A great bouquet of links. The Ursula K. LeGuin cover *is* beautiful, and given the contributors, it's going to be wonderful.
I really loved "the ghosts of sea salt corpses," so much so that I went looking for the Merlie M Alunan original. I found a long Facebook post that ended with three poems, all of which could have contributed to this one, but the first seemed especially connected:
Tricycle drivers’ tale On nights when rain pours as if the very gate of heaven is open, and nothing to stop a shivering earth from death by drowning, people in my village tell this story— An empty house in Delgado Street. The tricycle stops by the locked gate. A man alights, his wife, an infant held close to her chest, a boy of five or six gripping her skirt with bony fingers. “Delgado,” that one word the man said had brought them to this unlit house on this lonely street in our village. Not a sound throughout the ride. Now the man digs for fare in his pockets and comes up with a few clamshells, holds them out like coins to the driver. “I’ll get the fare,” says the man, unlocks the gate, and enters the dark house, everyone following him. He never returns with the fare. Seized by suspicion, the terrified driver flees, pursued by the reek of fish in the wind. This tale goes the rounds of Cardo’s motor shop, Tentay’s caldohan, wherever it is that drivers go to pass the slow time of day, or when rain forces them to seek shelter. The story grows bigger with every telling: barnacles on the man’s neck, on his hands, his ears, the woman’s hair stringy like seaweeds, the infant in her arms swaddled in kelp— and did he have fishtail instead of feet? The boy’s fluorescent stare, as though his eyes were wells of plankton—was that a starfish dangling from a string on his chest, sea snakes wriggling in and out of his pockets? They say the house in Delgado is still waiting, as empty and dark as on the day, ten, eleven years ago, when the M/V Dona Paz with two thousand on board, became grub for the sea. Of that time, old women in my village remember rows of coffins on the dockside, the smell of rot in the air, wakes everywhere, and for a month at least, funeral processions winding down the streets of the city every day. No driver in our village claims ownership of this tale, yet it moves like a feckless wind blowing breath to breath, growing hair, hand, fist, and feet with every telling, and no doubt, also claws to grip us cold with its horror. We cower in the dark, thinking of it, grateful as we seldom are, for the house steady on the earth, the dry bed, beside us, a warm body to embrace despite the tyranny of rain pelting our fragile shelters. This is our habit, those of us who breathe air, and walk on land, while in our mind, hearing the sleepless sea grumbling, grumbling, grumbling endlessly-- somedaywecome somedaywecome somedaysomedaysomeday....
I'll try to tag you on FB so you can see the whole thing.
Looking forward to reading the other links--the thing about self-identifier v. insult reminds me of a story in the debut issue of Constelación magazine, "Imilla." The word "Imilla" just means "girl" in Aymara but is used as a derogative in Bolivia for indigenous women--but at the end of the story, the deity of a mountain uses it affectionately for the protagonist, reclaiming it for her. It was beautiful. (That story was right up my alley: Gods and humans, mother tongues, and friendship via correspondence. And I read it in the original Spanish, which--maybe this was an illusion, but--felt more singing than the translation.)
The con crud seems as socially awkward as the occasional con-goer who doesn't understand hints that it's time to *leave*. Wish it would get a clue and depart!
no subject
I really loved "the ghosts of sea salt corpses," so much so that I went looking for the Merlie M Alunan original. I found a long Facebook post that ended with three poems, all of which could have contributed to this one, but the first seemed especially connected:
Tricycle drivers’ tale
On nights when rain pours as if
the very gate of heaven is open,
and nothing to stop a shivering earth
from death by drowning,
people in my village tell this story—
An empty house in Delgado Street.
The tricycle stops by the locked gate.
A man alights, his wife, an infant held
close to her chest, a boy of five or six
gripping her skirt with bony fingers.
“Delgado,” that one word the man said
had brought them to this unlit house
on this lonely street in our village.
Not a sound throughout the ride.
Now the man digs for fare in his pockets
and comes up with a few clamshells,
holds them out like coins to the driver.
“I’ll get the fare,” says the man,
unlocks the gate, and enters the dark house,
everyone following him. He never returns
with the fare. Seized by suspicion,
the terrified driver flees, pursued
by the reek of fish in the wind.
This tale goes the rounds of Cardo’s motor shop,
Tentay’s caldohan, wherever it is that drivers go
to pass the slow time of day, or when rain
forces them to seek shelter. The story grows
bigger with every telling: barnacles
on the man’s neck, on his hands, his ears,
the woman’s hair stringy like seaweeds,
the infant in her arms swaddled in kelp—
and did he have fishtail instead of feet?
The boy’s fluorescent stare, as though his eyes
were wells of plankton—was that a starfish
dangling from a string on his chest, sea snakes
wriggling in and out of his pockets?
They say the house in Delgado is still waiting,
as empty and dark as on the day,
ten, eleven years ago, when the M/V Dona Paz
with two thousand on board, became grub
for the sea. Of that time, old women in my village
remember rows of coffins on the dockside,
the smell of rot in the air, wakes everywhere,
and for a month at least, funeral processions
winding down the streets of the city every day.
No driver in our village claims ownership
of this tale, yet it moves like a feckless wind
blowing breath to breath, growing hair, hand,
fist, and feet with every telling, and no doubt,
also claws to grip us cold with its horror.
We cower in the dark, thinking of it, grateful
as we seldom are, for the house steady on the earth,
the dry bed, beside us, a warm body to embrace
despite the tyranny of rain pelting our fragile shelters.
This is our habit, those of us who breathe air,
and walk on land, while in our mind, hearing
the sleepless sea grumbling, grumbling,
grumbling endlessly--
somedaywecome
somedaywecome
somedaysomedaysomeday....
I'll try to tag you on FB so you can see the whole thing.
Looking forward to reading the other links--the thing about self-identifier v. insult reminds me of a story in the debut issue of Constelación magazine, "Imilla." The word "Imilla" just means "girl" in Aymara but is used as a derogative in Bolivia for indigenous women--but at the end of the story, the deity of a mountain uses it affectionately for the protagonist, reclaiming it for her. It was beautiful. (That story was right up my alley: Gods and humans, mother tongues, and friendship via correspondence. And I read it in the original Spanish, which--maybe this was an illusion, but--felt more singing than the translation.)
The con crud seems as socially awkward as the occasional con-goer who doesn't understand hints that it's time to *leave*. Wish it would get a clue and depart!