S t e v e n P a u l A l v a r e z - www.stevenpaulalvarez.com

of Samuel, 2:1

9/23/2019

1

are something so much stranger
Those, too, still, don’t move but, may, when necessary, can,
& do, lock in harmony.

That crams their rhombus heads,

it’s evolution all over again,
evolution, revulsion,

their hair is longer, they smell softer, their nails, shells,
are of more bluelime slivers, they listen,
they really, they do! That makes the strangeness.

contrary slithers, mute & missing,
past all, is unseen.

2

   let x use my pen, it
   stinks now powdery
   sour. x knew it wd stick
   & I’d need this back
   & I’d remember & write
   & x’d be there, those

   glasses crooked. farsighted lenses, they
   project the size of x’s eyes up
   two notches to bug, which is funny
   bc silvery wire frames
   are almost invisible against such

   skin, pale. suppose x wd light
   chiaroscuro which is good, since
   it keeps yr attention from

   pants, dirty. wears same
   stained jeans for days at times, which is fine
   (who cares?) except x substitutes
   perfume for washing.

Literacy as a Form of Care Illustrated in a Documentary Poem

1/28/2018

As a literacy researcher, educator, and poet, I have been influenced by translingual approaches to pedagogy and studying literacy as community building. Based on my experience with two students at a bilingual homework help program, I composed the following poem about us reading a poem from Shel Silverstein’s Where the Sidewalk Ends. We worked as a trio, reading and interpreting a Silverstein poem, translanguaging and engaging in conversation about writing and sharing literacy. This poem, entitled “Fieldnote,” attempts to capture the arguments about emergent bilingualism and literacy synthesized into poetic music and narrative movement, illustrating creative and critical translingual writing. The poem also tells a story about bilingual learning, community building, and educational mentorship.

“Fieldnote”

Today I tutored
two fourth graders
in tandem, Lili and Maria,
our trio reading poems.
We shared one book,
all wondered at an illustration
of two curious children peering over
the edge where the sidewalk ends
perhaps peering into a cavernous gap:
And Maria—“Ay dios mio, their perro is going to fall.”
Today: poetry. Everyday: poetry.
Bueno, vamos a leer. Together let’s go, juntos.
Rhythms bouncing Germanically
to some spot where all roads end
basta ya no más
no street begins
but some nouns growing naranjas
and prepositions brillando as crimson crystal
y purple pajaros resting on conjunctions
y los verbos scattering in wind smelling
like peppermint.

And Lili—“I think the poem is in the fields or the finca.”
And Maria—“I think wind and begins kinda rhymes.”
“Yeah.”
“¡Sí!”

Trio of laughter. Juntos pues.

You like to speak Spanish?
And Maria—“With mi mamá and papá, yeah.
But not with my teacher.”
Your teacher habla español?
And she—“Tries to speak to me, but I don’t
like to talk to her in Spanish
because estamos en la escuela.”

But why do you like to speak Spanish with me?

And Maria—“Because you are nice, and you speak both.”
Como ahorita, verdad?
And both—“¡Sí!”
And Lili—“See you are doing it, eso me gusta.”
Ándale that’s translanguaging.

Our last stanza
and juntos we stepped slowly
through the measure following arrows
over rapid lines
back from that grammatical park
ojalá que to someday return

Maria and Lili formulated their own poem responses,
and they read their poems
as they turned their backs to the gap
at the end of the calles.

And Lili:

the parque is like the forest
y los arboles son bien verdes
and we go there on Sundays sometimes
and have barbacoa and we visit

Applause from her audience.

And Maria:

hablo español and English con mi familia
y mis padres están orgullosos de me
porque tengo buenas notas
y tengo muchas metas y me dicen
con ganas, mijita porque tu futuro
es nuestro futuros

Applause.

After this I asked
both to write a paragraph
comparing the poems. Maria
sped through her writing
pointing to español in both poems
and familia at the beginning
of the journey to where the calles end.
Lili sighed and stared at her page
and Maria would pause and cheer her friend
and they both finished their paragraphs together
and read them juntos.
Lili’s mother said buenas and Maria and I
said hasta luego to Lili and then her mother.

I asked Maria why she helped Lili.
“Because she gets mad that she can’t write and read like me. But I like to help her because she’s my friend.”

You like to help people.

“Mostly the little ones. I read to them because it’s fun.”

It is, it is.

And Maria—“And I want to be a maestra."

alvarez_care_and_literacy_poem.mp3
File Size:	7278 kb
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Pancho Chastitellez

9/30/2017

searched northward & eastward & further northward
into Bisbee / searching or even wandering--
moving w/ a destination he’d only imagined
passing through into his newest reality

adios Tio we hardly knew you
& we carry you with us yet
& you have yr mystery & yr way

reliably he’d be ready / as he had been for some time
lo migrantes hear: I come to find yr spirits
of Amurka & how ye knew then I know now
international trade includes laborers as good capital

adios Tio we hardly knew you
& we carry you with us yet
& you have yr mystery & yr way

w/ costs always to be minimized indeed general marasmus
& holy myriad of melopoetik melodies mamasota
you my ancestors were bodies of bones & guts & really nothing else
save modernization materials for enriching those most wealthy

adios Tio we hardly knew you
& we carry you with us yet
& you have yr mystery & yr way

in both countries you were really nothing then as I am nothing now
you my ancestors were bodies of bones & guts & really nothing else
& holy myriad of melopoetik melodies mamasota
w/ costs always to be minimized indeed general marasmus
save modernization materials for enriching those most wealthy

adios Tio we hardly knew you
& we carry you with us yet
adios Tio we hardly knew you
& we carry you with us yet

New Chapbook, Tonalamatl

9/1/2017

New chapbook, Tonalamatl: El Segundo's Dream Notes published by Letter [r] Press. A preview of a future book.

https://smallportionsjournal.com/

Mex NYC

9/1/2017

Tucson / a figure on a gravel lawn w/ a leaf blower

6/13/2017

& in my house again was hunger was thirst
weave until sunlight opens
standing in white feet shivering
pencil & colored pencil on pieces of paper too many little smokies
hello colonoscopy!
congratulations on becoming a doctor!
old paint
my house
is my horse
I am never not surprised by yr gentleness
I just missed the most watched
television program ever among morning leaves
puddles the sun bees hovered
abt the sugar skulls dirty & sweet on the rusty
candelabras candied violet
in the skull’s last hat I really want to stick it
to a small town lawyer little
lettuce a bunch of poison arrows
but I watched
how a mist cd coax it open
I exited the arena in my underwear waving a chair
do they make hand pajamas
I was lying in the bathtub infected but I still
remember it as a very good time
I love to brandish my conflicted lips
dry goods some just raid I
wear my karma so it shows . . .

yr Polis A citizens, denizens

12/4/2016

0:02fats well settled
0:05five days of the final status
0:09september the--
0:10slept right there in front of r sat-sun seven fifteen if that pink
0:21it’s not abt making you
0:23& report not included
0:26& out of the no-fly list
0:28citizens
0:29scene not away their madonna
0:33stuff like that
0:34trying to do what you are not allowed to come
0:38firing off my lifestyle
0:41ha ha Polis B—animals--
0:42historians--
0:43for
0:44these are Polis A citizens of yr Polis A championship
0:49 issued from former democratic fight hackers our precious Polis A children
0:55before you think you have to have a v. appealing
0:59situated humans who harvest of food for the best friend people in the world is
1:00our Polis A will build a goddamned wall

2001 breakfast of champions

10/29/2016

Part of a well balanced breakfast, eh?
                        Chorizo, frijoles, two tortillas, y café. Strong: I am.
Confident: She smiles, I smile too. The one with fiery blue hair and imposing green eyes smiles, and I smile right back.
You: Look people in the eye, walk with the head up, shoulders back. Work is done and I go to that place with all the words and worlds. Soul mate with glasses and checkered pants checks my Chekovs and invites me to smoke the diggity dank at her place.

"Later we can listen to REO and discuss politics and philosophy."

"Beer?"

"Of course."

Part of a well balanced breakfast, eh?
                        Four donettes (powdered sugar), Bud Light, and the cheap
commercial stuff I got from the guy who speaks Spanish only. Sing: Vamos a jugar por la playa.     Slow. Now: Slower still. I: Am . . . I. Not I, just I. Much better. But not best . . .
A long walk. The silence of traffic sings to me and frightens me while awakening me to becoming me. And I simply neglect to smile. On the job: White paint on my hands and shirt, green in my hair. No watch, one shoe, broken
soul.

They stare at me. I revolt within myself. I read, dream, read, smoke, read, read, read, and regret. Then write.

". . . And do you know, Sonia, that low ceilings and tiny rooms cramp the soul and the mind?"

"Beer?"

"Of course."

Part of a well balanced breakfast, eh?
                        Frosted Flakes and an orange. Not bad. Could: Be worse. I: Am
still . . .Witness. You: Figure that out.
A new friend emerges and I break 40-watt fluorescent bulbs over my head.
Work: Smoke a spliff on the roof and grab a couple beers at lunch. Paint the rooms then love
the words. No. Love the words then paint
the rooms. No. Forget the rooms.
With that: New strings to play whistle new songs into the depths of my future, minus the reverb. Not written. Not yet anyway. Not heard either. Right now E minor goes well with A minor. Later E to A will be better.

"Salt River this weekend?"

"Beer?"

"Of course."

dragging yr family piano

10/23/2016

who yr stars falling on eyes look toward
ahead, enveloped as networks
of rebar. Where you are, mountains.
Now, say we put it, Brooklyn,
yr bricks & stairs staring down
& door swung open & this instrument
w. two ropes. You are important music, you
are. These keys cd never touch yr fingers
or find yr graces in their notes, twirl yr dances
or mix yr banjo. Tough like elegance.
Skin kissed by leather & cowboy boots
on Tribeca cobblestones, tough like leaving.
Yr sea to Arizona, yr life to wind when stars
fell on Alabama you fell all in. Clouds like cotton
candy over continental divide, pink puddles
cdn’t hear yr notes if we didn’t drag
this mother up.

.Tuesday /m a r t e s / 4 Wind / 0244 hrs 1985

10/4/2016

abt writing parabolas as parables as metaphors as they remain similar in narrative / that is poetics of narrative / & science / Ulises el segundo rehearsed titles
& sure did yesterday tho when U tells it to this
blood scholar (don’t think this blood scholar / whoever this blood scholar is / but clearly castrated / some projection of Quetzalcoatl / as old as our fathers certain) / U sez I did but really didn’t / & I don’t really have a sense of shame in this / but rather a sense of fear / ¿But why? ¿That I won’t meet the competition? This is during the post-forum time when Ulises removed discarded skulls from the table & replace empty bottles of blood w/ full ones /