Month December 2013

* baring it all with Dorianne Laux

José Angel Araguz Leave a comment

So: remember all that paper that was under my desk two weeks ago that I cleared out just last week?

Well, now there’ s this:

* here there be manuscripts *

* here there be manuscripts *

I handed this over to Ani earlier this week.

I’ve been busy working on a few different projects since school let out, hermitted away at my desk, coming away excited each night, talking her ear off about this concept or that change.  It’s a terrifying stack: the soul in a ream of paper.

This week’s poem by Dorianne Laux deals with all manner of nakedness.  What stands out is how the nakedness pointed out by the poet is the nakedness that is apparent in a straightforward sense, something of the inner being exposed through the particulars of its outer being.

Sharing the stack of papers visually – and literally, with a reader – carries with it similar feelings of nakedness.

The Nakedness of Things – Dorianne Laux *

There is nothing more naked
than a cactus, its green skin
exposed, the enlarged
pores from which each
spiny hair sprouts. Nothing
so naked as a wave
lifting its frothy dress
to show off one glassy
blue thigh. The pliers
spreads its legs, sheathed
in red rubber stockings,
displays its shiny
metal crotch, cold
to the touch. A dab
of kerosene behind
an ear of glowing coal
and it splays open, twisting
in a pit, like the frayed
wilderness of sex. Nothing
naked as the rain, dragging
its fingers over
the mountain’s bare
breasts or music
undressing itself
in the air. Look,
it’s everywhere, the world
undone, naked
as the day it was born.

*

Happy nakeding!

Jose

* (originally published in Raleigh Review)

* word is bond with Eduardo C. Corral

José Angel Araguz 2 Comments

To remind everyone, here was the state of my desk last week:

* here there be monsters *

* here there be monsters *

And, true to my word, here is what it looks like this week:

* here there be sheep *

* here there be sheep *

That is Milton, our apartment’s guard sheep, doing a final inspection of my clean-up.

I had to sneak up on him – he has a no-camera policy while on the job.  I got a stern reprimand afterwards.  All in the name of blogdom.

As well as the treat of cleaning, I also allowed myself the treat of sitting down to a book of poetry.

One of my favorite things to do is to sit down and read a whole book of poems straight through.

(Think of the rarity: a Virgo in one place for an extended period of time – I can barely sit still in class.  At least I get to pace as I teach.)

It is also, for me, one of the marks of a good book of poems, that it keeps you reading, engages you to the end.  In France they refer to books as bricks – that’s what I’m talking about!

I am happy to report that Eduardo C. Corral’s collection, Slow Lightning, was successful on all accounts.

The prose poem below is one of the spookiest poems I read in a while.  Like: finding your own first and last name on a gravestone spooky.  Corral is quickly becoming one of my new favorite writers.  His work takes on the political without sacrificing the personal.

**

Immigration and Naturalization Service Report #46 – Eduardo C. Corral

After the body was bagged and whisked away, we noticed a scarlet pelt on the sand.  “This guy had it nice, sleeping on a pelt for days,” Ignacio joked.  He paused mid-laugh, bent down, ran his hand through the fur.  One of his fingers snagged.  “This isn’t a pelt, it’s a patch of wolf ears,” he said.  “No, they’re too large,” I replied.  “Then they must be coyote ears,” he murmured.  Sweat gathered in the small of my back.  “Ignacio, should we radio headquarters?” I asked. Two ears rose slowly from the patch.  I said a few more words. Nothing.  I uttered my own name.  Two more ears unfurled.  We stepped back from the patch, called out the names of our fathers and mothers.  Ramon.  Juana.  Octavio.  More and more ears rose. Rodolfo. Gloria…

for Javier O. Huerta

Happy rising!

Jose