Author: Luisa A. Igloria

Today marks 14 years of my daily writing practice — 
I've written at least one poem a day since a snowed-in morning 
(rare in these parts on the eastern seaboard, probably even 
more rare now because of climate change) in 2010 when I drifted 
over to Dave Bonta's microblog The Morning Porch, and where 
I read his post that day - and was moved to respond in the 
comments box in a poem.  I did that for a few more days 
afterwards; though I'm not sure I posted all of them in this 
same way. Dave noticed, and invited me to post my poems 
on Via Negativa — and I've been doing that ever since.

Out of my daily practice, I've learned some helpful things 
about myself and my process; and I've put together 4 books 
and 4 chapbooks from the running review (and the revisions) 
I do of my writing. At least, these are things that I've found 
to apply to myself—

- Writing is the best way to keep writing.
- Before any thought of publication, there's the joy of 
meeting yourself on the page.
- Doing this (above) reminds me every day that writing 
is an opportunity to play; to follow ideas down rabbit holes, 
discover things, pay attention in this space of writing, 
no matter how brief every day (I typically do 30-45 minutes).
- Writing poems, I've found, is my preferred form for 
"processing" how I experience the world: in language, in images.
- Despite what anyone will tell you about "published is 
published in whatever form," your writing is yours. 

Especially in the last 2 weeks, I feel even more intensely 
how poetry has the capacity to "save" me - from utter, 
unfocused distraction; from utter despair...

I'm very grateful for my daily practice, and I'm very grateful 
for the additional writing community I've become connected 
to through the years, through Dave and Via Negativa.

If you click on this version of this post on my website, 
you'll also see some photos from the poetry zine workshop 
session in the undergraduate+grad Advanced Poetry Workshop 
I'm teaching this fall.  

When we moved into this house, soon
it became clear: we could learn to live
with the uneven spackle on the ceiling,
without doors for the built-in closets.

And soon we realized our heavy 
dining table, even without the removable 
leaf, barely fit in the dining room. 
Those who sat on one side had their backs 

right up to the wall, and those on the other 
could lean their arms on the counter. We sold 
the table and bought instead a smaller, plainer 
one which freed up some space, just a little. 

But how happy we were to find our coffeetable 
in a dusty corner of a thrift store— for a song, 
as they say: solid wood, only scratched in two 
places. What is furniture after all but the props 

in a play for which we've had no rehearsals; 
or little spots of color where we'll put up our feet 
at night? We invite students to join us at Thanksgiving, 
friends for potlucks. There isn't much space but there's

rice and bread; so many stories, savory things. Someone 
always brings dessert. Whatever the next act, it's bound 
to be interesting. So much in the world is terrible; 
but here, I don't want any of it to end yet.

Extremity brings things into sharper relief. 
But when Annie Dillard says spend it all, shoot it, 

play it, lose it, all, right away, every time, I don't 
think she's talking about maxxing out credit cards 

or going for broke at the slot machines because the world 
is ending tomorrow, or if not tomorrow, very soon after that. 

She's talking about the writing life, the life of creation 
and how even there, the economics of scarcity seems 

to prevail. In summer, we watched an apocalyptic film 
in which scientists warn everyone about a comet crashing 

into Earth; no one believes them, until of course it's too 
late. At that point, when the end happens, I too would like 

to sit at a table with the people I love instead of scrambling
for a seat I could probably not afford anyway, on the last 

spaceship leaving this planet. Someone will praise the wine, 
and we'll try to guess the secret ingredient that lifts 

the roast from merely good to amazing. We'll savor each bite, pass
the bowl of lemons and the basket of bread like they were holy. 

When you are born of immigrants, 
the memories that live 

in your mind and gut aren't just 
your own. Damp t-shirts and towels 

dry in the sun on the balcony 
railing— these too are flags 

of the country of your first 
education, reminding you 

of your ancestors and kin 
who knew how to bend to the soil 

and bow to the rivers, when
to stand up with others and when

to bide time; when to slip, watchful,
into the simmering background.

Their hands know how to wield 
the hoe and transplant the fragile

seedling, how to guide the gleaming
scalpel in the operating theatre

with precision as it enters 
subcutaneous tissue to start

the work of regeneration.  
You will try to keep this

knowledge alive in your own hands:
memory of touch, firm memory of when

it is necessary to quarter and loosen;
memory of how to keep life alive.  

It is a small miracle we can still hold
gatherings around the kitchen table, 
share meals of soup and bread and rice 
piled on breakable platters. Here are 
perhaps the first of those days we thought 
would never come— war at every window, 
drought kindling fires through evergreen 
forests; men in suits and ties trading 
our bodies and freedoms for a world 
shrunk to the proportions of their minds. 
But here we are, offering prayers to our dead,
sharing what they taught us of ritual and 
remembrance—fruit for sweetness, water   
and oil for balm; garlic and onions for strength. 
 

Tonight, I am on a Zoom call with my old friend 
from graduate school. She tells me about wanting

to move, in the New Year, to Canada. She wants to know 
if I've ever heard of the tidal bore at the Bay of Fundy 

and how, as the tide comes in, outflowing rivers 
rush back upstream in a forty-foot swell. What I 

want to know is, if going against the current 
is a thing that exists in nature, couldn't such 

a force also reside in us? In other places 
at the juncture of rivers and bays, waterfalls 

seem to reverse at high tide, pushing back inland 
through narrow passages that led to the sea, rocking 

back and forth at least twice a day as the moon pushes
and pulls, a rhythm older than any of us understands.  

 
     The banners we tacked on the wall
are still there from the last
     celebration. What is time 
anymore? We thought that in the end, 
     we'd choose the desire for good 
over the desire for cold assertion. Oh 
     to touch a future that could break 
in no other way but blossom. What 
     will we do, I ask my daughter.  
We will go on, she says.
 

“All that has dark sounds has duende.”
                 ~ Manuel Torre, via Federico Garcia Lorca


It is cold and the windows rattle.
On their surface, reflections of indoor plants—
those heart-shaped leaves with holes 
through which the old questions leak,
and they wait to see what you might do
with these old-new sorrows. 

I want to pump my fists and yell 
into the air I don't know, why do you 
think I should know what to do,  then
collapse in a heap like my mothers 
when spent, at the height 
of their own upheavals.

Then someone might come 
to help them into bed or feed them
a drink of water, stroke their hair,
hold their hands; after which
their sobs might gentle
into fitful sleep. 

And still they knew they would need
to wake, gather the fragments of old-
new wounds into a knot, pat their hair 
back into place; wield the kitchen knife 
over the scarred back of a wooden 
chopping board, so a mosaic of mutilated 
onions would tinge our stews.

I recently learned that Björk is a common 
girl's name in Sweden, and  it also means birch.

Once, some students were playing a game in which they named
each of their professors after a singer or a band; and I got Björk.

I was amused, and wondered:  did it mean they imagined me
with a live swan draped around my neck like a scarf, like Björk;

or thought I was cool, avant-garde, in a class of my own?
In a forest of elms, oaks and chestnuts, a fragrant silver birch.

Bright green and saw-toothed at the edges, leaves turn
amber in fall. In fading light, a grove of silvery birch

is beautiful. Lorca, who taught about the spirit and power of duende, 
was dragged out of a house and shot in an olive grove, not birch.

At the women's gathering,
the lecturer from Ukraine tells us
how her daughter's Mexican tutor
tenses up when she asks her how she
has been doing this past week.

*

Overnight, wind gusts
have shaken down 
almost all remaining  
leaves on the trees.

*

And it's been weeks, but
I'm still unsure what animal—
badger, coon, or cat—has been 
leaving its scat at the edge
of the deck.

*

Will we have to learn
secret gestures, secret
words, as part of keeping
each other safe?

*

Part of me feels 
it's futile to start unboxing
the Christmas lights;
but the dark is even more
dark now, everywhere.

*

Somewhere in the world,
rigiht now, there are people
who call each other by name,
knowing they exist.