Go and see this poet!

Maggie says:
I already have plans for Tuesday night, but wish I didn't, because I'd love to see Albuquerque native Demetria Martinez. She'll be speaking at UNM on Tuesday, July 5 as part of the "Voices of the Southwest" lecture series promoting her book "Mother Tongue." See her from 6:30 - 9:30 in the Anthropology building, Room 163. Much thanks to Mikaela for turning me on to this amazing poet. I may just have to reschedule those pesky Tuesday night plans. To inspire folks to go and check her out, here are three of my favorite poems from The Devil's Workshop:

Class Action

New York, Oaxaca: you promised trips.
For years I worked the late shift in your
Heart's sweatshop, assembling

Parts that made love tick.
Not even a raise, much less a union.
Rumors of a strike and you knock

At my screen door bearing fine
Wine, but my hurt is too vast
To fit inside a bottle like a ship

Where you are still at the helm,
Too proud to ask directions,
This time promising India:

Hennas and mantras,
Saris and tablas...
Sweetheart, I'll have to pass

On nirvana. I've seen so much
Light I need sunglasses.
The other huarache

Has dropped.
The redwood you hear falling
In the forest is you.


I Don't Want Love

Not love, but something

That, when it loses its green,
Holds its form

Like ocotillo,
Long flutes of cactus

To build a ramada
At the threshold of my house.

My house, my home,
In my name.

When I love myself
As I loved you,

I will invite you in.


Another White Man Goes Numb

Sisters, beware
The champion
Of colored folk
Who fucks then
Tucks your colored
Self like petals
Between pages
Of Karl Marx.

Sisters, beware
The man who
Would change
The world
For you
But not be
Changed
By you.
Who smokes
The opium of
Stale ideas
Year in, year out.

You are the people. You light candles to the santos then make
Your pilgrimage to the border to pray for the healing of the wound.

He does not eat grapes. He lowers himself into you, primitive, savage beauty.
The mere concept of you is enough to make him come. And go.

You are the people. Woman. Mujer. Not a flower. Not a fiction.
He has fled to colder regions. Where you do not belong.