Wednesday, December 9, 2015

A SHORT FLIGHT FROM MANHATTAN TO MEXICO CITY—ON THE WINGS OF POETRY

The excellent Mexican poet and talented graphic designer, Roberto Mendoza Ayala, became a part-time New Yorker in 2012 while he continued to publish his poetry in books and magazines in Mexico and throughout the Spanish-speaking world. In 2013 he joined local salon gatherings in order to meet local poets here in Manhattan and share his poetry. He remained intimately connected to the Mexico City poetry community (he goes back and forth on business trips at least once a month) and eventually he imagined a way to connect the two groups of poets.

After getting to know those he read with here, Roberto imagined an anthology that would combine the works of poets of the two great cities. He and a small handful of collaborators on both sides of the border gathered the works of twenty-five Mexican and North American poets for the collection entitled “De Neza York a New York”, or “From Neza York to New York” which was published in Mexico City and distributed there and here in May, 2015.
The title speaks for itself. But for those confused by the Neza York reference, the name is that of a colonia, or vast neighborhood, in the sprawling valley that is the Federal District of Mexico City. With close to a million inhabitants (the actual name of the area being Nezahaulcóyotl, after a fifteenth-century Aztec emperor) the area became known to inhabitants as “Neza York”. Mexico City’s airport is there, and because so many businessmen live in or around Nezahaulcóyotl for its close proximity—those who fly back and forth to North America’s most famous city—it took on the whimsical name.
Twenty-five poets—twelve from the States and thirteen from Mexico—each contributed three poems. These were then cross-translated into the two languages, so that the 144-page anthology consists of 150 poems. The Mexican poets are: Roberto Mendoza Ayala, Félix Cardoso, Raúl Casamadrid, Leopoldo González, María Ángeles Juárez Téllez, Victor M. Navarro, Alejandro Reyes Juárez, Iliana Rodríguez, Rolando Rosas Galicia, Arturo Trejo Villafuerte, Aura María Vidales, Guadalupe Vidales and Eduardo Villegas Guevara. From New York City—Mary Askin-Jencsik, Lord Bison, Stephen Bluestone, Hannah Cerasoli, Claire Fitzpatrick, Arthur Gatti, Gordon Gilbert, Robert Givens, Evie Ivy, Rosalind Resnick, Griselda Steiner and Jack Tricarico.

Selected below are excerpts from the anthology:

From Jack Tricarico’s “Wishful Thinking”—

…Does the painting seem like a stain
About to bleed out
Into some kind of semblance
Of something that wants to exist
And can’t find its way into space?...

Roberto Mendoza Ayala’s (entire) “There’ll Never Be Another You”

Of all the fruits possible
you make your nest in my hand
shaped by your sumptuous style.
You are fragrance at the end of a stem
and your flesh slowly yields
in the sugary snake
that bites my tongue.
Having chosen you,
I have left a basket full
of broken promises


Because of current political tensions surrounding Mexican immigrants, an artistic collaboration such as this one couldn’t have come at a better time. Perhaps it’s partially for this reason that the cultural arm of the Mexican government has chosen to launch a special celebration of the publication in late November at Mexico City’s splendiferous Palace of Fine Arts.

The Instituto Nacional de Bellas Artes and its literary adjunct, Coordinación Nacional de Literatura, have several events—readings, celebrations and press conferences—planned for the final weeks of November. Around the same time, the Mexican Consulate to the United Nations here in Manhattan, along with The Poetry Society of New York, will be hosting a local celebration to commemorate the anthology’s publication.

Tuesday, November 10, 2015

BUY MY POETRY BOOK!
Art Gatti's "Mexico--Dust in My Blood"--is a collection of poetry spanning my 50+ years of experiences in our southern neighbor. Just go to Amazon and enter my name and the title--all for under ten buck, including postage!

Thursday, April 2, 2015

Like Sandberg's Fog

The smooth gray cat walks in shadows
then passes into light,
padding its way
from invisibility to invisibility.

The memory of you
swims in the glow of its golden eyes,
those embers
soon to grow dark
in the sleeping softness of cat purrs.

Soft fall its eyelids,
softer its breath—
and before I know it,

you are dressed and out the door.

Hamburgers


Flat, fatty patties,
sizz-sizz-sizzling!
The pocket-change burgers of my youth
filled my stomach on nights when I was in a hurry
to leave my family table.
At fifteen, twenty cents each,
they perfumed the inside of Eddie’s forty-one Dodge.

White Castles were mere hors d’oeuvres,
and we piled accusing pyramids,
ziggurats of tiny blue-and-white boxes,
on the midnight stoops of friends
who failed to partake with us
on our nightly beefy forays.

But only Hubie’s Hut on Little Neck Turnpike
had patties that sizzled,
And we sang his song:
“Who stole my heart away?
Who makes me feel so gay?
-- Hubie’s!
He’s a hut!”

Hamburgers today are
flattened meatball excesses
spawned on backyard grills
by fat guys in aprons.

They are not
what I remember
at the back of my tongue:
Yum-yum!

Flat, fatty patties sizz-sizz-sizzling!

Saturday, March 21, 2015

The Vision of Childhood


She was the moon-washed, lush Pacific night,
and I wished against nature
to still the crash of waves to hear her every sigh.

In the night of tossed bedclothes
and palm-framed balcony doors flung wide,
her thighs about me, pressing at my heart,
I opened her against the slightest of protests.
“I am black” she whispered from the back of her throat.

That was all.
Glints of wavetop silver shimmered on the wall,
illuminating the brown and pink of her...
where I laid my need and plumbed her own so gently.

Some moments are all there is...
some sensations tell you all.
All that night we told each other these same, simple things.
Ah, but see how the dawn always drives lovers hopelessly
along sad and divergent paths....

Months later
a day came and went
when it could have been again

And the crashing waves-–on hold like stop-motion–-
continued their eternal back-and-forth.
And those footprints on the sand are no more.


[This appears in my "Mexico--Dust in My Blood"]