I first heard Xánath Caraza read her work last year in Milwaukee at "Cantos Latinos! A Mosaic of Latino Poetry," a poetry and panel of quite diverse Latino poets assembled at the city's library. Xánath sort of blew me away with her reading. I recall her dark hair and a red shawl that, on her, resembled a queenly sort of cape, but what I remember most was the forceful passion she put into the poems she read, the wake-up punch of each word, how, the longer she read, the less her Spanish sounded like language and more like raw sound. I kept thinking of Shangó, the Yoruba deity (or orisha) of lightning and thunder and one whose presence is often associated with music, specifically the percussive power of drums. Her voice had that kind of command to it. I could not imagine a better title for her collection Conjuro, which is the Spanish word for a spell or incantation. She recently spoke to me from her home in Kansas City, and I learned as much about her consideration of culture and history in her work as I did about the sway color holds over it. "Poetry is a feeling of orange," she writes in "Linguistic Filigree." I wanted to know more.
ET: I saw you hold a crowd rapt when you read
in Milwaukee last year, particular with "Yanga," which felt like one of
the central poems of this book, both in its homage to how Africa has helped shape
Latin American history *and* because oral tradition has a powerful claim in your
work. Let's talk about Yanga first. Tell us who he
was.
XC: I fell in love with Yanga early in my childhood; we
studied him in grammar school. It captured me that he was a real person. He was, while a slave, a community organizer and was able to create the first free zone in the Americas in 1630. In a way, these slaves were unconquerable. The original name of the zone was
San Lorenzo de los Negros, but now this town is known as Yanga. I was always fascinated
with language, and I pay attention to idioms. We have all these words we know
come from Africa, and there are towns in Veracruz,, Mexico, that are named
after African voices. So Yanga speaks to the history of Veracruz, and I wanted
to put together Yanga's language and the Spanish versions of these words into a poem.
studied him in grammar school. It captured me that he was a real person. He was, while a slave, a community organizer and was able to create the first free zone in the Americas in 1630. In a way, these slaves were unconquerable. The original name of the zone was
San Lorenzo de los Negros, but now this town is known as Yanga. I was always fascinated
with language, and I pay attention to idioms. We have all these words we know
come from Africa, and there are towns in Veracruz,, Mexico, that are named
after African voices. So Yanga speaks to the history of Veracruz, and I wanted
to put together Yanga's language and the Spanish versions of these words into a poem.
Louis Reyes Rivera, an African Puerto Rican scholar and performance poet, had a deep impact on me when I saw him in Kansas City. He was such a nice person when I met him, very
calm, down to earth, and then when he stood up to read, he turned into a drum,
like a conga, pounding right in front of you. I put all of that together to
create "Yanga."
calm, down to earth, and then when he stood up to read, he turned into a drum,
like a conga, pounding right in front of you. I put all of that together to
create "Yanga."
(para Louis Reyes Rivera)
Yanga, Yanga, Yanga
Yanga, Yanga, Yanga,
Hoy, tu espiritu invoco
Aqui, en este lugar.
Este, este es mi poema para Yanga,
Mandinga, malanga, bamba.
Rumba, mambo, samba,
Palabras llegadas de África.
Esta, esta es mi respuesta para Yanga,
Candomble, mocambo, mambo,
Candomble, mocambo, mambo,
Hombre libre veracruzano…
ET: Let's talk about the presence of oral tradition in these poems. As I read Conjuro , I kept feeling I was reading a songbook, a gathering of melodies that relies heavily on image and does so through a
prose-like style, which might attribute to why your book was a
finalist for multicultural fiction in the International Book Awards as well as for poetry in the International Latino Book Awards. Above all, I felt as if sound is king in these pages, with
consonants percussively clinking up against one another and a skillful
repetition demanding attention. I'd love for you to discuss the role of sound in
this book and in your creative life.
prose-like style, which might attribute to why your book was a
finalist for multicultural fiction in the International Book Awards as well as for poetry in the International Latino Book Awards. Above all, I felt as if sound is king in these pages, with
consonants percussively clinking up against one another and a skillful
repetition demanding attention. I'd love for you to discuss the role of sound in
this book and in your creative life.
XC: I'm always thinking about rhythm; that is true. I
don't want to fall into stererotype, but I love music. I am Latina and whenever I
hear a song I like, I start humming and dancing. I grew up like that. I don't
feel like I should be sitting down when I hear music, and I think that is reflective in
my writing. I know that the way we remember a poem is through its rhythm. A a certain kind of beat can captivate us. "Yanga" is like
that.
don't want to fall into stererotype, but I love music. I am Latina and whenever I
hear a song I like, I start humming and dancing. I grew up like that. I don't
feel like I should be sitting down when I hear music, and I think that is reflective in
my writing. I know that the way we remember a poem is through its rhythm. A a certain kind of beat can captivate us. "Yanga" is like
that.
When I read it to children, they also respond to that
rhythm without even knowing what I might be saying. It's very deliberate.
The trick for poets is to make it as simple as possible but with technique
behind it. We have to work our poems.
ET: I also thought the syntax and phrasing of
these poems felt as if they originated first in Spanish and then were translated from
head to hand through the act of writing. Did you experience this process, or
something like it, while drafting the poems for this
book?
these poems felt as if they originated first in Spanish and then were translated from
head to hand through the act of writing. Did you experience this process, or
something like it, while drafting the poems for this
book?
XC: That's exactly how it happens. Creatively, I always
write in Spanish. And once I think it's ready, I begin translating into
English. If I have to write an academic paper or column, I can do it first in English.
But creatively, I prefer Spanish. I reached that conclusion a few years ago. I
kept editing myself while trying to write poems; I was hyperaware and I realized
that this was not going to work. Especially for the short stories; I was so
concerned to say it correctly in English. And then I thought, 'Let it go; write
in Spanish, and later worry about the translation.'
write in Spanish. And once I think it's ready, I begin translating into
English. If I have to write an academic paper or column, I can do it first in English.
But creatively, I prefer Spanish. I reached that conclusion a few years ago. I
kept editing myself while trying to write poems; I was hyperaware and I realized
that this was not going to work. Especially for the short stories; I was so
concerned to say it correctly in English. And then I thought, 'Let it go; write
in Spanish, and later worry about the translation.'
ET: During a recent interview over at La Bloga, you
mentioned that why you don't speak Nahuatl, you grew
up listening to it and recall its sounds, mostly rhythms that you describe as
"green
sounds, from the open spaces of my grandmother’s indigenous community." This presence of green, and of color in general, is
a vital part of this collection. Can you comment on your use of color and why it appears so
forcefully in these poems?
mentioned that why you don't speak Nahuatl, you grew
up listening to it and recall its sounds, mostly rhythms that you describe as
"green
sounds, from the open spaces of my grandmother’s indigenous community." This presence of green, and of color in general, is
a vital part of this collection. Can you comment on your use of color and why it appears so
forcefully in these poems?
person, and it is reflected in my language. Colors come to me, in one way or
another. Green is what I remember from my grandmother's house because she used
to live in an indigenous community in the northern part of Veracruz. Back then,
we had to travel nine hours from Xalapa, the capital of the state of Veracruz, and
all the way down to her house. The fields along the way were green. Where we lived in Xalapa,
it's a cloud forest, but by her it's very hot, very humid and jungle like.
Green, green, green. Una cupola de verde. And very thick air. I
remember thinking, 'I'm inhaling all that green.'
ET: We've talked about how Conjuro includes indigenous, African, and Mexican influences. But I've also heard you say
that the Midwest has its imprint on these pages as well, an unexpected
ingredient when considering an Indo-Afro-Latino blend of cultures. Can you tell
us how the Midwest has permeated these poems and
why?
that the Midwest has its imprint on these pages as well, an unexpected
ingredient when considering an Indo-Afro-Latino blend of cultures. Can you tell
us how the Midwest has permeated these poems and
why?
Kansas City. In Corazón Pintado, I'm writing about tornadoes and storms and lack of water. Just like the green is carved into my skin, this Midwest landscape is and its urban settings are becoming part of me now.
It's starting to reflect in my writing. What brought me here was Steve, my
husband. We moved from Mexico to Vermont. I was very happy in those green
mountains until the winters arrived! After three [of them] I told
him, "I need to be closer to the sun." He's from here, so that's where we moved
to.
ET: I admire the historical and cultural stew of
your work, and it makes me guess you also actively read across cultures and
genres. Can you tell me who you're reading now?
your work, and it makes me guess you also actively read across cultures and
genres. Can you tell me who you're reading now?
XC: Right now, José Ovejero, La invención del amor — a
novel that won the Premio Alfaguara for 2013. I just got it in the Madrid
airport. I came back with 47 books that I bought while traveling. All poetry,
except for this one. Customs asked me if I had any cigarettes and I said no —
just my books.
novel that won the Premio Alfaguara for 2013. I just got it in the Madrid
airport. I came back with 47 books that I bought while traveling. All poetry,
except for this one. Customs asked me if I had any cigarettes and I said no —
just my books.
ET: They are your
contraband!
contraband!
XC: Yes; exactly! I'm really looking into Ovejero's book and the techniques
he uses. He uses a lot of imagery but it's almost a little like a detective
novel in its suspense. For poetry, I'm reading Senderos del al-Andalus, by Enrique Morón. He is a poet from
Granada with probably 30 books of poetry published, and also many more of essays
and prose. When I opened the book, and I read the
first stanza of the first poem, my heart was pounding. You can see he is a
master. It has Arabic influences and especially influenced by the region of Andalucía. His use
of language, color, metaphor — every word is placed where it should be placed.
Period. You can see the maturity of his language.
he uses. He uses a lot of imagery but it's almost a little like a detective
novel in its suspense. For poetry, I'm reading Senderos del al-Andalus, by Enrique Morón. He is a poet from
Granada with probably 30 books of poetry published, and also many more of essays
and prose. When I opened the book, and I read the
first stanza of the first poem, my heart was pounding. You can see he is a
master. It has Arabic influences and especially influenced by the region of Andalucía. His use
of language, color, metaphor — every word is placed where it should be placed.
Period. You can see the maturity of his language.
ET: Where were you traveling in this summer?
XC: I started in Spain, at the Festival Internacional de Poesía, in Granada. I was invited, one of two women invited this year out of about 20 people. Then I went to Italy, and then Croatia as faculty to discuss the peace building process. It was very meaningful. I've read about that part of the
world but it was very different to be there and meet exiles that were returning.
I met with peacebuilders and made lots of notes; one of my poems about the
experience was recently published in a Serbian journal. I felt as a I was
immersed in history. You walk along the city streets and see the ones that have been
recently rebuilt. But then there are other areas that are still unsafe and where
the structures are riddled with bullet holes. It was a powerful experience —
mentally exhausting, but somehow I was also revitalized, especially by the people who are working
for peace. They have so much energy and strength; it was very
humbling.
world but it was very different to be there and meet exiles that were returning.
I met with peacebuilders and made lots of notes; one of my poems about the
experience was recently published in a Serbian journal. I felt as a I was
immersed in history. You walk along the city streets and see the ones that have been
recently rebuilt. But then there are other areas that are still unsafe and where
the structures are riddled with bullet holes. It was a powerful experience —
mentally exhausting, but somehow I was also revitalized, especially by the people who are working
for peace. They have so much energy and strength; it was very
humbling.
ET: How do you think time abroad will impact your writing?
XC: That was the first time I wrote a poem and it was
published in the region I was writing about — Croatia. In the Festival de Poesía, I read poems about my
time in Spain and people heard them, such as "En las calles de Granada." I was
wondering if I should even read it or not but people really liked it. I'm
starting to be read in the places that I'm writing about.
published in the region I was writing about — Croatia. In the Festival de Poesía, I read poems about my
time in Spain and people heard them, such as "En las calles de Granada." I was
wondering if I should even read it or not but people really liked it. I'm
starting to be read in the places that I'm writing about.
ET: A full circle – You visit a place, are inspired
creatively, write about it, and then return your writing to its
source.
creatively, write about it, and then return your writing to its
source.
XC: It's a very interesting
experience.
experience.
ET: You're also a visual artist. What do you
do?
do?
XC: My specialty is paper mâché. I do a bit of painting,
printing and carving, but what I basically
do is arte for the Dias de Muertos.
I put together altars out of paper mâché, tissue paper, cut paper, and I finish
them with my own painted designs. I always say that maybe because I'm a writer
is why I'm always obsessed with paper.
printing and carving, but what I basically
I put together altars out of paper mâché, tissue paper, cut paper, and I finish
them with my own painted designs. I always say that maybe because I'm a writer
is why I'm always obsessed with paper.
Listen to Xánath read her poems here.
Xánath Caraza is a traveler, educator, poet and short story writer. She has an M.A. in Romance Languages. She lectures in Foreign Languages and Literature at the University of Missouri-Kansas City. Her upcoming poetry collection Sílabas de viento (2014) is from Mammoth Publications. Her short story collection Lo que trae la marea/ What the Tide Brings (2013) is from Mouthfeel Press. Her full-length book of poetry, Conjuro (2012), is from Mammoth Publications and her chapbook Corazón Pintado: Ekphrastic Poems (2012) is from TL Press. Caraza is an advisory circle member of the Con Tinta literary organization and a former board member of the Latino Writers Collective in Kansas City. She writes the "US Latino poets en español" column — a collaboration with Letras Latinas which appears in the online poetry journal Periódica de Poesía. She has taught in Mexico, Brazil, China, Spain and the US. Her Day of the Dead Art work has been exhibited at the Nelson Atkins Museum of Art in Kansas City, MO. For more, visit her author page.