thepoetslizard
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Karma: 0 |  | Eileen R. Tabios
« Thread Started on Oct 10, 2008, 4:01pm » | |
Bio
Eileen R. Tabios has released 15 print, four electronic and 1 CD poetry collections, an art essay collection, a poetry essay/interview anthology, and a short story colleciton. Forthcoming in 2009 will be her ROSARY OF THORNS: SELECTED PROSE POEMS 1998-2008, edited by poet-critic-painter Thomas Fink. She most recently released two innovative ways of disrupting the form of biography through experimental poetry: THE LIGHT SANG AS IT LEFT YOUR EYES: OUR AUTOBIOGRAPHY (Marsh Hawk Press, 2007) and THE BLIND CHATELAINE'S KEYS; HER BIOGRAPHY THROUGH YOUR POETICS (BlazeVOX Books, 2008). In her poetry, she has crafted a body of work that is unique for melding ekphrasis with transcolonialism. Her poems have been translated into Spanish, Italian, Tagalog, Japanese, Portuguese, Paintings, Video, Drawings, Visual Poetry, Mixed Media Collages, Kali Martial Arts, Modern Dance and Sculpture. She blogs as the "Chatelaine" at http://angelicpoker.blogspot.com and edits GALATEA RESURRECTS, a popular poetry review journal at http://galatearesurrects.blogspot.com
![[image]](http://shayepoet.com/conference/filipinapoets/eileentabios.jpg "[image]")
Three Flamenco Poems --
"Grace Reddens"
(after Christian Hawkey’s “Thistles for Finches”)
In the passage of a blink
a howl descended
as grace bubbled up—
A trash can
kicked down the stairs:
music and laughter
because el cubo de la basura was painted
as red as your lipstick
as red as flamenco
I recognize the helplessness
of those who must dance
and those who can only witness—
Flounces transcended
the polyester reality of her skirt
As well, oh pale limbs
revealing a ziggurat
tattooed on an inner thigh
on an area where inscription must have been desperate with hurt
*
"The Singer"
(after The Flamenco Academy by Sarah Bird)
When they heard
him, they
heard
the whips over
his ancestors
as
they were forced
out from
India.
They heard a
man thrown
into
jail for stealing
a small
bunch
of grapes, then
the ugly
grunts
of his starving
wife and
children.
When they heard
him, “they
heard
a shivering woman
with no
defense
as the solders
came to
do
what they did
with her
and
her still too-young
daughters.” They
heard
the stars fall
into bleak
silence.
When they heard
him, they
heard
his cante come
from him
like
a rusty nail
being pulled
from
an old board.
La voz
afilla—
sandpaper voice. Good
Gitano voice:
Muy
rajo, very rough.
Do you
know
the worst thing
one can
say
about someone in
flamenco? No
me
dice nada. He
didn’t say
anything
to me. He
didn’t speak
something
I realized I
feared but
needed
to hear. Ay!
All these
stanzas
are rough! Or
worse, too
gentle.
They fumble. Earnest
as cows
and
they fumble. Do
you know
what
would be the
worst thing
said
about my poetry?
I created
nothing
that moved you.
Made you
cry
as if pain
was the
only
proof possible for
being alive.
So
who among you
listening will
be
the wild dog
I am
calling?
Show me your
snarl. Reveal
your
fangs. How can
I sing
blood
if I don’t
bleed? Show
me
yourself as the
one for
whom
I will rip
my own
skin.
Show yourself before
you bore
me
with your patient
stalking. Show
yourself
darkened further by
my orders.
My
people trained me.
There is
no
shame in begging
for what
will
part my lips—
what will
trade
caresses with my
tongue—what
will
battle my teeth
and make
me
sweat. My people
trained me.
I
learned knives are
sharp by
being
cut. I learned
fires are
hot
by being burned.
I learned
to
stamp my heels
to sound
like
a machine-gun blast
because…because…
Show
yourself—I have
a song
to
turn you into
ice, then
shatter!
Ole! Verdad! Show
yourself—do
you
think I’m begging
for a
crust
of bread already
half-eaten by
cockroaches?!
*
"Dark Freedom"
(after The Flamenco Academy by Sarah Bird)
Oh, this girl!
This Rosa—
dark!
Dark as a
Moor. She
wore
rags for clothes.
Hair a
mat
of knots alive
with lice.
Hands
blackened by cinders
from her
father’s
forge. Feet mirroring
the dirt
that
formed the floor
of her
family’s
home, the sorriest
of all
caves.
Sternly, the duke
forbade Clementina
from
speaking to Rosa.
For everyone
knew
Gypsies are thieves
and cutthroats.
Everyone
knew Gypsies steal
babies, that
they
conspire with the
Devil. Worst—
worst
of all was
their music:
flamenco,
the music of
drunkards and
prostitutes.
But little Clementina
was so
lonely
she disobeyed her
father. In
secret,
she fed Rosa
in an
outdoor
patio, baiting her
with a
plate
of mantecaditos.
Rosa, always
starving,
gorged herself, helpless
against the
little
cookies of almonds
and olive
oil.
Her hunger forced
her to
seek
the young mistress.
Clementina, barely
older
than Rosa, took
the wild
Gypsy
child under her
wing. She
bathed
Rosa until brown
revealed itself
beneath
the black. Washed
her until
water
ran clear in
the tub,
until
Rosa’s black Gypsy
hair glinted
blue
under the sun.
Clementina fed
Rosa
candied chestnuts in
a brandy
syrup,
perfectly grilled sardines,
tender, marinated
octopus.
From her own
closet, Clementina
gave
Rosa a pink
silk party
frock
embroidered with rosebuds,
a delicate
gown
of English lawn
trimmed with
Belgian
lace, velvet slippers,
and a
mantilla
blessed by the
Pope. Rosa,
overwhelmed,
possessed only one
thing to
give
in return. Secretly,
she with
“blood
from four sides”
shared her
history
with an outsider.
To their
mutual
astonishment, from the
first clap
Rosa
released to unveil
the flamenco,
Clementina
felt the rhythms
intimate-ly, discovered
parallels
pulsing within her
veins, en
compas.
Clementina had heard
those rhythms
before.
They often echoed
past midnight
through
her family’s lonely
house. They
echoed
behind her father’s
locked rooms,
bewitching
rhythms accompanied by
other sounds
she
was forbidden to
investigate: men’s
hoarse
voices, furious heels
stamping on
heraldic
granite, laughter from
dusk-eyed women
never
introduced to her.
Clementina didn’t
know
what clashed or
mated behind
forbidding
doors, but their
sounds lanced
her
heart, made her
open palms
toward
the black sky.
Perhaps we
are
here only to
pour milk
over
white marble, pour
gathered pollen
over
gold statues living
in gardens
visible
only to third
eyes. A
child’s
flamenco pierced her
to flame!
and
when she danced
for the
first
time with Rosa,
Clementina lost
her
innocence to feel
her spirit
surface.
She felt milk
and pollen
mate
to release blood’s
torrential flow.
Finally,
Clementina could identify
herself, could
feel
the premonition of
how someone
like
her, someday, could
claw her
cheeks!
Could rip a
silk blouse
to
bare breasts to
a stranger’s
teeth!
With a flick
of her
wrists
and stamp of
her feet,
Clementina
laughed back at
Rosa, laughed
at
her Father’s black
brooding windows,
laughed
at the purpling
sky as
Clementina—
oh that girl!
dark golden
girl!—
freed herself. She
laughed at
her
bruises, both then
and those
yet
to come. She
laughed at
her
emerging scars and,
en compas,
she
set herself free.
![[image]](http://shayepoet.com/conference/authors/AmbahanonBambooslide1c.jpg "[image]")
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