New Voice Crying Out

For whatever we lose (like a you or a me)

it’s always ourselves we find in the sea – e e cummings

 

Out of an Indian Summer

out of an everlasting spring

the giant cradle

the giant’s cradle

spills over into an endless sea

and I throw myself on the sand

like him

the barefoot boy

like him

the chanter of both bliss and suffering

like him

the translator of notes

and those who rock and sway

and greet me with vibrant double l’s

and resonant double r’s

will lead me to the shore

to confront new waves:

they the singers of the incessant carol

who have not become

and will never become

shades of themselves.

Those who move stiffly

like automatons

through the metal and asphalt wasteland

and have ferried themselves across a Styx

and have drunk of a Lethe

all to partake of formless tasteless

mass-produced daily bread

once slaves raped by the master

now masters brandishing whips

lash out at the one

who appallingly makes the sounds

they have been taught to stifle

counterfeiting that characteristic initial double l

in llenar llevar llorar

to fill to take to cry

embezzling the heritage brought by conquistadors

and merged with the indigenous Taino

and Africans who cut the cane.

To them of the straightened hair

the dark severe suits

the slow deliberate gait

even the cry of pain or surprise ¡ay!

is but a forged signature

on a stolen check.

There on the coastline of Puerto Plata

the laughter of the tall reed-like young men

keeps time with the rhythm of the tide

not because I am

the lightest-shaded one on the beach

but as they dart past

into the spilling breakers

shouting ¡me voy para lo hondo!

I’m going deeper!

then glance back, they call

¡Amiga, de donde eres

las olas son mucho más suaves!

My friend, where you come from

the waves are much more gentle!

I watch them as one by one

they challenge the breakers

while on either side

a boy of caramel or cinnamon skin

holds my arm

for fear that I will be swept out

past the agile swimmers and body surfers

and as a wave washes over us

the new voice crying out

to them rings true.

Those who wander

the sterile sands of a stunted existence

like withering cilantro plants

or spindly stalks of oregano

in a window garden

might have bloomed

into immense bushes growing year-round

in the tropics

so how could they possibly

hear the lone singer

of the loud disconcerting aria?

On another not-so-wild beach

warned of the stinging man o’war

rip tides and the calm surface

that fools the eye

but emboldened and heedless

enchanted by his song

ven conmigo en el agua

come with me into the water

I follow the one

with skin of chocolate sin azúcar

and hair like black seaweed

while the witnesses who stayed behind

shout for him to return.

Swimming beside him

I lose sight of the waterfront

then the tallest of the watchers

merman-like

appears beside us

ordering me to climb on his back

and with powerful strokes

heads toward the beach.

When the deepest-toned one of all

the merman’s son

insists that he would have

brought me back to shore

my bearded savior

healer spellbinder lifter of curses

scolds him

until he hangs his head.

But the sound of the sun drowns out all reproaches

across the stretch of sand

out of the force of the cradle

into the sweeping current

beyond the notes of the carol

Oh! To dare and defy the waves!

I throw myself beneath the surface

as if to piece together the broken universe

while the nervous boys the bodysurfing young men

the old merman and his son

scan the sea for this other solitary guest

to emerge to draw that first sharp breath

and the new voice crying out ah! ¡ay!

to them rings true.

 - Lori D. Nolasco

(An educator, poet and vocalist, Lori D. Nolasco was inspired by Walt Whitman's Out of the Cradle, Endlessly Rocking in writing New Voice Crying Out. Lori is also the author of Demetrio's Scythe: A Suite of Elegies that will be available in April, 2012. A review of Demetrio's Scythe: A Suite of Elegies will appear shortly within these pages.)