Poetry Letter No. 2 of 2024 - Summer, Part 1 - Featured Poets Sharmagne Leland-St. John and Mary Torregrossa

Hanna Kulenty, “Oczy Grawitacyjne Nr 4” acrylic/canvas, 2023

The CSPS Poetry Letter No. 2 of 2024 features eminent  California poets Sharmagne Leland-St. John  (a poet, photographer, author of many books, and the publisher of the Quill and Parchment monthly online poetry journal) and Mary Torregrossa, a teacher and story-teller. I am honored to have known both poets personally since I started being active as a poet in California in 2007. Their lists of accomplishments ae extensive. Interestingly, they both have something in their background that I do not have: deep roots on this continent.  

I’m a recent immigrant, having moved to Canada in 1988 and to California in 1996. I only became a U.S. citizen in 2009! In contrast, Sharmagne is a “lineal descendant” of The Confederated Colville Tribe of Nespelem, Washington, while Mary was born in the state of Rhode Island (which is not an island!) and teaches English as a Second Language. They both write in English – as I do, though it is not my native tongue, not even my second language – that place is taken by Russian. Their English is definitely more “native” than mine, yet we all have the courage to do what we love the most: create poems in English.

The courage to create is also obvious in the story of our artist, Hanna Kulenty, a noted Polish composer of large scale “surrealist music” for symphony orchestras or chamber ensembles. She recently started painting on canvas, returning to her passion for painting during her college years. Her unusual  artworks remind me of her music (listen to samples on her website, https://www.hannakulenty.com). They should remind our readers of the fact that all  artists were once “self-taught” and did not need diplomas and academic credentials to create great art.  I was once confronted in Poland, where the “credentials and diplomas” are of great importance, with the accusation that I did not have a right to write poetry for I did not have a degree in literature. It was, and is, amusing – think, how many “pedigreed” people are really useless? 

The Poetry Letter No. 2 is rounded up by four reviews of poetry books written by Kathy Lohrum Cotton, Ann Fox Chandonnet, Anna Maria Mickiewicz and Deborah P Kolodji. The reviewers are Michael Escoubas,  Zbigniew Mirosławski, and Deborah Fiedler Apraku. These reviews will be posted in the second part of the Poetry Letter No. 2, Summer 2024. 

~ Maja Trochimczyk, CSPS President

FEATURED POET SHARMAGNE LELAND-ST. JOHN 

Sharmagne is a Native American performance poet, 22 time Pushcart Prize nominee, concert performer, artist and filmmaker. She divides her time between her home in Pasadena, California, "Brown Hackle Lodge", her fly fishing Lodge/B&B, in the Pacific Northwest, her artist and writer's retreat in Taos, New Mexico and a villetta in Tuscany.  Her poetry books include Unsung Songs,  Silver Tears and Time, Contingencies, La Kalima, A Raga for George Harrison, Images: A Collection of Ekphrastic Poetry and The Trip, a richly illustrated children’s book. She is co-author of Designing Movies: Portrait of a Hollywood Artist. Editor of Cradle Songs: An Anthology of Poems on Motherhood, which won the 2013 International Book Award. Her poetry and short stories have appeared in numerous anthologies world wide. Sharmagne’s poetry is being taught in literature classes and Native American Studies courses in colleges, universities and prep schools across the nation. 

WHITE ORCHIDS

 

Ingrid loves white orchids
Dresses cut from tulle
The Ballet Russe
And lives by the golden rule

Pink champagne
And strappy red shoes
Prefers chamber music
Over a man who sings the blues

Breakfast in bed
On a silver tray
Supper at midnight
Après le ballet

Cocktail parties
And fancy dress balls
Manet and Monet
Adorn her walls

A closet full of Balenciagas
Chanels and Diors
She loves cucumber sandwiches
And petits fours

Is bored by bridge
But enjoys backgammon
Rainbow trout
And wild caught salmon

Summers in the Hamptons
Winters in the Canaries
Easter in Venice
And chocolate strawberries

Prefers travel
To staying at home
Ingrid's life
Reads like a poem

 

 

 Sharmagne Leland-St. John

from IMAGES: A Collection of Ekphrastic Poetry

EL NORTE

El Norte.
A prayer upon her brown lips.

El Norte.
A dream growing like
plumeria blossoms from
empty chambers in
her heart.

In El Norte
she can make a decent wage.
Her children will not go to bed hungry.
She quits her job at the plantation,
kisses her children's warm cheeks
as they sleep;
says goodbye to Columbia.

The Rio Grande behind her,
she now mops my neighbours' floors,
scrubs their toilets
for ten bucks an hour.

By the time she pays rent for her room,
buys bus tokens, and junk food
there is little left to send home.
Her children grow up without her.
Abuelita sends black and white photographs.
The little one is still frail and thin.

El Norte
The Land of Milk and Honey–
The Promised Land he believes in.
He'll go on ahead,
send for his children one by one;
then his wife and the baby.

Under the sweltering
San Fernando Valley sun
he pushes the market basket
as he picks through
the neighbourhood trash;
for glass and aluminum
to recycle for pennies.
Surely his job teaching
the village children their ABCs
was better than this.

In the marketplace in El Salvador
his wife almost forgets she is married.
The man with the gold tooth
smiles at her as he wraps the fish
in newspaper–
adding an extra piece now and then.

She misses her husband,

but has nothing to confess to the priest
as he leans in closer
to hear her sins.

  

Sharmagne Leland-St. John, 

Pushcart Prize Nominee, 2012

          

Hanna Kulenty, “Muzyka Grawitacyjna Nr 1” – acrylic/canvas, 2023

, 

SHE DREAMS…

 

she lies down beside him 

her dreams projected 

on her forehead 

in monochrome

he sees her through 

sepia eyes.

 

she dreams 

ballerina dreams

she dreams of locomotives

and crashing waves

she dreams of footprints

vanishing like the prairie

she dreams of rain

she dreams of a lover.

 

she dreams he will

watch her forehead 

and know exactly what she wants 

she dreams of a tender  man 

his warm breath on the nape of her neck

she dreams of crickets

and a stranger with kiss-able lips

she dreams of archipelagos

 

he unbuttons every button 

on her blue silk blouse, slowly,

it falls from her shoulders 

and slips away

she wonders about moonbows 

she dreams of black roses

and he whispers softly as she sighs.

  

~ Sharmagne Leland-St. John

From  forthcoming book: The Song of Sparrow

 EVERYTHING I HAD WAS BLUE

the cotton dress I wore that day

the sapphire sky,

the train upon which I arrived

the river flowing past our little town

the periwinkles in the window box

my eyes, my mood, my muse

the curling smoke from your cigar

the willow plates upon the cupboard shelves

the hydrangea soap I used to bathe myself

somewhat out of tune

 

everything I had was blue

the taper’s flame

the ink inside my pen

my socks and shoes

the night

my rose tattoo       

the lacy camisole that slipped, 

drifted off my shoulders 

toward the floor

but did not fall

the moon

the Picasso print hanging on the bedroom wall

 

everything I had was blue

 

even the notepaper

upon which you wrote the words:

 “I love you” and "Goodbye"

 

~ Sharmagne Leland-St. John

Published in Altadena Poetry Review 2024

OH LIFE

Oh life
Where have you taken me
'Twas once I was your fair haired child
Now it seems I'm out of style
Oh life be gentle yet
There are things I can't forget
Like Autumn love without regret
When Autumn turned to winter
Mottled leaves in circles twirl
Inside the spirits of the girl
Whose arms were once around you
Love where have you gone
Just when I thought I'd found you

Snowflakes dance like feathers round my head
I cannot dream my dreams
In an empty bed
Life is for lovers
That's what you said
Then placed your soul inside me
But now that Winter's taken you from sleep
It seems there's nothing left to keep
You here beside me’

~ Sharmagne Leland-St. John

YouTube: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sndVyPF_jUY&t=9s

Hanna Kulenty, "Muzyka Grawitacyjna Nr. 4" acrylic on canvas, 2023

EULOGY FOR HECTOR  PIETERSON, 1964-1976

 

He will not speak in syllables now
He will not utter a sound
in English, Xhosa, or Afrikaans

But he will speak volumes
through his martyrdom
this 13 year old,
this boy,
this child
who took a bloody stand
who took a bullet
from a white man’s hand

This young “coloured” boy
not black, mind you, but “coloured”
in a colour-conscious nation
of murderers and enslavers
who would massacre children
for the colour of their skin or
for speaking their mind

This boy who joined his
Soweto classmates
in a peaceful protest
to resist learning a language
no one wanted to teach,
let alone speak
this hated language
of their oppressors
no one wanted to learn
these words that would fall
from this child’s pink mouth
like boulders, not like
his native tongue, which fell

like smooth stones
washed by the river
these words.

His sister Antoinette
will never forget
she will always hold
in her memory
in her mind’s eye
the sight of him
limp and lifeless
on that fateful day
in the strong
young-man arms

of Mbuyisa Makhubo
weeping as he ran
weeping as he
raced against time
Hector’s red blood
staining his cover-alls
and his name
running toward the press car
towards the photographers
and journalists
who have made her brother famous
only in death
Mbuyisa Makhubo
who had to go into hiding
forced to flee his homeland
for helping
to try to save this child’s life

Hector’s voice clear
as he sang the hymn
Nkosi Sikelel' iAfrika
he was one of many
but not the first child
to take a bullet

just the first to die
and then to celebrate
his only and most important
rite of passage

Death

Hector and Hastings Ndlovu
now rest in Avalon
side by side
and their voices echo
hollow
in our ears forever …

Nkosi Sikelel' iAfrika

~ Sharmagne Leland-St. John

CONTINGENCIES

 

In Azcapotzalco

I remember mostly

their dark eyes,

their round, brown faces,

Mexican bowl haircuts,

and then

the outstretched, dirty palms

on the end of spindly arms,

tiny hands

with ragged fingernails.

 

In Welligama

they encircled us,

their dry, cracked lips, begging

for a twopence.

"One two piece, one two piece,"

they chanted,

clad mummy-like in rags,

gray from the mud of streets,

the filth of poverty,

their smiles engaging.

 

I have seen them in Cairo,

near the City of the Dead,

where the deceased "live" better

than the living,

hauntingly beautiful children,

maimed, crippled,

scarred

by their parents

in order to elicit pity,

hence silver and copper coins,

from the rich American tourists.

 

In Lima, in front of the Cathedral

which held the catafalques

and Pisarro's tomb,

a gypsy woman tried to hand me

a baby, pleading,

"Un regalo, un regalo."

As I reached out for "her gift,"

you held me back.

"Don't take it," you hissed.

"She'll run away."

 

I stood there,

in the shadow

of the basilica,

in sombre half-light,

in the cobbled streets

of this foreign city,

my barren heart,

my fallow womb

needing the baby,

 

But you pulled me away.

~ Sharmagne Leland-St. John

 

Hanna Kulenty, “Oczy Grawitacyjne Nr 2,” acrylic, 2023

I SAID COFFEE

I said coffee
I didn't say,
"would you
like to cup
my warm
soft breasts
in your
un-calloused,
long,
tapered,
ringless fingered
hands?"

I said coffee
I didn't say,
"would you
like to
run your tongue
along my neck
just below
my left ear-lobe?"

 

I said coffee
I didn't say,
"would you
like to
hold me
in your arms
and feel my heart
skip beats
as you press your
hard, lean body
up against mine
until I melt
into you
with desire?"

I said coffee
as we stood there
in the jasmine
scented night
my car door
like some modern day
bundling board
separating us,
protecting us
from ourselves
and lust

I said,
"would you
like to go for
a cup of coffee?"                
I didn't say,
"would you
like to brush
your lips
across mine
as you move
silently
to bury your face
in my long, silky,
raven black hair?"

But you said,
"I can't
I'm married
I can't trust myself
to be alone
with you."
So I looked you
dead in the eye
and repeated
"I said coffee"

 

    ~ Sharmagne Leland-St. John,

“I Said Coffee” was a Pushcart Prize Nominee in 2007

FEATURED POET: MARY TORREGROSSA

MARY E. TORREGROSSA, often noted as a storyteller, is more importantly a story-listener, a practice honed by her job as an ESL teacher in Southern California. Originally from Rhode Island, she blends images and experiences of both coasts into her poetry. Mary has facilitated poetry workshops, fund raisers, hosted poetry readings and participated in many poetry and arts community events as a poet and anti-racism activist. As a collage artist, Mary feels that assembling a collage of images has a natural similarity to assembling a poem. Her first chapbook, My Zocalo Heart, is published by Finishing Line Press. Poems appear in Bearing The Mask: Southwestern Persona Poems, in Wide Awake: Poets of Los Angeles and Beyond, in Voices From Leimert Park Redux, and Miju Poetry & Poetics: Korean Poets Society of America. Mary is a winner of the Arroyo Arts Collective Poetry In The Windows and named Newer Poet of Los Angeles XIV by the Los Angeles Poetry Festival. Other publications include The Altadena Poetry Review, the SoCal Haiku Study Group Anthology, and websites for Verse-Virtual, Ekphrastic Review and Dime Show Review.

OUR CEMETERY

 

has no cypress trees

 

no sundial, no overgrowth

of forest at its edge

 

Our cemetery has a chain link fence

a fanciful wrought iron arch

facing a busy street

 

Darkness does not descend

on this patch of sacred land

 

we have streetlights

 

There is no chapel, no stained

glass window, no map

on a pedestal

 

you will never lose your way

 

We are buried on an archipelago

of grass and gravestones

 

where small American flags

just seem to appear

each Memorial Day

 

The city grows up around us

a muffler shop, the Diamante Bar

Hong Kong-style Chinese Food to-go

 

and still we are laid down

 

Once in a while, a commuter

waiting at the red light notices

 

a freshly dug hole

and a wreath of flowers

 

 ~ Mary Torregrossa. Our Cemetery first appears 

in Wide Awake, Poets of Los Angeles and Beyond, 2015

RAPPROCHEMENT

 

This might be my remedy

this amber signature of tea

set here before us in cups

of glass too hot to touch.

The scent of steeping

mint leaves drifts

redolent in my thoughts.

Like an aftershock

of the Sierra Madre,

I rattle silver teaspoons

into saucers, sit

clenching sugar cubes

in my back teeth

like Esther, or Kobra,

or Zahra might have

years ago or yesterday.

The tonic eases its way

into your explanation

infused with details

of the truth. I listen,

waiting for the tea to cool.

 

~ Mary Torregrossa. Rapprochement 

appears as Détente, My Zocalo Heart, 2018

Hanna Kulenty, “”Muzyka Grawitacyjna Nr 14” – acrylic on canvas, 2023.

NIGHT HERON

In flight, they tuck their heads

back against their shoulders.

I can name this bird that forages

the mudflats on tiptoe - evening

opportunist – it clenches crabs

and earthworms and little fish

in its hard black beak.

 

My feet sink into the soft seabed

at low tide, clamming, bucket half-filled
with quahogs. The black-crowned

Night Heron lifts into the windy shift

from land to sea at dusk, free to roam,

gray bird against gray sky – it squawks

and with steady wing beats

 

leaves me mired in the muddy estuary.

    

             ~ Mary Torregrossa. Night Heron appears in Miju

               Poetry & Poetics, Korean Poets Society of America

in Korean and English, 2019

DAY LABORER

 

The hot sun at mid-day

is not as yellow

as the sun of my home.

 

In the span of concrete

bends like a finger pointing the way.

 

In the soot on the sidewalk

at the bus stops of LA

I look for the bus that scrolls HOME.

 

A hummingbird

hovers at eye level

wants me to follow

but I cannot fly.

 

The sand in the lot by the tire shop

is like cornmeal shushing

from cloth sacks in my

mother’s kitchen.

 

I stand very still

in the cool morning air

against a cinder block wall

hands in the pockets

of my sweatshirt

splattered with paint.

 

~ Mary Torregrossa. Day Laborer won a TOP TEN recognition

 by the Arroyo Arts Collective Poetry in The Windows Vl,

 in Spanish and English, 2014.

 WALKING YORKSHIRE

 

              I’ll walk where my own nature would be leading

                                                                              ~Emily Bronte

A wide expanse

of green mossy

mounds, a boggy

mess of land where

thick fog lingers long,

where after drizzle

mist ensues. And when

the day burns bright

and the robin’s-egg

blue sky polishes our eyes,

we are reminded by old

Nellie Dean, warning while

we walk – not to be deceived.

Not to scurry nor to slip

but take a measured step

though quick, and look

before you leap, as you might

land your boot in some hidden

glassy pool or maybe even

fall, head over heels,

into the marshy and uneven

moor.

~ Mary Torregrossa, Walking Yorkshire appears in 

Gondal Heights: A Bronte Tribute Anthology, 2019.

 

Hanna Kulenty, “Muzyka Grawitacyjna Nr 11,” acrylic on canvas, 2023.