JUST NORTH OF THE HARLEM RIVER, beneath the rush of I-87, a crowd gathered for the twice-monthly Acentos in celebration of Latino Poetry. “And what better place to celebrate,” asked host, Rich Villar, to a small, but enthusiastic crowd, “but in El Bronx?”
Indeed, on the window outside read “Open Noon till...” and we were somewhere in that dot-dot-dot hour when Ella Fitzgerald and Louis Armstrong were lowered on the speakers (“I got my love to keep me warm,” sang Ella in her silky-smooth voice, “What do I care how much it may storm?”) and Maria Nieves took the stage as the first poet of the evening.
Fans buzzed overhead and rows of large, black and white photographs of Latina divas – Celia Cruz, Gloria Estefan, Linda Ronstadt – lined the high walls. Nieves introduced her poem, “The Immigrant’s Load,” by explaining that it was written as a pantoon, a poetic structure with strict guidelines. The effect was spiraling, repetitive lines that cascaded like a verse-bridge-chorus or an inverted hook. We arrived here with nothing / we took what we could / and made a life...we claimed them / and their imperfections / with our stumbling tongues and ragged hearts.
Next, Jaime El Maestro took the mic and opened by bringing attention to Domestic Violence Month. “Machismo,” said Jaime, “is a new-age cancer. And though guys don’t address it, I think it’s time some of us do.” His poem danced through rhythms – da-dum, da-dum, da-dum - he intoned, mimicking the quickening pace of a heart while he described a violent incident. He urged both men and women to “make that call / flip that phone / don’t wait.”
Tara Betts continued the theme with a careful and exacting moment of violence from a child’s point of view. When she was suspended by screams and my father’s hands / I wish she could fly / pregnant and majestic.
The audience, following each word, offered a soft applause which maybe would have flown at Starbucks but, after all, we were in El Bronx and host, Villar, reminded us. “Fuerte aplauso!” he hollered, and the audience responded loudly.
Taking the stage next, Brother Earl carefully removed the music stand with one hand before leaning in and blasting the mic, One-percent of the world’s population own over ninety-percent of its wealth / while fifty-percent of Black men are unemployed / praying for higher self. His delivery ran full and quick before slowing to a deliberate play of vowels, Oils well that ends well / and dead men tell no tales. Following a brief intermission, where Louis and Ella came back on to sing “Autumn in New York” and the donation jar was passed around (yes, keeping poetry alive is a working gig!) featured poet, Jesus Papoleto Melendez took the stage and the warmed-up crowd settled in to hear one of New York’s masters of the spoken word.
His first comment shattered carefully-planned intentions and revealed, once again, the nature of poetry: “I tried to prepare a reading but the night changed.” Then, on a mysterious note: “It got darker as it got later.” He invited questions during the reading, then quickly cautioned not to interrupt the poems. Already, however, a conversational tone had set in. The audience listened. Then, his gravelly voice began.
To me / today / these walls are new / their secrets have not yet come / to greet my turning key / but I am here nonetheless.
At times singing, his voice alternated between a deep growl and wail, before softening to a whisper, I have trouble looking over my shoulder. But he spent the evening doing just that, dipping into his vast body of work from years past, while keeping the delivery current and fresh. In between poems he dropped such spontaneous lines as: “Tijuana, it’s like the lower-East side in Spanish.” Or, “All my poems are one page long, it’s just that the length of the page changes.” His work moved geographically from New York to San Francisco, from Tijuana to roads in-between, eventually culminating in his most musical piece, “Hey Yo, Yo Soy,” which he said he composed after visiting a high school in the aftermath of a race riot.
Yo soy puertorriqueno bro / that right ese / that’s what I say jefe...unico, ese / just like you / like you / just like you / que I am me / que I am you.
At one point Melendez shook an ice cub loose from his cup and rubbed his palm against it as if his hands were burning, his voice hoarse. “I’m thirsty,” he said, and the audience seemed to take a moment and exhale from the intensity of his work. Finally, before leaving the stage, he paused, collecting his papers.
“I had this all organized but something happened tonight,” he said. The audience seemed to nod in agreement. Something did happen. It was poetry – unfinished, unplanned, whispering and yelling and rhyming with meaning. After all, what better place to celebrate it, but in El Bronx.
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Latin Beat Magazine