When I moved to Ames, Iowa, in 2013, I was lucky enough to meet Xavier Cavazos, whose chapbook, Barbarian at the Gate, won the 2014 National Chapbook Fellowship from the Poetry Society of America. Prize judge Thomas Sayers Ellis wrote in his introduction, "No one 'fucks' with fixed traditional Western forms or controls linear excess, the oral downpour of ideas onto the page, like Xavier Cavazos...Ask anyone who has ever tried to define, in writing, the Blues, and they will tell you that it’s easier to express the ache or recovering ease of what comes right after the Blues. Caught up, Cavazos comes close to a brand of telling that doesn’t have to trade in deep, heartfelt truth for quick, snapshot similes held hostage by 'like' or 'as'—"
Xav's a tireless champion of poetry. When we hung out, it was all we ever talked about. But no bashing, just talking about the writers and poems that shaped us—especially the work of Richard Hugo for whom we shared a common love. When Xav gave me a copy of Barbarian at the Gate, I was flabbergasted. Oh, that experience of meeting a poet, liking a poet, then you find that his/her work is as amazing as your best conversations. What a gift—almost like a magic trick.
Here's one of my favorite poems from Barbarian at the Gate.
Hoodie dreaming in the after life
SANFORD, FLORIDA
7-13-13 late
“Emmanuel, Emmanuel,” Hoodie says as he stumbles through a
Washington forest. “Fuck this shit!” Fence shouts & jumps over the
edge of Snoqualmie waterfall
like Fence was late for a party. The body of a young boy, rushing-water
over a fall, all beauty as mist lifts into air from contact. Fence said,
“I told you so!
What did you expect! What did you think was going to happen?”
The Cradle of Cambridge! “Magdalen, Magdalen, am I forgotten?”
Hoodie cries. “I thought I had a chance!”
The forest’s chorus sings, As mist lifts into air from contact. “Trinity,
Trinity,” Hoodie Shouts! “Trinity, Trinity, where are your studied
halls? Where is your branch of knowledge?”
“Chance!” Fence screams. “Chance? Oh, like the chances my homies
have of not-going-to-jail after a speeding ticket in Arizona’s SB 1070
a.k.a. send a homie to jail
chance? I like your odds!” exclaims Fence. Hoodie yells, “But I’m
only seventeen!” Hoodie knew he needed to get to the ocean so
Hoodie followed the Snoqualmie River
down & out into Puget Sound. The forest’s chorus sings,
the sun setting like this verdict, as mist lifts into air from contact.
Fence was getting nervous, told Hoodie, “I don’t know how to swim.”
Hoodie told Fence not to worry, that Hoodie knew water well.
“An ocean of history,” Hoodie said. “Do you know Goree Island?
The water there, dark & blue as a three-day-cut umbilical cord.
Palm trees silhouette the haze—Saint Louis! Saint Louis! Saint Louis!—
rock me to sleep in your water. Senegal! Cambridge!
Where are my Quaker brothers, who will and will not own me?
Where are their voting ways?
The fringe of Kent! Kill me some Indians! Buy me some slaves!
Rape me some Woman! The forest’s chorus signs, They are my hands,
my workers, my people.
Goree Island? Saint-Louis! The sun setting like this verdict, as mist lifts
into air from contact. They are my hands, my workers, my people. Cambridge,
not to worry.
Hoodie got lost in all the islands in Puget Sound. Fence was scared
and holding onto Hoodie tight. The weight of Fence started to sink
both Fence and Hoodie.
A Chinook Salmon grabbed Hoodie by the Hood and pulled Hoodie
and Fence back up to the top of the water. Fence was crying, “I want
to go back to Land.
The dry heat of the dirt, my friend, even if I’m caged by who I am.”
Chinook Salmon says, “Caged by who you are? Deep!
You can’t go back to land. THEY will kill you! THEY will kill you!
They killed all of my family. The Tlingit, Nisga’a, Tsetsaut, Haida,
Tsimshian, Gitxsan. Haisla,
Heiltsuk, Wuikinuxv, Kwakwaka’wakw, Nuu-chah-nulth, Makah, Coast
Salish, Nuxálk, Willapa, Chimakum, and the Quileute! Everyone is dead
but me. You cannot stay here.
I will show you your way out.” Salmon looked scared but continued,
“Follow North Pacific current down to South America, once you get
there, jump onto the North Equatorial current
until you get through the Indonesian Islands— a thread going
through a needle. Connect with the South Equatorial to the
Mozambique current.
That current will pull you down to the bottom of Africa
like you were a drowning child, when you get there be sure to jump
onto the Benguela current right into Saint-Louis, Senegal.”
“Emmanuel, Magdalen, Trinity, where are your studied halls?
How your living-heart baffles me,” Hoodie yells as Hoodie drifts with
Fence on a piece of wood down and out towards California, Orcas
giving them their last push
southward. Fence mutters, “Who makes all this stuff up? Wish I had
some hors d’oeuvres.” “Fuck the French,” North Pacific current says.
“They need deodorant!”
Hoodie shouts, “How about some Lo Mein?”
“Hell yes!” Fence says!
My people! North Pacific current sang, My people!
And so it was all the way to Saint-Louis, Senegal.
North Pacific current sang, My people! My people!
All my beautiful-beautiful brown and black and tan
people. All, all and always my people.
Waves rocked them back and forth.
***
Xavier Cavazos earned his MFA in 2013 from Iowa State University, where he served as poetry editor for Flyway: Journal of Writing and the Environment. Cavazos was the Nuyorican Poets Café 1993 “Fresh Poet” Award winner, as well as the café’s 1995 Grand Slam Champion. His poetry has been published in such anthologies as Verses That Hurt: Pleasure and Pain from the POEMFONE Poets (St. Martin’s Press), Under a Pomegranate Tree: The Best New Latino Erotica (Washington Square Press), and Aloud: Voices from the Nuyorican Poets Café (Henry Holt Press). Cavazos was the 2011 and 2012 “Discovery”/Boston Review Poetry Contest runner-up. His book, Diamond Grove Slave Tree, will be published by Icecube Press in 2015.
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