Fernando Martinez, As If we know 2019: wood, metal, plaster, plastic, acrylic (16” X 14” x 1.5”)

Toen koffie voor het eerst in Europa arriveerde,
Werd er naar verwezen als 'Arabische wijn.'

In het San Francisco van de eeuwwisseling,
Begon de bank van Amerika als de Bank van Italië.

Toen Cortès in Tenochtilàn aankwam op 8 november, 1519,
Groette Moctezuma II hem hartelijk en kuste zijn hand.

Dat allemaal. We zijn verbaasd bij de kleinste gebeurtenissen
Die we meemaken, de feiten die ons nu zo vreemd lijken.

Zoals we leven in hun kamers aan de overkant.
In 1935, zegt een bericht, toen Isaac Bashevis Singer

In New York aankwam, hij was toen dertig jaar oud
En kon slechts drie woorden in het Engels spreken:

"Take a chair."
Maar dan leerde hij nog andere woorden. Het hielp.

Isaac Bashevis Singer (Jiddisch: יצחק באַשעוויס זינגער) (Leoncin bij Warschau, 21 november 1904 - Miami, Florida, 24 juli 1991) was een Pools schrijver die in 1943 Amerikaans staatsburger werd. Hij schreef in het Jiddisch. In 1978 werd hij onderscheiden met de Nobelprijs voor Literatuur.
Once there was a cat… 1998
Dmitry Evgenievich Ikonnikov.


When coffee first arrived in Europe,
It was referred to as “Arabian wine.”

In turn-of-the-century San Francisco,
The Bank of America began as the Bank of Italy.

When Cortés arrived at Tenochtitlán on November 8, 1519,
Moctezuma II greeted him warmly, and kissed his hand.

All of that. We are amazed by the smallest of things
Coming before us, the facts that seem so strange to us now

As we live in their opposite rooms.
In 1935, reports say, when Isaac Bashevis Singer

Arrived in New York, he was thirty years old
And could speak only three words in English:

“Take a chair.”
But then he learned other words. It helped.

From Not Go Away is My Name by Alberto Ríos. Copper Canyons Press
Foto door Ivo Rainha op Pexels.com

Alberto Ríos, Arizona’s inaugural poet laureate and a Chancellor of the Academy of American Poets, is the author of eleven collections of poetry, including The Smallest Muscle in the Human Body, a finalist for the National Book Award. His most recent book is A Small Story About the Sky, preceded by The Dangerous Shirt and The Theater of Night, which received the PEN/Beyond Margins Award. Published in the The New Yorker, The Paris Review, Ploughshares, and other journals, he has also written three short story collections and a memoir, Capirotada, about growing up on the Mexican border. Ríos is also the host of the PBS program Books & Co. University Professor of Letters, Regent’s Professor, and the Katharine C. Turner Chair in English, Ríos has taught at Arizona State University for over 35 years. In 2017, he was named director of the Virginia G. Piper Center for Creative Writing.

The Morning News

Seasons will not be still,
Filled with the migrations of birds

Making their black script on the open sky,
Those hasty notes of centuries-old goodbye.

The clouds and the heavens make a memo book,
A diary of it all, if only for a day.

The birds write much, but then rewrite all the time,
News continuous, these small pencil tips in flight.

They are not alone in the day’s story.
Jets, too, make their writing on the blue paper —

Jets, and at night, satellites and space stations.
Like it or not, we are all subscribers to the world’s newspaper

Written big in the frame of the window in front of us.
Today, we wave to neighborhood riders on horses.

We hear the woodpecker at work on the chimney.
There is news everywhere.

All this small courage,
So that we might turn the page.

Foto door freestocks.org op Pexels.com

Alberto Ríos has won acclaim as a writer who uses language in lyrical and unexpected ways in both his poems and short stories, which reflect his Chicano heritage and contain elements of magical realism. “Ríos’s poetry is a kind of magical storytelling, and his stories are a kind of magical poetry,” commented Jose David Saldivar in the Dictionary of Literary Biography. Ríos grew up in a Spanish-speaking family but was forced to speak English in school, leading him to develop a third language, “one that was all our own,” as he described it. Ríos once commented, “I have been around other languages all my life, particularly Spanish, and have too often thought of the act of translation as simply giving something two names. But it is not so, not at all. Rather than filling out, a second name for something pushes it forward, forward and backward, and gives it another life.”

Foto door Pixabay op Pexels.com
We are a tribe

We plant seeds in the ground
And dreams in the sky,

Hoping that, someday, the roots of one
Will meet the upstretched limbs of the other.

It has not happened yet.
We share the sky, all of us, the whole world:

Together, we are a tribe of eyes that look upward,
Even as we stand on uncertain ground.

The earth beneath us moves, quiet and wild,
Its boundaries shifting, its muscles wavering.

The dream of sky is indifferent to all this,
Impervious to borders, fences, reservations.

The sky is our common home, the place we all live.
There we are in the world together.

The dream of sky requires no passport.
Blue will not be fenced. Blue will not be a crime.

Look up. Stay awhile. Let your breathing slow.
Know that you always have a home here.
Foto door Donald Tong op Pexels.com

Resistance and persistence collide in Alberto Rios’s sixteenth book, Not Go Away Is My Name, a book about past and present, changing and unchanging, letting go and holding on. The borderline between Mexico and the U.S. looms large, and Ríos sheds light on and challenges our sensory experiences of everyday objects. At the same time, family memories and stories of the Sonoron desert weave throughout as Ríos travels in duality: between places, between times, and between lives. In searching for and treasuring what ought to be remembered, Ríos creates an ode to family life, love and community, and realizes “All I can do is not go away. / Not go away is my name.”

Foto door Brett Sayles op Pexels.com
I Do Not Go Away

You have terror and I have tears.
In this cruel way, we are for each other.

We are at war. You always win.
But I do not go away.

You shoot me again. Again, I do not go away.
You shoot with bullets, but you have nothing else.
Foto door Pixabay op Pexels.com

‘As if we know’ is van Fernando Martinez. Fernando Martinez was born in Buenos Aires, Argentina and studied bio-engineering at Polytechnic Institute of Technology and furniture design and fine arts at S.U.N.Y., Purchase, NY. His work has been shown in solo shows at the P-Cafe in New Rochelle, NY, the Solar Gallery in East Hampton, NY and the Bison Legacy Gallery in Cody, Wyoming. Group shows include the Miranda Fine Arts Gallery and Art-Miami Solar Gallery in East Hampton, NY, as well as the Mobile Show Galleria in Boston, among other East Coast venues.

Foto door Miguel u00c1. Padriu00f1u00e1n op Pexels.com