La Llorona on the Longfellow Bridge
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In sections divided into each of the places she visited in her travels, Gaspar de Alba incorporates the Mexican archetypal wailing woman who wanders in search of her lost children. La Llorona is more than an archetype: she is a tour guide through the ruins of love and family, the constant presence of the poet’s voice. She transcends time, place, and gender. The lines of the poems breathe that haunted spirit as they describe her movidas– both geographic and figurative, in search of the lost mother, the absent father, the abandoned child, the lover, the self. These essays track other movements of thought: reflections on identity, sexuality and resistance.
As a leading interpreter of border life and culture, poet, storyteller, and essayist Gaspar de Alba explores the borders and limits of place, body, and language through a painful series of moves and losses. She prevails and becomes the forger of her own destiny, her own image on the landscape, the interpreter of her own dreams and history.
These vibrant poems and essays of self-creation—even to the basic task of choosing her own name—are a testament to the phoenix-like quality of art: the poet can create beauty out of destruction and desolation.
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La Llorona on the Longfellow Bridge - Alicia Gaspar de Alba
La Llorona on the Longfellow Bridge
poetry y otras movidas 1985–2001
by
Alicia Gaspar de Alba
para Dolores y Soledad—so full of duende—and, for the abandoned
This volume is made possible through grants from the City of Houston through The Cultural Arts Council of Houston, Harris County.
Recovering the past, creating the future
Arte Público Press
University of Houston
452 Cullen Performance Hall
Houston, Texas 77204-2004
Cover art La Llorona Desperately Seeking Coyolxauhqui in Juárez,
2003, by Alma López
Cover design by Adelaida Mendoza
Gaspar de Alba, Alicia, 1958–
La Llorona on the Longfellow Bridge: poetry y otras movidas / by Alicia Gaspar de Alba
p. cm.
ISBN 1-55885-399-5 (pbk. : alk. paper)
1. Mexican Americans—Literary collections. III. Title.
PS3557.A8449L57 2003
The paper used in this publication meets the requirements of the American National Standard for Information Sciences—Permanence of Paper for Printed Library Materials, ANSI Z39.48-1984.
© 2003 Alicia Gaspar de Alba
3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
Contents
Tracking La Llorona
Departure (1985)
Crooked Foot Speaks/Habla Pata Chueca
Iowa City (1985–1986)
In the Shadow of Greater Things
After 21 Years, A Postcard from My Father
Dust to Dust
Holy Ground
Boston (1986–1990)
The Philosophy of Frijoles
Gardenias for El Gran Gurú
70 Moons
Bamba Basílica
Caldo de Pollo
Confessions
Pilgrim’s Progress
Sor Juana’s Litany in the Subjunctive
Listening to Our Bones
Karmic Revolution
Galloping
Literary Wetback
Elemental Journey: 7 Days in the Woods (July 1989)
1. Adirondack Park
2. Swimming in Limekiln Lake
3. Waking Up in Ontario: Reward
4. The Niagara River Speaks Three Languages
5. Rainstorm: The Gorge
6. Piseco Lake
7. Point Comfort: Coming Home
Albuquerque (1990–1992)
Autumn Equinox in the Sandias, 1990
Bluebirds
Chamizal
Name that Border
Los Angeles (1992–1999)
The Waters of Grief
Huitlacoche Crepes
Neighbors
Descarada/No Shame: A[bridged] Politics of Location
Land of the Dead (1994–2001)
Carmen’s Song
Blackjack
Culto a la Muerte
Witch Museum
Kyrie Eleison for La Llorona
Eclipse (September 11th)
El Encuentro
Acknowledgments
Tracking La Llorona
I confess: there are those who will tell you that I deride the self-indulgent practice of writers publishing their dreams and journal entries (unless it’s a fictional technique, which I liberally employed in my novel on Sor Juana). But I also know that often, some of our best work is tucked away in those stacks of notebooks we writers accumulate like karma. As I have been contemplating how to introduce this second collection of poetry y otras movidas,
I remember snippets of amazingly profound insights I wrote down years ago in one of those notebooks, and I search frantically through twenty years of written karma to find those words, written years before I became an academic, when I had more time than money, when I could afford the luxury to theorize, that is, contemplate, my own poetics. If I knew exactly what I’d said, I wouldn’t need to indulge in this archaeology of private knowledge, but all I have is the memory of having said something pertinent. I can feel it there, on the tip of my tongue, the distinct, if subtle, pressure of the words on the loam of my forty-four-year-old brain; but, alas, I must resort to digging, and digging brings up sand and bones and spiders, and an occasional treasure.
Like this, from the introduction I wrote to my M.A. Thesis in Creative Writing at the University of Texas at El Paso (from which I have poached before), titled Introspection Week: Taking Time Out to Talk about Theoretics, or, Who Says Chicanas Can Write?
November, 1983
I think poets are crazy in the ultimately best sense of the word. The sense that made us proud in high school when someone would say "you’re crazy." To be crazy, then, meant to be free and honest and open to all sorts of things like ditching and queer sex. To be crazy, now, open to the world, is what gives me the freedom and the honesty to write a poem.
I can always tell when parts of a poem start to synchronize inside my head, usually in the middle of the night when images keep rolling around on my tongue and there’s no way I can go to sleep, no way I can close my eyes to that buzzing, shapeless presence I know is a poem. So I get up and write, not at all certain what I’m going to say or how the poem is going to look.
The logic of writing poetry, as Wallace Stevens says, is an irrational
one; it occurs spontaneously and unaccountably in the rational mind; it is born of listening to something that can’t be heard except in the deepest crevices of the skull. Perhaps this is what Manuel Torres, the Andalusian artist, referred to as black sounds
when he said whatever has black sounds has duende.
Duende, to the people of Andalusia, is more than a hobgoblin or a poltergeist. It is a power that expresses itself through all forms of art. But not all artists, all poets, all bullfighters, have duende, nor do they all hear black sounds.
These are earth forces,
according to Federico García Lorca, that exist only in the blood. They have, he says, nothing to do with aptitude or technique or virtuosity. … the Duende loves ledges and wounds … he enters only those areas where form dissolves in a passion transcending any of its visible expressions.
¹
I think my duende made