Adrian Castro

The Cantos

"The most beautiful thing we can experience is the mysterious. It is the source of all true art and science. He to whom this emotion is a stranger, who can no longer pause to wonder and stand rapt in awe, is as good as dead."

-Albert Einstein

(continued from last issue...)

XII.

For Rene

She who is owner of the last breath
flows through pink & wine painted tombs
always that stage before
birth before
wind tumbles a destiny
into cupped hands
filled with river water
ready to be splashed on this empty womb

She who is owner of cemeteries
where the mist of memory
the ancestors sleep
is not disturbed
by the raucous of reason
Here we rest in a woven basket
among skulls & small bones
The laughter must be muffled
Muffled must be the music
solemn & serious
austere as the day she left to live
in the most hushed of homes
among epitaphs of bearded revolutionaries
poets with calluses
drummers with burning tongues
like the day she left
after that same drummer
with one hand red
the left white
rejected her braided hair with crown of bones & cowrie

like when she danced with her back
departing from the drum
covered with white raiment
brocaded with tombs of immigrants
always that stage before
now the beginning of a new
gente
(Crioooollos)

XIII.

We whirled softly towards the gates
of this cemetery
armed with pods from poincianas/flamboyán
rattling like bones from old skeletons
enticing the wind to come & play
come ’n play
we do this carefully
around these peninsulas
she has a habit of suddenly
exhaling
gates slam open pods
knife the air like boomerangs
not to say mangos y aguacates
who often believe themselves BOMBAS

We do this carefully
many a times fierce women
women with hairdos like tornadoes
like branches from flamboyán
necklaces of buffalo horns hang
with snaps of hurricanes trapped
twist unto the scene
red pants buried
below rainbow branded skirts
skirts jingling 9 bells cascabeles
small knives hoes sickles etcétera

Amalia had a husband
whose head was so red
so hot he could ignite a bonfire
by spitting into a pit of cedar logs
As a result he had several scars
as testament to his habit of war
Once many of his enemies
surrounded Amalia’s home
& demanded he come out
There was no way both of them
could fight them off even
if she opened a buffalo horn
Yet a gust of thoughts
breezed through her braids & red hair ties –
Amalia decided to dress her husband
in her multicolored pants
& sash of red raiment
even braid his hair
When the disguise was complete
this guy her husband bolted out the house
hopped on her horse & thundered past his enemies
like a mix of fire & gunpowder
His enemies still thought he was inside
until Amaha came out whirling softly
dressed in her usual
with a flywhisk/iruke beaded rusty
looking like the tail of a tornado
This really happened
And though Amalia & her husband
don't live together
(You see
two rams don't drink from the same fountain)
she is her husband’s right hand –
though they don't live together –
he always leaps as if reaching for the source of lightning
dances a smokin’ rumba
when she wraps the rainbow
around her hips

XIV.

There used to he huge heaps of stones
seemingly round & burnt
awash on this shore: small
attempt at quenching the sea’s hunger for tierra: this
was to maintain the ocean
chained to her floor to deep
volcanoes con valleys of masked fish
Many of us assembled on these stones
(the last hurdle before
the beginning of new criollos
before the lasting exodus
from island to island to peninsula
with arms half closed
elbows jagged)

on these stones: El Muro...
We/ us/ nosotros
often saw the memory of petitions floating
desolate:
cocos painted blue / añil
seven watermelons twisting like escaped boats
deep fried slices of platanos
macitas de puerco
even a rooster shedding its soaked skin
on its way to delivering a message of hope
Strewn on the glassy sand we witnessed now ’n then
several big black rubber doughnuts strung
like a necklace of used coffins
torn clothing y todo

So we tossed silver tools into the froth of her skin
for balseros adrift with sails of quilted handkerchiefs
for immigrants stowed among cargo-
oars for motion & growth
a helm to steer their stay
anchor to firmly ground their roots
a life preserver so their memory survives
(salvavida)
upon reaching new shores upon new
criollos being born
pendant of a siren among stones in groves
siren to whisper secret psalms of history
African something something
Spanish

Those who were whipped into ships
whose planks squeaked the word torture
whose peste reeked the noise agony
whose treasures were never found
Those who made it across to
new lands to blend into soil
into las palmas las ceibas
cocoteros mango y mamey
into waves that peck & tumble these stones
into the blood of our hymns y poesia
tambor campana y chekeré

Those who returned to our mother’s breast
which hung 1
o
w
’till bursting into ocean

XV.

Prologue to a really long poem
Para Jessica

Ladékojú ibu yí odo...
We see a five-pointed crown
brass with strands of amber dangling
basking atop stones on this riverbank
Cowrie shells blended jingling receiving messages
from fish spawning:
El rio se reía –
we hear laughter of currents kissing stones
Here
is where his mother lives:
these fish keep kissing our feet
as they paddle with brass oars
towards the source of abundance
our torsos were waves
shoulders were short ha-has of laughter
to rhythms in bells/chaworó
in drums/ tambor/ibu aña
El rio se reía –
(laughter of currents kissing stones)
If it wasn't for the sh-sh-sh of water a
smooth splash of a calabash on her womb
rubbed with beeswax five ferns parsley y perejil
his mother would not give birth
there would be no continuity
this is how we always did it

the beginning trickles few stones y cowries
then gradually spreads ’till
the river is where we fish the tradition
the tradition flows from spring to town to town to
homes to ocean

She who shelters cinnamon skin
with long yellow raiment
silks embroidered with peacocks
She whose hair is braided with amber-sculptured fish
She whose wrists swivel brass bracelets
enticing even crocodiles to smile
even the lonesome ironsmith/Alagbedé
to leave his fort of leaves trees & steel
to share his tools of creativity
trompeta hammer & pen
machete y chisel
She whose eyes tear long streams of honey
who with a certain African ogle
ojo con sabor y meneo
has combed con miel the bodies of many lovers –

And she has a habit of
listening to bells y cascabel
below cascades then
fingering her hair to its rhythm
This can be her throne
Here is where these drops glisten
like little mirrors
like snaps of herself which when reach the ground
become her image
su cara de azucar marrón

Tribes of bees huddle & check themselves in the stream
make sure their yellow rings
blend with the pollen
their signature is still intact
while the queen cools herself with a tiny fan/ abébé
of peacock feathers
waiting for her mirrors her people
to arrive
here is where his mother lives
Don Masayá was taught to speak of himself like

"I was born on a riverbank
embraced by honey-soaked stones!
(oñi sokuta)
The spring that sprung gourds of compassion
of laughter of cinnamon twigs
was my womb
I was born on a riverbank
between humidity & drizzle
while my father was working
forging some sort of art"

XV1.

for the memory of Miguel Febles

We see
thin brass chain
8 snaps of turtle shells
laced
suspended on this palma
between palm nuts ready
to tumble and spin the past
into words of tomorrow

This is to poet what pen is to diviner
This is to diviner what pen is to poet

They cast words into
hoodoo rhythms palabras con ritmo y tún-tún
cast words unto wooden tray with
mobius signs of energy & elephant
Circles begin to whirl
las hierbas suddenly exude
liquid consciousness
stones bounce down the river of tradition
tongue touches bones with tones of wisdom

We see
thin brass chain
8 snaps of turtle shells
laced
suspended at the beginning of a poem
we assembled to hear

They said
whoever chants like whoever owns black-
sewn gourd with tongue inside white-
sewn gourd with tongue inside
has the gift of camale6n
pivoting eyes etcétera or
hangs like a bat who
upside down sees everything below the surface or
sits on a straw mat coiled
able to sense the essential heat or coolness of cells
like the flick from a python
sitting on a straw mat coiled

They said
this is to poet what pen is to diviner
this is to diviner what pen is to poet

We summon poems from past figures
spirits with green & yellow pens
flowing wrists
who tossed brass chain
laced
with little poems who
spoke regarding our people's seat
where to sit
where it sat &
what to do once we found it
(Yoko obi yo ko obi [CALL]
Ayal’awo yoko obi yo ko obi ayal’awo [RESPONSE])

If it wasn't for 16 verses/odu
mutating to 256
to thousands
we would not know
(canto que canta la story/history
of who we are spoken in rhythm)
The child who performs feats with jest
opens doors & drawers which always lead home
The first owner of steel who cleared the path
with machete of sound
danced outside to our music
to make thorns disappear
The one who throws arrows of myth & metaphor
lands quickly killing a belly full of lies
Healer who undulates in cool green water
healer with crutches & falling skin
who owns sickness who owns the cure
Campesino who’s hip to secrets of soil
The one with wine colored sash
who carries a slight tremble of earth inside
Our sister with strands of virgin tufts
who watches ibeji/twins/son los jimaguas son los jimaguas
(kere kere yan)
make sure they get their marbles & candy
Her brother the rumbero with charm
who speaks in goatskin & dance
like a ki-lak-gun of drum
& has a bit of tyrant in him
El viejo y la vieja with eyes strung like clouds
royal in their beaded canes
She who hides in caves & is missing an ear no one spoke to
She who lives in trenches of chastity in cemeteries

She who is armed with tornadoes in her skirt pods from flamboyán
She who piles round stones in ocean
mothers our journey from island to isla to land
She who laughs like currents kissing stones
flows with cinnamon skin on a riverbank sweet
& carries the calabash of love
He who sits on a straw mat coiled in
white raiment
sensing the essential heat or coolness of cells
summoning which came before then
spraying words
to give energy its form

We see
thin brass chain
8 snaps of turtle shells
suspended on the hand that writes the hymns from our homes
that asks the piercing questions
that spills the answers from memory
that divines the poem
Don Masayá was witness
to prophecy coming to pass
They said he was to be born
among honey-soaked stones
They said
he would have a gentle
character cool y soothing
like a slight smile
father of the mysteries of verse

Editor's Note: New Book !!!! Congratulations Adrian!

Wise Fish: Tales in 6/8 Time
POEMS BY ADRIAN CASTRO

“Adrian Castro is fast becoming our foremost poet of the Caribbean, that crossroad of the Americas whose multiple cultures and languages he knows and speaks so fluently. His poetry is ecstatic, drum-propelled, lyrically empowered, spiritually questing, restlessly exploring the flyways of diaspora and exile from Puerto Rico to Haiti to Florida, from Cuba to Jamaica to Colombia, yet the idiom it inhabits is purely American. For all his journeying Adrian Castro is never away from home, because, like the hermit crab, he carries it on his back.”—CAMPBELL MCGRATH

“Powerful, fresh, complex.”—QUINCY TROUPE

Saturated with Afro-Caribbean history and myth and interspersed with Spanish, Yoruba, and Lukumi dialects, these poems create a poetic atlas of cultures as they document the centuries-long, open-sea migrations from Africa to the Caribbean to the Florida coast.
Recurring throughout these poems is the image of the wise fish, a witness whose eyes were never closed to the perilous journeys that brought so many to the shores of North America, creating a vibrant Afro-Latino-Caribbean culture tempered by loss and memory. Infused with the musicality of the oral tradition, this collection gives voice to the great courage and tragedy of those who weather the migratory experience."

PRAISE FOR ADRIAN CASTRO
“Castro has long been layering Spanish, English, and Yoruba dialects, musical sound, and drum rhythms, Cuba, Miami, Africa, and the Santeria religion. . . . he seems well on the way to inventing a brand new Miami patois.”
—MIAMI HERALD

“Called to the priesthood by verse and inspired by African poets known as griots, Adrian Castro writes and recites rhythmic tales of history, civilization, and spirituality. . . . A selfdescribed‘poet of place’ who works best in tropical surroundings, [Castro] is a babalao, or high priest of the Yoruba religion, from which Santeria evolved. His pulsating recitals combine the English, Spanish, and African languages and emphasize myth and migration.”
—NEW TIMES BROWARD-PALM BEACH

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©1997-2005 by Adrian Castro