December 11, 2024 • 34 mins
Diego Báez introduces us to three Gabriels connected by themes of reclamation and new beginnings. He shares Gabriel Dozal approaching the US-Mexico border with humor (“You Look at Crossers, You Look Just Like Them”), Gabriel Palacios unpacking narratives of inheritance and race (“The Friar’s Daughter’s Mother”), and Jimmy Santiago Baca experiencing the birth of his son, Gabriel (“Child of the Sun—Gabriel’s Birth (Sun Prayer)”). Báez closes by reading “Neuropathy with Lamb,” which reflects on his role as a caregiver for his mother.
Find the full recordings of Dozal, Palacios, and Baca reading for the Poetry Center on Voca:
Gabriel Dozal (May 2, 2024)
Gabriel Palacios (May 2, 2024)
Jimmy Santiago Baca (September 14, 1988)
Full transcripts of every episode are available on Buzzsprout. Look for the transcript tab under each episode.
Voca is now fully captioned, with interactive transcripts and captions available for all readings! Read more about the project here, or try out this new feature by visiting Voca.
Mark as Played
Transcript
Episode Transcript
Available transcripts are automatically generated. Complete accuracy is not guaranteed.
(00:00):
[MUSIC PLAYING]
JULIE (00:01):
This is Poetry Centered, where you'll hear archival
recordings of poets readingand speaking about their
work curated for youby another contemporary poet.
The show comes to you from theUniversity of Arizona Poetry
Center and our online archiveof poetry readings called Voca.
I'm Julie Swarstad Johnson.
(00:22):
We're delighted to welcomeDiego Báez to the show today.
Diego is a poet, educator, andbook critic who lives in Chicago
and teaches atthe City Colleges.
His first poetrycollection, Yaguareté White,
came out from the University ofArizona Press earlier this year.
In this episode,Diego introduces us
(00:44):
to three Gabriels, the poetsGabriel Dozal and Gabriel
Palacios and a poem by JimmySantiago Baca about the birth
of his son named Gabriel.
Linking these three Gabrielsare ideas of beginnings,
reclamation, and good tidings.
Diego, welcome.
Thank you so muchfor being here today.
[MUSIC PLAYING]
DIEGO BÁEZ (01:09):
Hey, y'all.
This is Diego Báez, and I'mrecording this at my desk
at Harry S. Truman Collegein the uptown neighborhood
of Chicago, Illinois.
Truman College occupiesthe traditional homelands
of the Council ofthe Three Fires--
the Odawa, Ojibwe, andPotawatomi nations.
It is my sincere hope thatIndigenous and Native peoples
(01:30):
in this country andaround the world
will reclaim theirancestral homelands.
I'm recording this onIndigenous Peoples' Day,
so this topic isvery much on my mind,
but I've been thinkinga lot about reclamation
lately, albeit on a muchmore introspective level.
I've spent the last eightmonths promoting my debut
(01:51):
book of poems Yaguareté White.
This has been a welcome burden.
It's literally the onlything I've wanted for as long
as I can remember,but even so, I'm
already itching to moveon, to imagine new poems,
to realize whateverneeds to come next.
And in preparingfor this podcast,
I was reminded of thebiblical character of Gabriel,
(02:15):
an archangel generally regardedas merciful and the bringer
of hopeful announcements.
I was raised Catholicbut no longer practice.
Even still, I'mdrawn to the figure
of a beneficent supernaturalbeing who signals good tidings.
It's in that spirit that I'vechosen two recent recordings
(02:35):
by poets named Gabriel,Gabriel Palacios and Gabriel
Dozal, and one by JimmySantiago Baca that centers
around a child named Gabriel.
And so the first recording I'dlike to share is Gabriel Dozal
reading "You Look at Crossers,You Look Just Like Them"
recorded on May 2, 2024.
(02:57):
And the first thing thatdrew me to this poem
is the title itself.
My father is from Paraguay,and the experiences
of immigrants to theUnited States from Paraguay
are decidedly different fromother Central American or Latin
American migrants or refugeesor immigrants in the sense
(03:17):
that very fewpeople from Paraguay
make the journey on foot orby train or via water passage.
Most fly over, andthis was certainly
the case for my father,who was 16 when he decided
to come to the United States.
(03:38):
He won a scholarship tostudy in Central Illinois
with a family who livedon a farm in Gridley.
And I think a lot abouthow my brothers and I--
I have two younger brotherswho are very close in age--
grew up as the onlybrown kids on the block
and stood out forthose reasons even
though we didn'thave really much
(03:59):
of a Spanish-speaking orLatino community to speak of.
And so when I first read thetitle of Dozal's poem "You Look
at Crossers, YouLook Just Like Them,"
just on its surface is areminder that indeed I do share
a lot of physical or visualsignifiers that perhaps group me
(04:21):
amongst other populations inthis country who have some
shared experiences,some shared ancestries,
or some similar ancestries.
But that-- I can'tget away from the fact
that I always feel separatedin that privilege of having
descended from flight in asense that my father flew over
(04:42):
and also that he wasable to travel with us,
and so my familyvisited Paraguay
once every two or three years.
And that itself isa great privilege,
a great luxury thatlots of other migrants,
especially Latin Americanmigrants, do not--
just do not get.
(05:03):
They do not get that experience.
And so I was drawn to the poemspecifically for that reason.
It felt like somethingI've thought about a lot,
and I'm not sure who said it.
I don't know.
Maybe it was a familymember or a friend
or I don't thinkI came up with it,
but this idea thatthe world needs
more metaphor, moreseeking, finding, looking
(05:24):
for similarities.
And I think that is the impulsethat drew me to Dozal's poem.
Now one of thethings you'll notice
in his off-hand commentaryintroducing the piece,
he does mention that it isincluded in his collection
The Border Simulator,which he describes
as a bilingual book translatedby Natasha Tiniacos,
(05:48):
a Venezuelan translator.
And I really-- I appreciatea lot about this.
I'm very interestedin bilinguality.
I'm interested inespecially books that
include both texts, soone language and another
and in some cases a third ora fourth language together.
And I also appreciate thatDozal took it upon himself
to essentially translatethese poems for himself,
(06:12):
if that makes sense, to includeit as a bilingual collection.
So I'm always lookingfor new translations
and new translators, especiallyfrom Spanish and in this case
into Spanish.
José Olivarez didsomething similar
with his book Promises of Gold,Promesas de Oro, which David
(06:34):
Ruano González translated.
And I just love that initiative.
I hope to pursue thatin my own writing.
There's maybe not a wholelot of actual Spanish
or bilinguality in the poemitself as you will hear,
but I think thatcontext is important.
I think it's also worthnoting the humor in the piece.
(06:54):
I think humor isvery difficult. I
think it's especiallydifficult in poetry,
but there are so many funnymoments, genuinely funny moments
in the poem.
In his introduction, he mentionsthe Rossers, border crossers
who cross theborder specifically
to shop at Ross Dressfor Less, which is funny.
That's a legitimatelyfunny conceit,
(07:17):
and it's also a commentary onthe transborder cross-border
commerce that forbetter and worse
has shaped so many economicand social dynamics
in the borderlands.
There's also the Seinfeld-likedelivery of the opening
lines, which I stand by this.
The way Dozal really hits theRoss in those first lines,
(07:39):
it sounds like Jerry Seinfeld.
But then it's interestingbecause then in the third line,
there's a pretty commoncatchphrase in humor,
am I right, that Dozal doesnot deliver in that way.
He remixes that deliveryand resists really
leaning into thestand up routine
(08:02):
of it, which I appreciate.
It strikes me as a way of havingyour cake and eating it, too.
Plus then alsolater in the poem,
there is a very specificmention of a car
make, a Daewoo, whichis funny to say.
It's a funny word,but it's also random.
It's not Ford orChevy or Cadillac
(08:23):
or maybe a morerecognizable brand.
And I would argue thatthe obscurity of that--
the obscurity butalso recognizability
of a brand name of carmarca de alto is humorous,
and I appreciate that detail.
It'd be a verydifferent poem if it
were a Chevy or a Buick ora Cadillac or something.
And then so finally thepoem as you will hear
(08:45):
ends on this totally absurd,bizarre scene of border crossers
waiting for hours, juststriking up conversation,
making small talkwith our neighbors.
And for as absurdas it seems together
with the rest ofthe poem, it's also
from what I understand afairly accurate representation
of that odd in-between space ofqueuing, not crossing the border
(09:08):
but queuing to cross the border.
And I just reallyappreciate what
Dozal has been able toconjure in this poem.
So here is Gabriel Dozalreading "You Look at Crossers,
You Look Just Like Them."[MUSIC PLAYING]
GABRIEL DOZAL (09:22):
And this is the last poem I'll read,
and it's in TheBorder Simulator.
I guess I should say also if youdon't know The Border Simulator,
it's a bilingual book, so ithas the English on the left side
and the Spanish facing.
So you can playaround and jump around
to both English and Spanish.
I worked with an amazingtranslator, Natasha Tiniacos,
a Venezuelan translator,and her poems in Spanish--
(09:43):
I mean my poems in Spanishthat she translated
and wrote are amazingand fantastic.
So please check those out.
This is called "YouLook at Crossers,
You Look Just Like Them."Oh, yeah, and I guess I coined a
word called Rossing or Rossers,and these are people who cross
the border to shop at Ross--[LAUGHTER] Dress for Less.
(10:04):
Yes.
You look at crossers,you look just like them.
The border simulator isconstant practice at Rossing,
shopping at Ross.
What to say when crossing.
Am I?
Right?
And Ross lossprevention is always
side eyeing you,the merchandise.
You might steal a badly seamedpair of bedazzled jeans,
(10:26):
but Ross lossprevention cares more
about you stealing yourself.
Borders accept crossersas payment now.
The cryptocurrency of theborder is the crosser,
and they are in crypt-likeboxes as they cross.
And soon they are releasedback from the crypt.
If customs knows the crosser,they can't check their papers.
(10:48):
But it's hard not to knoweveryone in this narrow corridor
where corridos tubafrom every car.
It's so loud that it's quiet.
You also don't get old.
You just give up on the bridge,waiting next to the same Daewoo
for hours, and youroll down your window
and start swapping storiesabout other wait times.
(11:09):
On the Mexican side, customs hadenough of the line and shouted
to all the cars waiting¡Bocina si no existes!
Honk if you don't exist!And all the cars honked.
You couldn't evenhear your passenger.
Thank you.
[APPLAUSE][MUSIC PLAYING]
DIEGO BÁEZ (11:34):
The second recording I'd like to share is Gabriel
Palacios reading "TheFriar's Daughter's Mother"
also recorded on May 2, 2024.
In introducing thepiece, Palacios
uses two terms that I havethought about a lot recently.
(11:54):
He talks about the poem itselfbeing inheritance and fakery,
and he also uses theterm racial fakery.
These are conceptsthat I don't want
to say plague my poeticthinking, but they really do.
As someone who is descended froma Paraguayan father and a mother
who is white and as awhite Latino myself,
(12:16):
I wrestle with thosecontradictions.
I struggle to reconcileboth of those being part
of a dominant population and asubaltern community so to speak.
And so when Palacios talks aboutracial fakery and the categories
(12:36):
that we use in the UnitedStates to talk about race,
to identify race,to build so much
of our own personalitiesor personas around,
it really strikes meas incredibly profound
how many of us subscribe to orenact behaviors or ways of being
(12:59):
that are eitherprescribed or passed down
or inherited or mimicked.
And the more I thinkabout Palacios' term,
the more I beginto wonder, well,
isn't that the fakery,this idea that there
are ways to beLatino or there are
ways to be white thatare accepted or not
(13:20):
or rather condoned orendorsed by the state,
by dominant culture, by medianarratives, what have you.
And so I think about that a lot.
And I am obsessedwith the notion
of passing, passing forwhite, passing for Latino,
navigating between identities.
And I speak to these identitiesonly because they are my own.
(13:41):
I know that manypeople experience
that duality, that bi-culturalreality, that bi-raciality
in similar ways, maybenot the same for sure
but, again, in the serviceof seeking metaphor,
maybe trying to build bridgesamongst or between folks who
find themselves navigatingthose tricky categories,
those tricky columns.
(14:02):
I am also drawn toone line in particular
that really resonated with me.
Now the poem itself is maybenot so overtly concerned
with racial fakery in the sensethat I have been speaking of it,
and indeed, Palacios'poem is pretty dark.
It deals with pretty upsetting,fairly disturbing subject
(14:24):
matter.
And yet there's one linethat I'm really drawn to.
The line goes like this--ancestors, we treat them bad.
I'd put the cable intheir surnames if I could.
It's a line that is prettycharacteristic of Palacios
or at least of thispoem in the sense
that the syntax is alittle screwy and some
(14:44):
of the vocabulary,the word choices
make you read them twice.
At first, I was imagining cableas a connecting cord or wire
or something, but in fact,he's-- the speaker there is
talking about putting thebills in their deceased
ancestors' names, which to goback to the subject of humor,
(15:05):
that's funny on the surface.
But I really think that itin almost elliptical way
gets at a dynamic thatis very uncomfortable,
especially for-- perhapsespecially for children
of immigrants in thatI think we perhaps want
to make our ancestors proud.
We want to do well by them.
(15:26):
And for myself, I can saythat I didn't think really
about questions of legacy untiltwo important events in my life,
the birth of my child and thepublication of my debut book,
in the sense thatin both instances,
(15:48):
in very differentways or maybe not
so different butin different ways.
The birth of my child extendsthis lineage beyond me,
beyond myself, in away that I had not
been able to really imaginebefore that happened beforehand.
And with the publicationof the book, certain--
there are certain names in thebook that I to my knowledge
(16:10):
are not recorded anywhereelse, and they are now
at least for nowpublished in a book that
will live on in the ledgerof posterity forever.
By that same token, though,my abuela, my abuelo,
they did not live tosee the book published.
They will never knowthat it existed,
(16:31):
and I certainly don'tbegrudge them that.
That's not exactlythe right sentiment,
but I do have somecomplicated emotions about it.
I do feel maybe not embitteredbut a little resentful
that the universe tookthem before I could share
that part of myself with them.
(16:52):
Now this is not maybe exactlywhat Palacios is talking about.
However, there are somecomplicated dynamics
at play in this poem,and I think the severity
that underlies thesubject matter of the poem
really adds a complex,complicated dynamic.
And so here is GabrielPalacios reading
"The Friar's Daughter's Mother."[MUSIC PLAYING]
GABRIEL PALACIOS (17:15):
Some of the threads in this book
are inheritance and fakeryand self-implication
and are who we are purportedto be or are we faking it.
And I feel like I'mfaking it all the time.
When I was really young, I was--I took part in this
Andean folk music group.
I was roped into this thingwhere they had a revolving
(17:38):
membership, and sosometimes some of the people
couldn't come up from Obregon.
And this is Andean folkmusic, so there's panpipes
and the charango is madeout of a armadillo hide,
and I would come up andfill in and do my best.
And we would play all ofthe disgusting golf resorts
across the parched state.
(17:59):
And there would be some folks.
There was one gentleman,older gentleman,
who was convinced that Iwas the same person who
he'd seen last time andreally taken a liking to.
And I'm sure Ididn't correct him,
and I think that if hedidn't pet me on the head,
he would have.
And so I feel--I'm thinking about
(18:20):
how people fake it,and I think that one
of the fun thingsto think about for me is
race fakery whether it'show the Selena t-shirt we
wear or the mustache we haveand the way that we
perform these things,and this book is a
lot about just askingwhat true identity
is because it's justa mirror image of
(18:42):
racial purity probably.
And so 23andMe is the mostAmerican thing you can think
of because maybe your 3% or4% special and not what people
thought you were.
Or maybe the otherAmerican thing
about it is that it'sreally a cop tool.
(19:03):
I think that'swhat it has to be.
So the fake and theuncanny is something
I can spend a lot oftime thinking about.
This is called "TheFriar's Daughter's Mother."
Murió en el río de parto.
Indigena.
Event of no agreed upon name,child born bears friar's child.
(19:26):
A spade clangs dirt.
We transmit viakitchen voice of ants.
The father, AlessandroBranchi, OFM,
gives the infant child Carolinaname, softening a torch trust
over how I know him.
My child's eyeball strobic inthe wide-brimmed hatted death's
(19:48):
head given placard.
In museums, I amtampered with a little
by a galleon's crude figureheadby who was in her maker's mind.
I know the wooden woman's pettylisticle of doomsday fears.
The timeline tothe left of my etch
is an approachingfire, an exterminating
(20:08):
thinking I feel idleness--eyeless towards the truth.
I trust computerghosts to translate,
a stratagem for getting ittogether to buy groceries
as buying is its own sorceryagainst the deafening
radioactivity of no stars.
Ancestors, we treat them bad.
(20:30):
I'd put the cable intheir surnames if I could.
I bark at my own children likethe friars on these documents
of death by childbirth.
I pace a spinninginfomercial kitchen
miked in blackness before them.
These dead, my young,saying what you say,
(20:52):
when stripped at customsof whatever honorifics
to your heirloom epaulets.
[MUSIC PLAYING][APPLAUSE]Thank you.
DIEGO BÁEZ (21:07):
The third recording I'd like to share
is Jimmy Santiago Bacareading "Child of the Sun--
Gabriel's Birth-- Sun Prayer"recorded on September 14, 1988.
Now this poem-- thepoem itself strikes me,
especially now asa father myself,
as someone who witnessedthe birth of my child
(21:29):
but as I like to joke mywife and partner Sarah,
she did all the work for muchmore than nine months, certainly
nine months and more and many,many hours during delivery,
and I was also there.
And so in this poem,the way the speaker
narrates this experience is--I think I hope to me--
(21:53):
it really reflectsthe profundity
of that whole process of beinga bystander to something,
to an event that you'recrucially, vitally connected to
and a part of andresponsible for and party to
but also separate from inso many important ways.
(22:15):
And a funny thing happenedearlier this year.
This would have been--in April of this year,
I performed some poemsat The Los Angeles Times
Festival of Books, andlisted in the program
in alphabeticalorder, my name Báez
(22:35):
followed Jimmy Santiago Baca.
And it was a ratherprofound moment because Baca had
always been a poet whoI read in anthologies or for
English class or lit class.
And then to see my name inprint in the newspaper program
directly beneath his was a verystrange, disorienting, uncanny
(22:59):
experience that I will cherishforever, maybe in similar ways
that the Speaker of hispoem cherishes the moment
of his child's birth.
But certainly it's not the same.
It's different in someimportant ways, too.
I will say, with regard tothe delivery of the poem,
I just could listen to Bacaspeak and recite poetry
(23:21):
and perform forever.
The-- his way-- his intonationsand his emphasis and some
of the I would say cornballbut over-the-top delivery,
it's maybe a littlecheesy but super sincere,
and I think he gets awaywith it for that reason
(23:41):
or is successfulfor that reason.
And the quality of the recordingis a little grainy as well,
as it's from the '80s, thelate '80s, and it's just
so evocative.
Even that, even thequality of the recorded--
I don't know what it wouldhave been recorded on,
but it feels tangible.
It feels real.
It feels like a physical media.
(24:02):
And I so appreciate that.
We recently purchaseda record player,
not to be trendy but actually tohave physical media that we can
interact with and that my childcan interact with in a way that
forces us to slowdown, in a way that
forces us to handlethe music that we
are about to enjoy together.
(24:22):
And in a roundaboutway, that connects
with my experience of hearingBaca recite this poem.
I feel like I'm in the cafewith him, in the salon with him.
I feel like I'mthere at the event.
And I can only imaginehow that must feel,
what that must be like.
It must feel like the nextbest thing, the next best
thing to actually beingthere to witness Baca.
(24:45):
And so here he is,Jimmy Santiago Baca,
reading "Child of the Sun--Gabriel's Birth-- Sun Prayer."
[MUSIC PLAYING]
JIMMY SANTIAGO BACA (24:55):
We're just going to leaf through this, OK.
Here goes another birth poem.
Beatrice on the bed.
Muscles twitch pain.
(25:16):
No.
The pain.
Marsha offers warm wet towel.
No, no, it's too painful.
Beatrice paces bedroom,cross corn planting blanket,
barefoot throughrows of corn dancers
caressing abdomen,deep breathing.
(25:38):
Lips expel flurries of painwhile her fingers circle
belly trying to ease painin a tub of warm water.
No.
Beatrice rises.
Ahh, ahh, pulls myhands into hers.
We stand together inbathroom window to her back,
silhouettes her soft curvesof hips and shoulders
(26:00):
to a dark shadowSunlight smolders off of.
She radiates light streams.
Her face grimaces intensepain and pleasure.
Her head lolls forward, and longblack hair falls over my face
as I kneel before heron the bathroom floor.
Prop your right leg up,Beatrice on the toilet seat.
(26:22):
That's it.
Now push, push.
And through vines of her hair,I peer between her spread legs
blinding light streams through.
Our bodies connected by haircreate a cave dwelling of flesh.
She mutters grunted pleas,aggressive [CLEARING THROAT]
(26:43):
throaty squeals.
Grips my shoulders, her warmbreath pants at my head.
Sweat drips from her onto me.
And then enraging strobe ofsunlight between her legs from
wild roses and green vinespressed against window at her
back, she gives half-chokedsob and upside down suspended
(27:08):
between her legs surfacing fromsunlight leaves and flowers,
the 1,000-year-oldface appears, Gabriel.
Flying dark shape andsunlight, God descending
from sky between woman's legs,arms and face glisten darkly
with uterine juices,shimmery body fluids,
(27:30):
it wriggles free of mother skin,fierce, glum godhead stone face.
I stare at through vinesof hair and stark eyes
squinched lidded, open wideand hunting ferocity at me.
[LAUGHTER] And instantly I amtossed, flung from my body
(27:50):
into a Ferris wheelof lights, disembodied
in sheer blaze ofdazzling waves of light,
instantaneously hurled intotimeless space, out of my body
like a spark from achimney flue at winter dawn
floating up an updraft.
Then I'm holding awrinkled brown baby.
(28:12):
Filling me with juice,thick rivulets of blood
run down our hands,arms, wrists.
Gabriel slips from hertrembling loins into my hands,
cries angrily at me.
And I rise in theglowing sunlight
blue-misted bathroom brushedthrough vines of hair,
(28:33):
offer Gabriel, childof the sun, to Beatrice
and then look atthe window and bow.
[APPLAUSE][MUSIC PLAYING]
DIEGO BÁEZ (28:54):
And so finally, I'd like to share a poem of my own.
I've chosen a poem that Iwrote only two weeks ago,
so it's pretty new.
I've had theopportunity to share it
a couple times but not much.
It deals with someexperiences recently
(29:15):
as part of the sandwichgeneration, which
is a term I learned recently.
You know how thereare terms that
apply so accurately to dynamicsor phenomena where it just fits.
Maybe the situationahead of time and then
you learn the termfor it, you're
like, ahh, yes, that's theword I needed for this.
(29:36):
And so the sandwichgeneration refers
to those of us who are bothraising children and caring
for aging parents.
It's the kind of thing I'dheard about, you know about,
you learn about, But thento actually be part of it,
to participate init, to be responsible
for it is another level thatI had not been prepared for.
(29:56):
And oddly, within the spanof just a couple of weeks,
some fairly serious medicaland health-related concerns
played out around me.
A dear friend had beenhospitalized for two weeks.
My father-in-law underwentopen heart surgery.
I was in New Yorkrecently, and a friend
(30:20):
who I was to meet upwith ended up in the ICU.
And right around the same time,which actually precipitated
all of thoseaforementioned events,
was a procedure that Iattended with my mother,
and she was getting abone marrow sample taken.
(30:41):
And I was in the room.
She requested thatI be in the room,
and I was positioned awkwardly.
I couldn't actually lookat her or hold her hand.
I was at the otherend of the table.
And if you're not familiarwith the procedure,
it is not the most invasiveor the most serious.
You walk in walk out,they anesthetize the area
and all that, but it'sstill pretty intense.
(31:05):
It's the retrieval ofbone matter from a body.
And I knew in the momentwatching it and being part of it
but, again, also being distantfrom it that this was something
I was going to need to thinkabout, talk about, process,
write about for sure.
And the poem is called"Neuropathy with Lamb."
(31:27):
And I shared the poem withsome friends who questioned
where the lamb was in the poem.
And it occurred tome that I'm not sure
exactly who this poemis for, if it's for me
or if it's for my mom.
And I think that probablythe answer is both.
(31:47):
So this is "Neuropathywith Lamb." Squidge of marrow,
spongy the tech says.
Shiny vials of red, wilefuland vile, these tests.
Lab techs and extractionspecialists pinch their way
(32:08):
through the room.
Mom prone, feet tome, early autumn
always swore by apple cidervinegar and silver colloidal,
prayer beads and penance,whispers and visions, visitors,
shivers.
Hot cry of sciatica.
(32:30):
Quickly now.
Whimpers of assurance.
Sandbag for pressure.
Vitals, a sign.
The hematologist tellsher Jesus heals souls.
Let us do the rest.
Yes.
Has it always been so twitchy,this long band of time?
(32:53):
The moment mother becomesa patient and impatient,
I untwist the coils ofthis razor wire life.
There you are now.
Go ahead.
You're all right.
Thank you for listening.
My name is Diego Báez,signing off from Chicago.
(33:15):
[MUSIC PLAYING] JULIE SWARSTADJOHNSON: Diego, thank
you so much for this episode.
Those words are a greatway to end the year.
Listeners, thank you.
We are so grateful tospend time with you,
and I hope good tidings arefinding you wherever you are.
(33:35):
Due to the holidays, we'll takea slightly longer break of three
weeks, and we'll be back thenon January 1st with an episode
hosted by Abigail Chabitnoy.
We'll see you then, and we'rewishing you a great end to 2024.
ARIA PAHARI (33:50):
Poetry Centered is a project of the University
of Arizona Poetry Center,home to a world class library
collection of more than 80,000items related to contemporary
poetry in English andEnglish translation.
Located on the campus of theUniversity of Arizona in Tucson,
(34:10):
the Poetry Centerlibrary and buildings
are housed on the Indigenoushomelands of the Tohono O'odham
and Pascua Yaqui.
Poetry Centered is thework of Aria Pahari--
that's me-- and JulieSwarstad Johnson.
Explore Voca, the PoetryCenter's audio visual archive
online at voca.arizona.edu.
[MUSIC PLAYING]
JULIE (00:01):
This is Poetry Centered, where you'll hear archival
recordings of poets readingand speaking about their
work curated for youby another contemporary poet.
The show comes to you from theUniversity of Arizona Poetry
Center and our online archiveof poetry readings called Voca.
I'm Julie Swarstad Johnson.
(00:22):
We're delighted to welcomeDiego Báez to the show today.
Diego is a poet, educator, andbook critic who lives in Chicago
and teaches atthe City Colleges.
His first poetrycollection, Yaguareté White,
came out from the University ofArizona Press earlier this year.
In this episode,Diego introduces us
(00:44):
to three Gabriels, the poetsGabriel Dozal and Gabriel
Palacios and a poem by JimmySantiago Baca about the birth
of his son named Gabriel.
Linking these three Gabrielsare ideas of beginnings,
reclamation, and good tidings.
Diego, welcome.
Thank you so muchfor being here today.
[MUSIC PLAYING]
DIEGO BÁEZ (01:09):
Hey, y'all.
This is Diego Báez, and I'mrecording this at my desk
at Harry S. Truman Collegein the uptown neighborhood
of Chicago, Illinois.
Truman College occupiesthe traditional homelands
of the Council ofthe Three Fires--
the Odawa, Ojibwe, andPotawatomi nations.
It is my sincere hope thatIndigenous and Native peoples
(01:30):
in this country andaround the world
will reclaim theirancestral homelands.
I'm recording this onIndigenous Peoples' Day,
so this topic isvery much on my mind,
but I've been thinkinga lot about reclamation
lately, albeit on a muchmore introspective level.
I've spent the last eightmonths promoting my debut
(01:51):
book of poems Yaguareté White.
This has been a welcome burden.
It's literally the onlything I've wanted for as long
as I can remember,but even so, I'm
already itching to moveon, to imagine new poems,
to realize whateverneeds to come next.
And in preparingfor this podcast,
I was reminded of thebiblical character of Gabriel,
(02:15):
an archangel generally regardedas merciful and the bringer
of hopeful announcements.
I was raised Catholicbut no longer practice.
Even still, I'mdrawn to the figure
of a beneficent supernaturalbeing who signals good tidings.
It's in that spirit that I'vechosen two recent recordings
(02:35):
by poets named Gabriel,Gabriel Palacios and Gabriel
Dozal, and one by JimmySantiago Baca that centers
around a child named Gabriel.
And so the first recording I'dlike to share is Gabriel Dozal
reading "You Look at Crossers,You Look Just Like Them"
recorded on May 2, 2024.
(02:57):
And the first thing thatdrew me to this poem
is the title itself.
My father is from Paraguay,and the experiences
of immigrants to theUnited States from Paraguay
are decidedly different fromother Central American or Latin
American migrants or refugeesor immigrants in the sense
(03:17):
that very fewpeople from Paraguay
make the journey on foot orby train or via water passage.
Most fly over, andthis was certainly
the case for my father,who was 16 when he decided
to come to the United States.
(03:38):
He won a scholarship tostudy in Central Illinois
with a family who livedon a farm in Gridley.
And I think a lot abouthow my brothers and I--
I have two younger brotherswho are very close in age--
grew up as the onlybrown kids on the block
and stood out forthose reasons even
though we didn'thave really much
(03:59):
of a Spanish-speaking orLatino community to speak of.
And so when I first read thetitle of Dozal's poem "You Look
at Crossers, YouLook Just Like Them,"
just on its surface is areminder that indeed I do share
a lot of physical or visualsignifiers that perhaps group me
(04:21):
amongst other populations inthis country who have some
shared experiences,some shared ancestries,
or some similar ancestries.
But that-- I can'tget away from the fact
that I always feel separatedin that privilege of having
descended from flight in asense that my father flew over
(04:42):
and also that he wasable to travel with us,
and so my familyvisited Paraguay
once every two or three years.
And that itself isa great privilege,
a great luxury thatlots of other migrants,
especially Latin Americanmigrants, do not--
just do not get.
(05:03):
They do not get that experience.
And so I was drawn to the poemspecifically for that reason.
It felt like somethingI've thought about a lot,
and I'm not sure who said it.
I don't know.
Maybe it was a familymember or a friend
or I don't thinkI came up with it,
but this idea thatthe world needs
more metaphor, moreseeking, finding, looking
(05:24):
for similarities.
And I think that is the impulsethat drew me to Dozal's poem.
Now one of thethings you'll notice
in his off-hand commentaryintroducing the piece,
he does mention that it isincluded in his collection
The Border Simulator,which he describes
as a bilingual book translatedby Natasha Tiniacos,
(05:48):
a Venezuelan translator.
And I really-- I appreciatea lot about this.
I'm very interestedin bilinguality.
I'm interested inespecially books that
include both texts, soone language and another
and in some cases a third ora fourth language together.
And I also appreciate thatDozal took it upon himself
to essentially translatethese poems for himself,
(06:12):
if that makes sense, to includeit as a bilingual collection.
So I'm always lookingfor new translations
and new translators, especiallyfrom Spanish and in this case
into Spanish.
José Olivarez didsomething similar
with his book Promises of Gold,Promesas de Oro, which David
(06:34):
Ruano González translated.
And I just love that initiative.
I hope to pursue thatin my own writing.
There's maybe not a wholelot of actual Spanish
or bilinguality in the poemitself as you will hear,
but I think thatcontext is important.
I think it's also worthnoting the humor in the piece.
(06:54):
I think humor isvery difficult. I
think it's especiallydifficult in poetry,
but there are so many funnymoments, genuinely funny moments
in the poem.
In his introduction, he mentionsthe Rossers, border crossers
who cross theborder specifically
to shop at Ross Dressfor Less, which is funny.
That's a legitimatelyfunny conceit,
(07:17):
and it's also a commentary onthe transborder cross-border
commerce that forbetter and worse
has shaped so many economicand social dynamics
in the borderlands.
There's also the Seinfeld-likedelivery of the opening
lines, which I stand by this.
The way Dozal really hits theRoss in those first lines,
(07:39):
it sounds like Jerry Seinfeld.
But then it's interestingbecause then in the third line,
there's a pretty commoncatchphrase in humor,
am I right, that Dozal doesnot deliver in that way.
He remixes that deliveryand resists really
leaning into thestand up routine
(08:02):
of it, which I appreciate.
It strikes me as a way of havingyour cake and eating it, too.
Plus then alsolater in the poem,
there is a very specificmention of a car
make, a Daewoo, whichis funny to say.
It's a funny word,but it's also random.
It's not Ford orChevy or Cadillac
(08:23):
or maybe a morerecognizable brand.
And I would argue thatthe obscurity of that--
the obscurity butalso recognizability
of a brand name of carmarca de alto is humorous,
and I appreciate that detail.
It'd be a verydifferent poem if it
were a Chevy or a Buick ora Cadillac or something.
And then so finally thepoem as you will hear
(08:45):
ends on this totally absurd,bizarre scene of border crossers
waiting for hours, juststriking up conversation,
making small talkwith our neighbors.
And for as absurdas it seems together
with the rest ofthe poem, it's also
from what I understand afairly accurate representation
of that odd in-between space ofqueuing, not crossing the border
(09:08):
but queuing to cross the border.
And I just reallyappreciate what
Dozal has been able toconjure in this poem.
So here is Gabriel Dozalreading "You Look at Crossers,
You Look Just Like Them."[MUSIC PLAYING]
GABRIEL DOZAL (09:22):
And this is the last poem I'll read,
and it's in TheBorder Simulator.
I guess I should say also if youdon't know The Border Simulator,
it's a bilingual book, so ithas the English on the left side
and the Spanish facing.
So you can playaround and jump around
to both English and Spanish.
I worked with an amazingtranslator, Natasha Tiniacos,
a Venezuelan translator,and her poems in Spanish--
(09:43):
I mean my poems in Spanishthat she translated
and wrote are amazingand fantastic.
So please check those out.
This is called "YouLook at Crossers,
You Look Just Like Them."Oh, yeah, and I guess I coined a
word called Rossing or Rossers,and these are people who cross
the border to shop at Ross--[LAUGHTER] Dress for Less.
(10:04):
Yes.
You look at crossers,you look just like them.
The border simulator isconstant practice at Rossing,
shopping at Ross.
What to say when crossing.
Am I?
Right?
And Ross lossprevention is always
side eyeing you,the merchandise.
You might steal a badly seamedpair of bedazzled jeans,
(10:26):
but Ross lossprevention cares more
about you stealing yourself.
Borders accept crossersas payment now.
The cryptocurrency of theborder is the crosser,
and they are in crypt-likeboxes as they cross.
And soon they are releasedback from the crypt.
If customs knows the crosser,they can't check their papers.
(10:48):
But it's hard not to knoweveryone in this narrow corridor
where corridos tubafrom every car.
It's so loud that it's quiet.
You also don't get old.
You just give up on the bridge,waiting next to the same Daewoo
for hours, and youroll down your window
and start swapping storiesabout other wait times.
(11:09):
On the Mexican side, customs hadenough of the line and shouted
to all the cars waiting¡Bocina si no existes!
Honk if you don't exist!And all the cars honked.
You couldn't evenhear your passenger.
Thank you.
[APPLAUSE][MUSIC PLAYING]
DIEGO BÁEZ (11:34):
The second recording I'd like to share is Gabriel
Palacios reading "TheFriar's Daughter's Mother"
also recorded on May 2, 2024.
In introducing thepiece, Palacios
uses two terms that I havethought about a lot recently.
(11:54):
He talks about the poem itselfbeing inheritance and fakery,
and he also uses theterm racial fakery.
These are conceptsthat I don't want
to say plague my poeticthinking, but they really do.
As someone who is descended froma Paraguayan father and a mother
who is white and as awhite Latino myself,
(12:16):
I wrestle with thosecontradictions.
I struggle to reconcileboth of those being part
of a dominant population and asubaltern community so to speak.
And so when Palacios talks aboutracial fakery and the categories
(12:36):
that we use in the UnitedStates to talk about race,
to identify race,to build so much
of our own personalitiesor personas around,
it really strikes meas incredibly profound
how many of us subscribe to orenact behaviors or ways of being
(12:59):
that are eitherprescribed or passed down
or inherited or mimicked.
And the more I thinkabout Palacios' term,
the more I beginto wonder, well,
isn't that the fakery,this idea that there
are ways to beLatino or there are
ways to be white thatare accepted or not
(13:20):
or rather condoned orendorsed by the state,
by dominant culture, by medianarratives, what have you.
And so I think about that a lot.
And I am obsessedwith the notion
of passing, passing forwhite, passing for Latino,
navigating between identities.
And I speak to these identitiesonly because they are my own.
(13:41):
I know that manypeople experience
that duality, that bi-culturalreality, that bi-raciality
in similar ways, maybenot the same for sure
but, again, in the serviceof seeking metaphor,
maybe trying to build bridgesamongst or between folks who
find themselves navigatingthose tricky categories,
those tricky columns.
(14:02):
I am also drawn toone line in particular
that really resonated with me.
Now the poem itself is maybenot so overtly concerned
with racial fakery in the sensethat I have been speaking of it,
and indeed, Palacios'poem is pretty dark.
It deals with pretty upsetting,fairly disturbing subject
(14:24):
matter.
And yet there's one linethat I'm really drawn to.
The line goes like this--ancestors, we treat them bad.
I'd put the cable intheir surnames if I could.
It's a line that is prettycharacteristic of Palacios
or at least of thispoem in the sense
that the syntax is alittle screwy and some
(14:44):
of the vocabulary,the word choices
make you read them twice.
At first, I was imagining cableas a connecting cord or wire
or something, but in fact,he's-- the speaker there is
talking about putting thebills in their deceased
ancestors' names, which to goback to the subject of humor,
(15:05):
that's funny on the surface.
But I really think that itin almost elliptical way
gets at a dynamic thatis very uncomfortable,
especially for-- perhapsespecially for children
of immigrants in thatI think we perhaps want
to make our ancestors proud.
We want to do well by them.
(15:26):
And for myself, I can saythat I didn't think really
about questions of legacy untiltwo important events in my life,
the birth of my child and thepublication of my debut book,
in the sense thatin both instances,
(15:48):
in very differentways or maybe not
so different butin different ways.
The birth of my child extendsthis lineage beyond me,
beyond myself, in away that I had not
been able to really imaginebefore that happened beforehand.
And with the publicationof the book, certain--
there are certain names in thebook that I to my knowledge
(16:10):
are not recorded anywhereelse, and they are now
at least for nowpublished in a book that
will live on in the ledgerof posterity forever.
By that same token, though,my abuela, my abuelo,
they did not live tosee the book published.
They will never knowthat it existed,
(16:31):
and I certainly don'tbegrudge them that.
That's not exactlythe right sentiment,
but I do have somecomplicated emotions about it.
I do feel maybe not embitteredbut a little resentful
that the universe tookthem before I could share
that part of myself with them.
(16:52):
Now this is not maybe exactlywhat Palacios is talking about.
However, there are somecomplicated dynamics
at play in this poem,and I think the severity
that underlies thesubject matter of the poem
really adds a complex,complicated dynamic.
And so here is GabrielPalacios reading
"The Friar's Daughter's Mother."[MUSIC PLAYING]
GABRIEL PALACIOS (17:15):
Some of the threads in this book
are inheritance and fakeryand self-implication
and are who we are purportedto be or are we faking it.
And I feel like I'mfaking it all the time.
When I was really young, I was--I took part in this
Andean folk music group.
I was roped into this thingwhere they had a revolving
(17:38):
membership, and sosometimes some of the people
couldn't come up from Obregon.
And this is Andean folkmusic, so there's panpipes
and the charango is madeout of a armadillo hide,
and I would come up andfill in and do my best.
And we would play all ofthe disgusting golf resorts
across the parched state.
(17:59):
And there would be some folks.
There was one gentleman,older gentleman,
who was convinced that Iwas the same person who
he'd seen last time andreally taken a liking to.
And I'm sure Ididn't correct him,
and I think that if hedidn't pet me on the head,
he would have.
And so I feel--I'm thinking about
(18:20):
how people fake it,and I think that one
of the fun thingsto think about for me is
race fakery whether it'show the Selena t-shirt we
wear or the mustache we haveand the way that we
perform these things,and this book is a
lot about just askingwhat true identity
is because it's justa mirror image of
(18:42):
racial purity probably.
And so 23andMe is the mostAmerican thing you can think
of because maybe your 3% or4% special and not what people
thought you were.
Or maybe the otherAmerican thing
about it is that it'sreally a cop tool.
(19:03):
I think that'swhat it has to be.
So the fake and theuncanny is something
I can spend a lot oftime thinking about.
This is called "TheFriar's Daughter's Mother."
Murió en el río de parto.
Indigena.
Event of no agreed upon name,child born bears friar's child.
(19:26):
A spade clangs dirt.
We transmit viakitchen voice of ants.
The father, AlessandroBranchi, OFM,
gives the infant child Carolinaname, softening a torch trust
over how I know him.
My child's eyeball strobic inthe wide-brimmed hatted death's
(19:48):
head given placard.
In museums, I amtampered with a little
by a galleon's crude figureheadby who was in her maker's mind.
I know the wooden woman's pettylisticle of doomsday fears.
The timeline tothe left of my etch
is an approachingfire, an exterminating
(20:08):
thinking I feel idleness--eyeless towards the truth.
I trust computerghosts to translate,
a stratagem for getting ittogether to buy groceries
as buying is its own sorceryagainst the deafening
radioactivity of no stars.
Ancestors, we treat them bad.
(20:30):
I'd put the cable intheir surnames if I could.
I bark at my own children likethe friars on these documents
of death by childbirth.
I pace a spinninginfomercial kitchen
miked in blackness before them.
These dead, my young,saying what you say,
(20:52):
when stripped at customsof whatever honorifics
to your heirloom epaulets.
[MUSIC PLAYING][APPLAUSE]Thank you.
DIEGO BÁEZ (21:07):
The third recording I'd like to share
is Jimmy Santiago Bacareading "Child of the Sun--
Gabriel's Birth-- Sun Prayer"recorded on September 14, 1988.
Now this poem-- thepoem itself strikes me,
especially now asa father myself,
as someone who witnessedthe birth of my child
(21:29):
but as I like to joke mywife and partner Sarah,
she did all the work for muchmore than nine months, certainly
nine months and more and many,many hours during delivery,
and I was also there.
And so in this poem,the way the speaker
narrates this experience is--I think I hope to me--
(21:53):
it really reflectsthe profundity
of that whole process of beinga bystander to something,
to an event that you'recrucially, vitally connected to
and a part of andresponsible for and party to
but also separate from inso many important ways.
(22:15):
And a funny thing happenedearlier this year.
This would have been--in April of this year,
I performed some poemsat The Los Angeles Times
Festival of Books, andlisted in the program
in alphabeticalorder, my name Báez
(22:35):
followed Jimmy Santiago Baca.
And it was a ratherprofound moment because Baca had
always been a poet whoI read in anthologies or for
English class or lit class.
And then to see my name inprint in the newspaper program
directly beneath his was a verystrange, disorienting, uncanny
(22:59):
experience that I will cherishforever, maybe in similar ways
that the Speaker of hispoem cherishes the moment
of his child's birth.
But certainly it's not the same.
It's different in someimportant ways, too.
I will say, with regard tothe delivery of the poem,
I just could listen to Bacaspeak and recite poetry
(23:21):
and perform forever.
The-- his way-- his intonationsand his emphasis and some
of the I would say cornballbut over-the-top delivery,
it's maybe a littlecheesy but super sincere,
and I think he gets awaywith it for that reason
(23:41):
or is successfulfor that reason.
And the quality of the recordingis a little grainy as well,
as it's from the '80s, thelate '80s, and it's just
so evocative.
Even that, even thequality of the recorded--
I don't know what it wouldhave been recorded on,
but it feels tangible.
It feels real.
It feels like a physical media.
(24:02):
And I so appreciate that.
We recently purchaseda record player,
not to be trendy but actually tohave physical media that we can
interact with and that my childcan interact with in a way that
forces us to slowdown, in a way that
forces us to handlethe music that we
are about to enjoy together.
(24:22):
And in a roundaboutway, that connects
with my experience of hearingBaca recite this poem.
I feel like I'm in the cafewith him, in the salon with him.
I feel like I'mthere at the event.
And I can only imaginehow that must feel,
what that must be like.
It must feel like the nextbest thing, the next best
thing to actually beingthere to witness Baca.
(24:45):
And so here he is,Jimmy Santiago Baca,
reading "Child of the Sun--Gabriel's Birth-- Sun Prayer."
[MUSIC PLAYING]
JIMMY SANTIAGO BACA (24:55):
We're just going to leaf through this, OK.
Here goes another birth poem.
Beatrice on the bed.
Muscles twitch pain.
(25:16):
No.
The pain.
Marsha offers warm wet towel.
No, no, it's too painful.
Beatrice paces bedroom,cross corn planting blanket,
barefoot throughrows of corn dancers
caressing abdomen,deep breathing.
(25:38):
Lips expel flurries of painwhile her fingers circle
belly trying to ease painin a tub of warm water.
No.
Beatrice rises.
Ahh, ahh, pulls myhands into hers.
We stand together inbathroom window to her back,
silhouettes her soft curvesof hips and shoulders
(26:00):
to a dark shadowSunlight smolders off of.
She radiates light streams.
Her face grimaces intensepain and pleasure.
Her head lolls forward, and longblack hair falls over my face
as I kneel before heron the bathroom floor.
Prop your right leg up,Beatrice on the toilet seat.
(26:22):
That's it.
Now push, push.
And through vines of her hair,I peer between her spread legs
blinding light streams through.
Our bodies connected by haircreate a cave dwelling of flesh.
She mutters grunted pleas,aggressive [CLEARING THROAT]
(26:43):
throaty squeals.
Grips my shoulders, her warmbreath pants at my head.
Sweat drips from her onto me.
And then enraging strobe ofsunlight between her legs from
wild roses and green vinespressed against window at her
back, she gives half-chokedsob and upside down suspended
(27:08):
between her legs surfacing fromsunlight leaves and flowers,
the 1,000-year-oldface appears, Gabriel.
Flying dark shape andsunlight, God descending
from sky between woman's legs,arms and face glisten darkly
with uterine juices,shimmery body fluids,
(27:30):
it wriggles free of mother skin,fierce, glum godhead stone face.
I stare at through vinesof hair and stark eyes
squinched lidded, open wideand hunting ferocity at me.
[LAUGHTER] And instantly I amtossed, flung from my body
(27:50):
into a Ferris wheelof lights, disembodied
in sheer blaze ofdazzling waves of light,
instantaneously hurled intotimeless space, out of my body
like a spark from achimney flue at winter dawn
floating up an updraft.
Then I'm holding awrinkled brown baby.
(28:12):
Filling me with juice,thick rivulets of blood
run down our hands,arms, wrists.
Gabriel slips from hertrembling loins into my hands,
cries angrily at me.
And I rise in theglowing sunlight
blue-misted bathroom brushedthrough vines of hair,
(28:33):
offer Gabriel, childof the sun, to Beatrice
and then look atthe window and bow.
[APPLAUSE][MUSIC PLAYING]
DIEGO BÁEZ (28:54):
And so finally, I'd like to share a poem of my own.
I've chosen a poem that Iwrote only two weeks ago,
so it's pretty new.
I've had theopportunity to share it
a couple times but not much.
It deals with someexperiences recently
(29:15):
as part of the sandwichgeneration, which
is a term I learned recently.
You know how thereare terms that
apply so accurately to dynamicsor phenomena where it just fits.
Maybe the situationahead of time and then
you learn the termfor it, you're
like, ahh, yes, that's theword I needed for this.
(29:36):
And so the sandwichgeneration refers
to those of us who are bothraising children and caring
for aging parents.
It's the kind of thing I'dheard about, you know about,
you learn about, But thento actually be part of it,
to participate init, to be responsible
for it is another level thatI had not been prepared for.
(29:56):
And oddly, within the spanof just a couple of weeks,
some fairly serious medicaland health-related concerns
played out around me.
A dear friend had beenhospitalized for two weeks.
My father-in-law underwentopen heart surgery.
I was in New Yorkrecently, and a friend
(30:20):
who I was to meet upwith ended up in the ICU.
And right around the same time,which actually precipitated
all of thoseaforementioned events,
was a procedure that Iattended with my mother,
and she was getting abone marrow sample taken.
(30:41):
And I was in the room.
She requested thatI be in the room,
and I was positioned awkwardly.
I couldn't actually lookat her or hold her hand.
I was at the otherend of the table.
And if you're not familiarwith the procedure,
it is not the most invasiveor the most serious.
You walk in walk out,they anesthetize the area
and all that, but it'sstill pretty intense.
(31:05):
It's the retrieval ofbone matter from a body.
And I knew in the momentwatching it and being part of it
but, again, also being distantfrom it that this was something
I was going to need to thinkabout, talk about, process,
write about for sure.
And the poem is called"Neuropathy with Lamb."
(31:27):
And I shared the poem withsome friends who questioned
where the lamb was in the poem.
And it occurred tome that I'm not sure
exactly who this poemis for, if it's for me
or if it's for my mom.
And I think that probablythe answer is both.
(31:47):
So this is "Neuropathywith Lamb." Squidge of marrow,
spongy the tech says.
Shiny vials of red, wilefuland vile, these tests.
Lab techs and extractionspecialists pinch their way
(32:08):
through the room.
Mom prone, feet tome, early autumn
always swore by apple cidervinegar and silver colloidal,
prayer beads and penance,whispers and visions, visitors,
shivers.
Hot cry of sciatica.
(32:30):
Quickly now.
Whimpers of assurance.
Sandbag for pressure.
Vitals, a sign.
The hematologist tellsher Jesus heals souls.
Let us do the rest.
Yes.
Has it always been so twitchy,this long band of time?
(32:53):
The moment mother becomesa patient and impatient,
I untwist the coils ofthis razor wire life.
There you are now.
Go ahead.
You're all right.
Thank you for listening.
My name is Diego Báez,signing off from Chicago.
(33:15):
[MUSIC PLAYING] JULIE SWARSTADJOHNSON: Diego, thank
you so much for this episode.
Those words are a greatway to end the year.
Listeners, thank you.
We are so grateful tospend time with you,
and I hope good tidings arefinding you wherever you are.
(33:35):
Due to the holidays, we'll takea slightly longer break of three
weeks, and we'll be back thenon January 1st with an episode
hosted by Abigail Chabitnoy.
We'll see you then, and we'rewishing you a great end to 2024.
ARIA PAHARI (33:50):
Poetry Centered is a project of the University
of Arizona Poetry Center,home to a world class library
collection of more than 80,000items related to contemporary
poetry in English andEnglish translation.
Located on the campus of theUniversity of Arizona in Tucson,
(34:10):
the Poetry Centerlibrary and buildings
are housed on the Indigenoushomelands of the Tohono O'odham
and Pascua Yaqui.
Poetry Centered is thework of Aria Pahari--
that's me-- and JulieSwarstad Johnson.
Explore Voca, the PoetryCenter's audio visual archive
online at voca.arizona.edu.
Popular Podcasts
Stuff You Should Know
If you've ever wanted to know about champagne, satanism, the Stonewall Uprising, chaos theory, LSD, El Nino, true crime and Rosa Parks, then look no further. Josh and Chuck have you covered.
My Favorite Murder with Karen Kilgariff and Georgia Hardstark
My Favorite Murder is a true crime comedy podcast hosted by Karen Kilgariff and Georgia Hardstark. Each week, Karen and Georgia share compelling true crimes and hometown stories from friends and listeners. Since MFM launched in January of 2016, Karen and Georgia have shared their lifelong interest in true crime and have covered stories of infamous serial killers like the Night Stalker, mysterious cold cases, captivating cults, incredible survivor stories and important events from history like the Tulsa race massacre of 1921. My Favorite Murder is part of the Exactly Right podcast network that provides a platform for bold, creative voices to bring to life provocative, entertaining and relatable stories for audiences everywhere. The Exactly Right roster of podcasts covers a variety of topics including historic true crime, comedic interviews and news, science, pop culture and more. Podcasts on the network include Buried Bones with Kate Winkler Dawson and Paul Holes, That's Messed Up: An SVU Podcast, This Podcast Will Kill You, Bananas and more.
The Joe Rogan Experience
The official podcast of comedian Joe Rogan.