derive my understanding of myself from what I observe and experience in the world around me, rather than to derive my understanding of the world around me from what I observe and experience in myself.

To say that a poem about the little woodswallow of Australia—one that documents and calls attention to its habitat, behavior, and appearance, gives the reader a nonfiction introduction—is of more value and significance than a poem about my own hopes or fears or discomforts, successes or failures.

To suspect the horse “knows” more about grass than I do,

to recognize that the dog’s capacity to read history and news about what’s happening now and has happened here is more developed than mine, that she has skills and information available to her that I do not.

To wonder about the decline of the golden-winged warbler, wonder how much is due to human-induced loss of habitat, how much to interbreeding with blue-winged warblers—

to learn all I can and know that I do not know—

I do not know if the interbreeding is preparatory to better traits to survive weather and environment shifts, or preparatory to extinction.

To acknowledge not-knowing,

to try to create as little disturbance as possible,

to understand more.

To view the human species as one of many,

to acknowledge that, to a greater extent than any other species, our waste products are more often toxins than nutrients, that we can rank ourselves “above” other species only in this: we are the most venomous and deadly, taking as our prey, unthinkingly and unknowingly, everything within our reach.

To recognize that, as a member of this species, I am probably a sociopath by both nature and nurture.


In response to Dave Bonta’s “Statement of Ecopoetics” and the resulting Facebook discussion.

Coming to my senses

Moonlight reflects
from snow-encrusted surfaces,
bounces a single
immense shadow
up to the side of the barn.

I watch the moving silhouette
of some large owl, species
uncertain, but make simple
identification from the turret-
turning of its head.

It bends low over
the snow, listening to something
there beneath. I hold
my breath, as if I too might
hear it, some small thing

tunneling invisibly
between the smothered
blades of grass. I hold
my breath, I am become
like owl, a hunger

and this listening
is all there is.


In response to/inspired by Dave Bonta’s “Early” and Luisa A. Igloria’s “Landmarks.”

Opening

Mortality estimate, life expectancy the sand,
invisible hourglass handed over by a doctor

(this once, not wearing gloves), little bottle,
prescription of one day a day, no refills.

Hand grenade. An empty urn that has been
pre-engraved with best-if-used-by date.

An erosion, top to bottom, losing ground.
Used the guess to calculate, translated into

months, counted slowly with a finger, found
the anticipated final square upon the calendar.

Did not share the projection, merely took
red ink and marked a question in the space.

Reluctant to remove the pen, turned that
final point beneath the curving symbol into

a circle, a little window with no shutters
open on unknown.


In response to/inspired by Luisa A. Igloria’s “What could we know” and Dave Bonta’s “Camping.”

Spanish Lullaby

Small hour of the morning stop, platform
bathed in yellow light and fog, grating
of the wheels on the rail. Luggage bumping

blends with footsteps up the narrow
stairwell of the sleeper, I hear the car
attendant offer extra pillow, bottled water.

Click of luggage latches snapping open breaks
the silence, then a child’s startled wail as
the train begins to move. Discomfited sobbing

settles quickly, soothed by a woman’s gentle
humming. I tiptoe in sock-feet, press my palm
against the thin compartment wall, sit quietly

on the carpet to eavesdrop on this comfort.
As I move my lips to shape the unsung words,
a father’s voice lifts, whispering soft tenor:

este niño lindo / ya quiere dormir / háganle la cuna
de rosa y jazmín / háganle la cama

this lovely child / wants to sleep / make him a cradle
of rose and jasmine / make him a bed

Laura M Kaminski
12 07 2014
In response to/inspired by Luisa A. Igloria’s “Poem with a line from Ilya Kaminsky,” ending with lines from “Arrorró mi niño.”

Manifestation

we face the calendar, pen in hand, readily ink
in our presumptions, as if each day’s a caravan
each hour a beast of burden to be packed with
actions and commitments, so much baggage

we try to carry on the journey, much of it
just legacy, souvenirs of habit, but we stay
too busy to take the picnic-stop, savor
the small treasures we have gathered

reaching end of day with marked-up manifest,
a cargo checklist of what’s been accomplished,
what’s deferred, this only leaves the hours
hungry, exhausted, weak, unable to bear more

so as again we’re planning, filling saddle-bags
securing bundles, this time let’s slow a bit, discard
a few things we no longer need, let go those items
whose purposes we’ve outgrown or forgotten

and when we rearrange what’s left
after this lightening, leave two of these hours
free of other baggage, open and available
for guests:

one camel for wonder,
one pony for joy

Laura M Kaminski
12 06 2014
In response to/inspired by the last line of Dave Bonta’s “Broadcast.”