Two
scenarios in Orlando Ricardo Menes’ Fetish.
In
the first, nature—nature in the speaker’s childhood taking on mythic qualities. But
also the nature of friendship (without giving anything away); the nature of
language (without giving anything away).
In
the second, history—the weight of family history within the history of an
island nation.
Victoria María Castells and Dan Vera add their voices to the chorus.
Victoria María Castells and Dan Vera add their voices to the chorus.
Victoria
María Castells on “Sal”
The poem “Sal” shows the conflation of
nature, language, and culture for two sixth-grade outsiders, a Cuban immigrant
and his only friend, the dark-skinned tomboy Sal. Throughout the poem, there is
a preoccupation with exact classification, where the pines in the kitchen of
Sal’s grandmother are clarified to be “wild pines—Epidendrums,” the official horticultural grouping. The exact
descriptions are at odds with the speaker’s imperfect English as a boy, “the frito-bandito talk Miss Jones called uglier than spit on dirt.” Unintentionally
on the teacher’s part but characteristic of the work’s theme, language is again
tied to the earth.
In this swampy environment, undomesticated
nature is bleeding into the physical setting. The kitchen is described as a
“greenhouse” overflowing with plants, and the playtime outside of the shack
takes place as if in a mystical landscape. The sense of foreignness is
transfigured into the bog, through the wild lists of the evocative and
unfamiliar, accounts of drinking “bromeliad water” and diving into “oölite
ponds”. Compound words also conjoin agriculture and animal life, with phrases
like “centipede vines,” “hog pail,” “alligator pear,” “fingerbone twigs,” “fig crickets,”
and “cock’s-spur toes”. Youthful imagination and physical immersion turn the
two alienated figures into a natural part of the surroundings, with an
inclusivity reflected in this bonded world.
The expanded titling is not kept to
only physical objects. “You’re mine now, Sal
said, I the boy/ you the girl,” and gender is switched through the power of
assertion. With his red lips and wig made of moss, the boy is no longer
restricted to one gender or idiom, or even his identity as a human being. The physical
union that follows is described through scientific jargon, “tender parts of
orchids— stigmas, anthers, ovaries,” as if Sal and the speaker are pollinating.
Only after this transfer does Spanish appear in the physical descriptions, for
seesaws, bamboo, trees, and mangroves. The boy travels under “ficus roots—jagüey,” in contrast to the earlier
Latin identification of Epidendrums.
Gender, ethnicity, and wildlife meld into an entity best expressed through a heterogeneous
lexicon. The poem ends as the speaker “snaked miles through aquifer,” until he
hears “corúa birds coo the dawn gru-gru, gru-gru.” The corúas speak, and immigrant speech has
been assimilated into the wild.
Victoria
María Castells is a Miami, Florida native. She earned a B.A. in English
from Duke University and is an MFA candidate in Fiction at McNeese State.
*
Dan Vera on “Elegy for Great-Uncle Julio, Cane Cutter”
“Hoy no llego
al futuro sangrado de ayer.”
“Today did not arrive bloodied by yesterday.” Silvio Rodríguez
And yet today does bear the
stains of the past.
Orlando Ricardo Menes' “Elegy for
Great-Uncle Julio, Cane Cutter” retells the story of a pilgrimage to Cuba and
visit to long-lost relatives. Menes
opens with the story of a family separated by politics. Part of the family left Cuba after the
revolution and part of it stayed. The
speaker travels to Cuba, to Tío Julio's bohio, the simple earthen home
of the Cuban countryside, to meet the figure from childhood stories, to meet
him “in the flesh,” to pay respects to blood family and in some way create a
wholeness where separation has long existed.
Like all elegies, it is filled
with great sadness, which pervades every inch of the poem. Everywhere is evidence of time's passage: the
“wilted clippings of Fidel glued to the bedposts” and the “Soviet tractors”
rotting in the sheds beside the cane fields.
This is not the polished surfaces of the revolution's public quarters
but the rough-hewn and collapsing space of the daily laborer.
I was struck by many notes here
that are breathtaking in their simple directness: Tío Julio's wife, who offers
coffee and an invitation to a meal, revealing the enduring and painful
hospitality of those with meager and rationed resources. The cigar box opened to reveal old
photographs of family members long gone – evidence of previous generations that
are a priceless trove for exiled children who grew up with little access to
family histories. The weight of the
experience is such that the speaker can bear it no more, begs pardon, and
departs over “rutted canefields,” tripping “over pits of memory.” He is left with his “false promises” which he
does not enumerate but I believe refers to the pilgrim's inability to capture
peace or resolution in the face of such tragic history.
In its specificity this poem is
for the numberless Cuban families sundered in the last 50 years by
revolutionary history and geopolitics.
But in one sense, like all stories of the returning children of
refugees, Menes' elegy serves for all those who are a product of departure and
exile. In this way it speaks to the
larger and ongoing human experience of loss and longing. Indeed this poem is an example of how every
exile, [in truth every arrival] is in some way born out of tragedy, out of
separation and loss. One discovers this
somehow, even in the midst of a happy childhood, that one's parents left
something behind, something they cannot communicate. One grows up with the knowledge that there
are conversations and relatives that are not available to you.
It's hard for me to recall
another poem by a Cuban poet, on or off the island, that has more powerfully
told that heartbreaking story. This
isn't poetry of victory. It does not
argue politics or history. It bears
witness to the real pain in history's wake.
Although over one million Cubans
have left the island, no one has escaped the hardship and scarring tragedy of
the last 50 years. Menes' “Elegy for
Great-Uncle Julio, Cane Cutter” is an elegy to a severed body and a dismembered
people. The speaker in “Elegy to Tío
Julio” documents the cleave points between history and home. These are places poetry is meant to plumb.
What Menes finds in the poem
isn't a resolution but a revelation of the miraculous persistence of family
ties and their ability to wound, to haunt and to ground us in our helplessness
in the face of history. All the
protagonist can do is bear witness to the fracture between Cubans on the island
and in the diaspora. For more than fifty
years the story of Cubans has been one of brokenness and longing. Menes is unafraid to explore these depths; he
chooses to remember.
Dan Vera is a writer, editor, and literary historian living
in Washington, DC. He's the author of two poetry collections: Speaking Wiri
Wiri (Red Hen, 2013), the inaugural winner of the Letras Latinas/Red Hen Poetry
Prize, and one of Beltway Poetry's Ten Best Poetry Books of 2013, and The Space
Between Our Danger and Delight (Beothuk Books, 2008). His poetry appears in
various journals, including Notre Dame Review, Beltway Poetry, Delaware Poetry
Review, Gargoyle, and Little Patuxent Review, in addition to the anthologies
Divining Divas, Full Moon On K Street, and DC Poets Against the War. He's
edited the gay culture journal White Crane, co-created the literary history
site, DC Writers’ Homes, and chairs the board of Split This Rock Poetry.
LatinoStories.com named him a 2014 Top Ten "New" Latino Author
to Watch (and Read) saying "In Speaking Wiri Wiri, Dan Vera shows us why
he is earning a reputation as a talented, sophisticated poet who is a master at
playing with words. This collection, his second book of poetry, is a
dazzling display of language and emotion."
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