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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.)
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