Leftovers

What is supposed to happen with leftover love?
perhaps you keep it between your teeth,
until it explode in the mouth,
shutting off words.

What do I do with the need to meet you under the sheets?
perhaps I should keep it between my underwear and my sex,
until I change my clothes change and it slips down my legs,
tumbling into the washing machine,
ending up as lint in the dryer.

Perhaps I could put it in a take home container,
store it in the fridge,
until I decide to throw it away,
along with rotten apples and past due milk.

Blue woman in the window

There is a woman standing on the window ledge,
her fingers are frozen,
the gray sky of December is locked in her skin.

She smiles,
all blue,
all cold.

There was a woman standing on the window ledge,
falling on the sidewalk,
blue woman snow flakes.

Lawn sprinklers

I spent hours hunting for the perfect gift,
maybe a Victoria Secrets bra,
flowers,
chocolates,
a thoughtful card,
singing Happy Birthday in my best voice
or maybe a romantic dinner,
something that is not burned.
So much effort to find the perfect gift,
the weeks planning how to amuse you,
if I knew being attacked by your lawn sprinklers
and leaving a wet gift on your door
would make you smile,
I would have done that in the first place.

Fireworks

You are my fireworks
the amusement at the beginning
…the burning gunpowder at the end.

Bolero

Bolero, Poetry and Absence

Bolero Ausencia
-Composed by Rafael Hernández

“Cuando se apartan,
dos corazones,
cuando se dice adios para olvidar,
dicen ausencia...”

The absence jam-packing the space,
filled before with your laugh,
absence is this pressure suffocating me,
because I don’t know what to do with the days.

“Te llevo conmigo,
para que olvides,
para que no sufras más..”

More sad traces on your countenance, lover of routines,
rules, kings
more sadness in those eyes i only dare to look at,
in my memory.

“y lejos,
pero muy lejos,
vuelan los pensamientos,
y tristes,
como un lamento,
son los suspiros
del corazón.”

A heart that doesn’t believe in promises,
choked with the wait,
simply massacres the faith.

“Ausencia tu que pensabas con él,
alivia,
mi pena,
ausencia,
me has engañado,
y lo mucho que he llorado,
no lo puedo olvidar,”

Forget everything,
even the totem name I gave you in tenderness,
forgetting you,
remembering,
singing to you,
alone,
with your absence.

Bolero, poesía y ausencia

Bolero Ausencia
Compuesto por Rafael Hernández


“Cuando se apartan,
dos corazones,
cuando se dice adios para olvidar,
dicen ausencia...”

Ausencia es lo que atiborra el espacio
Que antes llenaba tu risa,
Ausencia es esta presión que me asfixia
Porque no sé que hacer con los días.

“Te llevo conmigo,
para que olvides,
para que no sufras más..”

Más trazos tristes en tu semblante de mujer amante de las rutinas,
Reglas, mores, reyes.
Más tristeza en esos ojos que sólo me atrevo a mirarlos de frente,
En el recuerdo.

“y lejos,
pero muy lejos,
vuelan los pensamientos,
y tristes,
como un lamento,
son los suspiros
del corazón.”

Corazón que ya no cree en mis promesas,
Que se atragantó de tanta espera,
Que sencillamente masacró la fe.

“Ausencia tu que pensabas con él,
alivia,
mi pena,
Ausencia,
Me has engañado,
Y lo mucho que he llorado,
No lo puedo olvidar,”

Olvidar todo,
Hasta el nombre totémico que te di muerta de ternura,
Olvidarte,
Recordarte,
Cantarte,
Sola,
Con tu ausencia.

Toe

To Rho

With each breeze of the calendar,
I miss you less.
The way things are going
by January I will only remember the tip of your toe.

Some poems of my unpublished book, Sepia

Your Name

When I say your name,
I want to say memory,
I want to say tenderness,
a smooth blanket in sleep time,
tired eyes but always alert.

When I pronounce your name I evoke
coffee “recién colao” recently brewed,
rice with green pigeons peas,
savory vegetables in the stew,
pork legs with chick peas,
the cake married with the cold milk,
the orange candies stuck in your teeth and gums,
the movie that gave you nightmares and the usual insistence
to sleep with you after.

When I say your name,
I smell Maja powder, pond cream, final touch softener, Avon perfume, Dove soap,
I smell cilantro, cilantrillo, garlic, onion
I smell “sofrito”.

When I say your name I think in your black eyes almost blind,
of your white hair without dye,
of your wrinkles,
of your big ears, of your falling butt,
and your long eyebrows,
of your legs full of varicose veins,
in the time you used to say they were fat and beautiful legs,
and I think of your tailored dresses
made with the fabrics of la Tienda Paco,
of your black shoes polished with griffin.

I think about you,
happy with a clear mind again,
with organized memories,
with your whispers to calm my tears,
with the saying “what matter is that I love you”
I think of you without insanity, curses, and bad words,
in the time when we had innocence already,
I think about you with eternal love,
eternal like memories.

I think about you as the most beautiful thing in my life.
when I say tenderness, love, support, feelings, memories and bonds,
I want to say grandmother,
I want to say Mercedes.


Ellipses

To Carmen Luisa, my recurrent chimera

The skin still hurts
like wounds exposed to sea salt.
I would give my life to overcome the superimposed distances,
looking to engrave on the bone of my ring finger that love isn’t enough
that twin souls don’t always have happy endings,
that hell is filled of good intentions,
that an ellipses don’t necessarily mean a certain continuity,
that maybe they are repeating final periods,
up front is the stubbornness of betting on a common future,
that is chimera, mirage.


The Return

I want to return on a September colored afternoon,
fall leaves crushing under my shoes,
the silence of white church candles.

Awilda's reading at Lancaster Barnes and Noble

Come hear and see Awilda I. Castro Suarez at Lancaster Barnes and Noble on Wednesday, July 22 @ 7:30.

She will be making her first appearance in Lancaster County.

Come out and listen.

Come out and share.


Awilda I. Castro Suarez was born in Puerto Rico and lives in Reading, Pennsylvania. She grew up in the kitchen of her grandmother and the crime stories of one of her aunts. During adolescence she could be found behind a Gabriel Garcia Marquez type of book. She went to University of Puerto Rico and completed a bachelor degree in Public Communication. Afterwards she completed a master degree in Spanish Journalism from Florida International University. She organized poetry nights and workshops sponsored by Puerto Rico Institute of Culture (Instituto de Cultura de Puerto Rico). Was published in a short anthology of the poets who read at Cuatro Estaciones Café titled Cuatro Estaciones, Cinco Sentidos. She had been published in Identidad, Brisas, Panfleto Negro, Off the Coast and poetry anthologies. She presented her poetry at the 2002 Book Fair in La Habana, Cuba. She moved to Pennsylvania following the dream of her grandmother to have a journalist in the family. She worked in the Reading area Hispanic newspaper, La Voz. Loneliness Country is her first poetry book and is a hand-made edition. She has plans of getting a nursing degree and is writing what she hopes to be her first novel. She lives in a red house with her dog, Meche and cat, Frida Sofia.

Poetry Festival 2009 at Stonehedge Gardens

Schedule of Events

9:30- breakfast sponsored by
Black Diamond Writer’s Network

10:15-11:00- workshops

11:00- 1:00- Open Mic

Lunch catered by What’s for Lunch?
in Stonehedge Café(see price list in café)

1:00-1:45- readings by Jeff Rath

2:00-2:45-workshops

3:00-closing- Open Mic

4:00-5:00- informal critiquing
group

Workshops:

10:15-11:00- Holly Landau- How
to Launch a Poem

10:15-11:00- Sara Hodon-
Personal Essays through
Journaling

2:00-3:00- Jodi Webb- The Five
W’s of Writing for Magazines

2:00-3:00- Julia Tilley- Timed
Writings with Prompts

Fourth Annual Northeast PA Poetry and Writer’s Festival

Stage set for 4th annual poetry and writer’s festival at Stonehedge Gardens, Tamaqua, PA

Contact: Debi Dodson, dixieann50@aol.com


Stonehedge Gardens will offer an ideal backdrop for the Fourth Annual Northeast PA Poetry and Writer’s Festival on Saturday, July 18 from 10 am to 4 pm. The festival will feature writing workshops, networking opportunities, open readings, the chance to meet publishers, and a marketplace to display, sell and sign published work.

This festival is open to any interested or aspiring writer at any skill or experience level and a $10 donation will cover breakfast and all workshops. For more information or to register in advance, call 570-386-4618 or email stonehedgeinfo@hotmail.com.

The event will offer a chance for local writers to share creative ideas, techniques and tools, and original work in the natural setting of the Stonehedge six-acre gardens, and will begin with continental breakfast mixer hosted by Black Diamond Writer’s Network where participants will choose his or her morning and afternoon workshop choice.

Workshop presenters will include Sara Hodon and Jodi Webb of the Black Diamond Writer’s Network, and professional writer and workshop facilitator Holly Landau and Deborah Filanowski, published poet and presenter. Two open mic sessions will allow participants to read poems, flash fiction or flash non-fiction, and those who opt to stay after 4 may join an informal critique group. At noon, the Stonehedge Café will sell lunch items and the Market Place will offer an area for writers to display, sell and sign their work, and meet with publishers.

All participants will enjoy poetry by special guest Jeff Rath, the acclaimed Lancaster-based poet and author of The Waiting Room at the End of the World and his most recent In the Shooting Gallery of the Heart, both published collections of poetry. Rath is the 2007 R.E. Foundation award winner for Outstanding Poetry and a Pushcart Prize nominee.

Stonehedge is a six-acre, free public garden, gallery and gift shop used for art exhibits and education, as well as a variety of community events focused on nature, art and wellness. Visitors are invited to discover the garden at any time between noon and dusk.

Operated as a non-profit 501(c)3 organization, Stonehedge Gardens is member-supported and operated almost completely through volunteer20support. Its mission is to provide an environment for personal and community transformation and wellness through its gardens and the arts. For pricing on private tours, to join as a member, or become a volunteer, visit http://stonehedge.org or call 570-386-4618.

For Poets, a labor of love (not money)

An interview in NPR about making a living with poetry

Tie Saturday’s

On Friday’s my grandma let watch tv, while she ironed my suit. The jacket was small on me and I could hardly move my arms, but Granny said “You must wear a suit and tie when you visit a woman.” Granny taught me to knot the tie. Sometimes it didn’t come out right.
My grandmother tried very hard to teach me how to be a good boy. Granny was always talking how a man has to step it up, be responsible of his actions, a good provider like my Pop-pop was. She said, “The world needs men that are worth it”. Maybe she said this because I never got to know my father. He vanished when my mother got pregnant with me. Sometimes I wondered what he looked like and if he had a favorite baseball team. I wondered how it felt to have a father. I wondered if a dad will treat you the way my Pop-pop did. Pop-pop was a great guy. He knew how to build; he only needed nails and a hammer. He used to take me fishing and while he chewed tobacco he showed me how to hold the fishing rod and sit still. He loved the Yankees and blamed his bad knees which kept him from pursuing a baseball career. Instead he enrolled in the police force.
I asked Baby Jesus if I could be like the kids who play baseball on Saturdays. I wanted a beautiful mom whom everybody envied. My granny says “Baby Jesus is too busy dealing with starving African kids.” Other kids had mothers that played with them. They signed up their kids for baseball leagues and baked brownies for the team. It didn’t feel normal to spend my Saturdays sitting between drug dealers, bitter old women and angry guards. I never experienced a normal family weekend but I knew there was another way of living. I peeked at it when my friends talked about playing in the park with their parents or how they played catch.
At bedtime my granny kissed me on the forehead when she tucked me in. She smelled like muscle ointment but I was used to how old folks smelled. Granny has old friends who visit and always smelled like rancid milk. Granny told me they smelled like that because when each of us was born we began dying. “Some die early and some die late but we are always getting older.”
Since my grandpa died one year ago, Granny is obsessed with death, maybe because the loneliness gives her time to think about her own frailty. She told me to pray that she died after my mother got out of jail. Sometimes she asks “Who is going to take care of you if I die?”. Then she tries to comfort me, telling me she still had a few years to go. There wasn’t any reason to worry. But I worried. It seemed everybody was leaving me. My grandma was my last chance. I prayed to start living like the other kids. I was expecting to wake up one morning with white hair and saggy cheeks if I continued living between old people. I was certainly sick of going to visit my mother in jail. The bars at the doors gave me goose bumps. Often I had nightmares in which I was trapped inside a cell and everybody forgot I just went to visit. My granny and I were paying the sentence my mother gave us. All our plans and decisions revolved around that cement building. My Pop-pop used to tell me, “Once you pass those doors you are dead. You no longer existed. We died on Saturday, over and over again.
I wondered about when I was going to die. I’m almost 8 and lot of time has passed but I don’t see a sign of death yet. Maybe I have cancer and I’m dying little by little, like my grandfather. Pop-pop had cancer. He lost weight until he almost disappeared. He had trouble breathing but never stopped smoking or chewing tobacco. Will I have to wait to get that wrinkled? I think about these things before falling asleep, even when I hear Granny snoring in the other bedroom. She sounds like a broken car.
Early on Saturday morning, Granny woke me up. She gets me out of bed and starts washing behind my ears, telling me she doesn’t want anybody to think her grandson is a slob. Today I was able to knot my tie perfectly, like a gentleman.
Granny packs the things we will give to my mother. We brought her sweets like cookies and mints. My granny doesn’t like to bring her cigarettes but she does anyway because behind bars cigarettes are like money. I miss her. It isn’t that Granny is unkind, but she forgets things and she keeps insisting that I eat vegetables. My mother never made me eat anything green. She gave me hot dogs, french fries and all the ice cream I wanted. Life with her was so much easier. At least it was before the cops arrested her and I started to live with Pop-pop and Granny. The taxi driver comes late. Granny nags him. She bargains until the price is three dollars lower. The driver tells her about the high prices of gas. Soon the trip will be more expensive. She answer that her social security is still the same. The driver ignores her and looks through the window. He picks up another lady who needs to go to the same place. She already knows my granny so they share information about their daughter’s sentences, strict judges and they exchange remedies for ache and pains. They concluded that you can teach your kids values but it’s on them to decide which path to take. They talk about how during their youth things were better.
While they talked I lay my head back and imagined I was going to a baseball game with my mom. We would eat pretzels and a baseball player would talk to us and take me out on the field. I made the first throw of the season. Everything was perfect. My daydreaming stopped when my Granny tapped me on the shoulder and told me we arrived.
The jail was a sad rectangle surrounded by concertina wire. There wasn’t a single tree. Life was not permitted there. The waiting area had posters about rehabilitation and making good choices, like the women who were there had a choice of remaking the events which brought them to that place. Other ladies like Granny arrive too. All of the ladies were carrying bags full of food, cigarettes, and magazines. The guards checked everything. Sometimes they didn’t let certain products pass. They patted down everybody, even the kids, looking for weapons, drugs and other contraband. I didn’t like the searches. They made me uncomfortable, like I was a criminal, my only crime was being the child of an inmate. Maybe that was enough and my sole destiny was to end up in a place like this myself. I think the guards thought the son of a frog is always was a good swimmer. At each search I lost a piece of my innocence. I knew the ones who crossed those doors were living dead. We had a sign in our foreheads. We were the kids who carried the stigma of our mother’s flaws.
The guards always seemed unhappy and they barked orders. They never smiled or say nice things. I made the mental note that I could never be a guard or a police officer, like Pop-pop. Some women made the trip to find their daughter had lost visiting privileges that week. That woman always asked if her daughter was okay. Could they at least talk to them for a few minutes? But the guards refused. The mothers grabbed their bags in silence and left. Some of them cried, others complained to the guards who just shrugged. Granny said some women that visit the jail looked sad because they are new to this. Eventually they will get used to it. She says you get used to things, even the absence of the people you love. She cries when she tells me this.
I feel sad and very uncomfortable in my jacket. I spit on my hand and shine my shoes. Granny bumps on the head and starts talks about bacteria. I want to tell her I wish my mother wasn’t in jail. I didn’t even cry because each time I cried before, Granny told me to save my tears for another moment. I don’t cry even when my eyes burn and my chest wants to explode. However she cries now and then. It must be because she is old and old people can do whatever they want.
There is Mom. She looked older each weekend. Her orange jump suit doesn’t go good with her blonde pony tail. She has tiny wrinkles around her eyes and her mouth is no longer able to show a complete smile. She has tattooed the words love and hate on her knuckles, like her own explanation of her relationship with us. Her nails were chipped and chewed in the corners. She tried to comfort us and be happy but we knew she lost her vitality when the guards body searched her the night she arrived to jail. She talks to my Granny about childhood memories and she sobs when she remembers Pop-pop. She says if she could, she would do things differently. She feels very guilty for bringing shame to our family. My grandfather never forgave her. Pop-pop died without visiting her in jail, not a single time. My granny argued with him and I heard him tell my grandma, “Rose is a disgrace. I’m not going to support her after what she did.” He yelled that for him my mother was dead.
My Pop-pop was right she was dead. I will not talk to her. I was so mad at her. I will not tell her that I grew up one inch and my teacher told me I’m a genius with numbers. I wished I had the strength to tell her I decided she was dead for me too. If she wanted to be my mother she would never have ended up in jail and made us go through the punishment of visiting that ugly place.
The guards say visiting hours are over. They open the bars. My mother cries silently. My mother always cries and wants us to stay a little bit longer. But the guards scold her and write her up in a report.
My mother asks me for a goodbye kiss. I don’t move. I look directly into her eyes so she knew I was mad. My tie is killing me and my eyes burn. I don’t want her to kiss me and then leave again, so I start walking away. She called my name softly. My granny commanded me to say goodbye to my mother in the proper way. I kept walking. Granny offered to spank me. My mother tells her it is okay “It’s normal that he is angry and confused”.
My granny kissed my mom, “See you next Saturday, pumpkin pie?” My mom calls to me, in a louder voice. “Jack I know you are angry with this situation. I have lost my freedom but I will not lose you. I love you son.”
I looked at her while the guards walked her away I felt like the tie was strangling me. I pulled the tie, free of my shirt collar. I throw it in the trash. I got rid of the ugly jacket and used it to wipe my tears. Then I looked at my grandmother,
“Next time I’m wearing a t-shirt because this is no place for suits and ties. ”

A Spanish early version of this story was published in February 14, 2007 in Bocetos de una ciudad silente by Ana Maria Fuster.

Kamchatka

To Carmen Luisa

I murmur Kamchatka,
Like a rustle on my tongue,
Nothing interrupts my soliloquy with the whirlwind of leaves.

Kamchatka is a country suspended upon the globe
As absence hangs like a pendant from naked branches.

Kamchatka is the instant of happiness engraved on your breastbone,
Forever.

Kamchatka is a burned dot on celluloid.

Kamchatka is waving your hand,
While what you loved becomes not even a blurry pixel in the distance.

Kamchatka is standing up without shivering knees,
When you know happiness is a dying firefly,
You cannot grab the twinkle in your fingers.

Kamchatka, Kamchatka,
Is the whisper keeping company to my expectation.

Kamchatka,
Is my place of resistance.



A Carmen Luisa

Murmuro Kamchatka,
para que nada interrumpa mi soliloquio con los torbellinos de hojas.

Kamchatka,
es algún país que cuelga del globo terráqueo,
como cuelgan las ausencias
de las ramas desnudas.

Kamchatka es el instante de felicidad perfecta y silenciosa,
grabado en tu esternón para siempre.

Kamchatka es un punto quemado
en rollos de celuloide.

Kamchatka es agitar tu mano en gesto de despedida,
mientras lo que amas ya no es siquiera un píxel borroso en la lejanía.

Kamchatka es seguir de pie,
sin que te tiemblen las rodillas,
sabiendo que la felicidad es una libélula moribunda,
cuyo destello no puedes atrapar con los dedos.

Kamchatka, Kamchatka,
es el murmullo que acompaña mi espera.

Kamchatka,
es el lugar de la resistencia.


Kamchatka, la película
Kamchatka, la península

This poem was published in the literary magazine, Off the Coast.
Este poema fue publicado en la revista literaria, Off the Coast.

Yellow Attic is born

I was born in Aguadilla, Puerto Rico and I grew up between Isabela and Moca. I started to love books as a kid while my Mom was going to college. I thought books were quite important if she spent so much time reading them. I wrote childish poems growing up, mainly poems to my family and such. During my teenage years I wrote, guess what?...love poems. I burned them all because once I started to discover Neruda and Julia de Burgos I felt ashamed. Then I went to college to pursue a bachelor in Comparative Literature but my first passion, the promise that I made my grandma I was going to be a journalist and being practical made me switch to journalism. I did pretty good in my literature classes but once I got to the theory ones I was a hot mess. I wanted to spend my life writing something creative not about literary theories or analyzing other people books. I respect the people in the field but it wasn't not for me. I got my degree in journalism from University of Puerto Rico. Obtaining it was a breeze, after growing up with WKAQ radio station 24and reading the newspapers to my grandma all the classes were easy. The hard part was getting a job in the field but that is another story.
I knew my writing was more than a hobby when I met the founder of Guajana, Vicente Rodriguez Nietzche. He put me in contact with all the poets of his generation. I became an organizer of poetry events with him. Those were the years of Colectivos en Tarima, Poetry Nights at Café Cuatro Estaciones. I met other dreamers like me, those who knew the power of poetry. Just to mention a few Julio César Pol (Founder of El Sótano 00931, Raúl "Gorras" Morris, Lady Lee Andrews, Carlos Esteban Cana, Mayrim Cruz Bernal, Jorge Capiello, Amarilis Tavarez, between others. I traveled with "Gorras" Morris and Rodriguez Nietzche to La Habana, Cuba Book Fair in 2002. Seeing the lines the cubans made to buy books and other experiences made me think about how readers were still there...we just had to look for them. For some reason we I got back home the country seemed so little, so asfixiating that I took the first option I had to get away from the country...I moved to Miami, Florida to pursue a master degree in Spanish Journalism, which I finished in one year. I went back to Puerto Rico and worked like a cashier in an African art store, in a store of painted ceramic houses, dishwasher in a restaurant, organizer of poetry workshops with Instituto de Cultura, copyrights coordinator for Santillana Editores. Whatever was necessary to survive. I wrote very little during this time. The poems I produced around this time were mainly erotic, pieces to show my lovers how much I wanted or loved them. Again the feeling of running away and the itch to make the dream of my grandmother of me being a journalist were killing me.
I took an offer of being the editor for a Hispanic newspaper in Reading, Pennsylvania
That is how I got to the United States and the cold weather. I worked in the newspaper for three years. As the editor I wrote different articles in a weekly basis but the calling of writing something more was there the whole time. To calm this yearning, I started participating with the Berks Bards. Knowing how this group had been together for 10 years and seeing the amazing job Elizabeth Stanley had made organizing this group made me question my own commitment. I questioned myself why if I wanted to write I wasn't. My answer was pure laziness. I started writing again and I meet the writer, Tanya Rosado and she taught me to book bind. I started talking and reading with writers like Lamont Steptoe, Craig Czury, Heather Thomas and I decided to do a handcrafted limited edition of my first poetry book, Loneliness Country. The poems of this book are about the feeling of being an immigrant.
A few events in my life showed me my duty with my grandmother and journalism was over. So there I was without a purpose, not knowing how to continue living without a motor to move me forward. Writing again saved me from losing faith in life. I started writing again and I didn’t stop yet. I decided I had to do the switch to English. I have a weekly meeting with Marilyn Klimcho in which I read her fiction and we talk about how to tweak it and she edits my translations. Currently I’m working on a novel; a poetry book about nostalgia titled, Sepia and a collection of some rewritten erotic and love poems. I had been sending my work to a couple of magazines. I was published in the magazine Off the Coast, in the poetry anthology, Los Rostros de la Hidra. Some others liked my work but the publication is tough with this economic situations. So far I didn’t received a rejection letter…yet..
My dreams and plans? To continue reading in poetry venues around the area, to write everyday or at least think about some idea, keep submitting my work to magazines and build a name for myself. Finally I feel I’m starting to follow my path, my calling…not the one of my grandmother or my parents, but the one I feel is the right one. How I know? Because when I write everything disappears. I just feel this energy running thru me, a feeling very close to what you feel when you make love with someone good in bed. Is like a connection with a center of great energy. When I write I feel everything falls into its place, I feel finally at home. Why Yellow Attic? Because there is where I write, in my attic painted with bright yellow. This blog is me, the writer, the poet.