Photo by Marianna Smiley on Unsplash

Hermano Femi Ojo-Ade,
aquí estamos:
en San Salvador Bahía de Todos los Santos
la ciudad fundada por los portugueses en 1549.

Nos dirán todos con orgullo
que fue la primera capital de Brasil.
Que tiene uno de los carnavales más vistosos, populares y felices del mundo.
Que Porto de Barra es una de las tres mejores playas del planeta.
Que estamos en el paraíso de la democracia racial.
Que aquí se inventó el arte marcial de la capoeira.

Pero nadie nos dirá que esta ciudad tiene
el número más grande de persona negras en todo Brasil.
Nadie nos dirá que esta ciudad
fue uno de los primeros y más grandes puertos de esclavos en las Américas.
Nadie nos dirá que en esta ciudad
hierve viva la influencia de los Yorubas y Bantúes,
que los adoquines todavía se secretean en lenguas de África
los ancestrales cantos de los sabios griots
y el Candomblé que con ellos cruzaron el inmenso océano.

Nadie nos dirá que esta ciudad estuvo organizada por siglos
entre la Ciudad Baja del puerto comercial (dígase sangre, caña y esclavitud)
y la Ciudad Alta desde donde se administraba entre cristianas cruces y rosarios la crueldad.

Nadie nos dirá en esta ciudad
lo que significa en verdad la palabra “pelourinho,”
pero tú boca viva y memoriosa
nos recordará que quiere decir “poste de piedra con argollas de hierro”
(siempre muy cercano a una iglesia, desde luego),
donde el esclavo fue azotado y humillado públicamente
por atreverse a cantar, a estar vivo
y no dejarse morir cabizbajo o triste.

Nadie nos dirá en esta ciudad
que en la restauración millonaria de Pelourinho de 1992
se expulsó a la vasta mayoría de los residentes
de los históricos vecindarios negros
para que floreciera seguro y civilizado el turismo.
Nadie nos pronunciará ni siquiera por lo bajo
en su natal Sao Paulo
ni aquí en esta ciudad de Pelourinho
el nombre de baobab proscrito de Abdias do Nascimento.

Nadie olvidará sin embargo aquí su nombre
porque tú lo has desencadenado sonriendo al viento salado de la bahía,
y así por las calles va tu canción negra y eterna,
para que nunca olvidemos de dónde hemos venido hasta aquí,
de África hasta Pelourinho,
hermano Femi Ojo-Ade.

Brother Femi Ojo-Ade,
here we are:
in San Salvador, Bay of all Saints
the city founded by the Portuguese in 1549.

They will tell us all with pride
that it was the first capital of Brazil.
That it has one of the most colorful, popular, and festive carnivals in the world.
That Porto de Barra is one of the three best beaches on the planet.
That we are in the paradise of racial democracy.
That here they invented the martial art of Capoeira.

But no one will tell us that this city has
the greatest number of black people in all Brazil.
No one will tell us that this city
was one of the first and largest slave ports in the Americas.
No one will tell us that in this city
the influence of the Yorubas and Bantúes lives on,
that all day the cobblestones secrete the languages of Africa
the ancestral songs of the wise griots
and the Candomblé who with them crossed the immense ocean.

No one will tell us that this city was organized for centuries
between the Lower Town of the commercial port (tell yourself blood, sugar cane, and bondage)
and the Upper Town from where, between Christian crosses and rosaries, the cruelty was administered.

No one will tell us in this city
the true significance of the word "pelourinho,"
but your alive and and memorable mouth
will remind us that you want to say "stone post with iron rings"
(always very near to a church, of course),
where the slave was whipped and publicly humiliated
for daring to sing, to be alive
and not letting oneself die crestfallen or sad.

No one will tell us in this city
that in the million dollar restoration of Pelourinho in 1992
they expelled the vast majority of the residents
from the historic black neighborhoods
so that tourism would flourish safely and civilized.
No one will pronounce for us even under their breath
in his native Sao Paulo
nor here in the city of Pelourinho
the name of baobab outlaw Abdias do Nascimento.

Nevertheless, no one will forget his name
because you have launched it smiling at the salty wind of the bay,
and so through the streets goes your song, black and eternal,
so we will never forget where we have come here from,
from Africa to Pelourinho,
brother Femi Ojo-Ade.

Photo by Ronaldo Santos on Unsplash

                                  “Spring”

Spring comes upon you like a compassionate god,
the one you thought had forgotten,
or was angry
and then, suddenly, there she is
smiling and vibrant and calling your name

“Look! I am back.
And beautiful, no?
Fragrant as lily of the valley
and stunning as azaleas
blooming in front of your home.
Come outside,” she calls to you,
extending her hand.

And she invites you into your own heart.
After all this time she is acting as though
nothing has happened between you,
her long absence, your deep uncertainty,
your unanswered questions,
as if they have not mattered,
as if they do not matter.

“Look!” she says,
“I am here!
Give me your hand.
It is Spring, no?
Breathe in -- deeply --
Now, embrace me, again.”

(Copyright © by Michael S. Glaser. “Spring” is included in FlashPoint with permission of Bright Hill Press, which published it in The Threshold of Light.)

Photo by Jerin J on Unsplash

(2019)

Writers conference
text texting scrooooooolllll texting           screens
anaconda words

Scrolling and texting
quiet crowded elevator
smombies clog hallways

blah blah blah blah blah
poet at the podium
will she Instagram?

Send me the photo
of me at the podium
what is your Twitter?

I heart your Twitter
tweettweettweettweettweetTWEET           please
follow me heart me

Someone left their phone
in the all gender restroom
hope they have Xanax

Emoji meme meme
LOL meme xox
hashtag amwriting