tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-88068724066619909072024-03-04T21:44:18.107-08:00The Problem with OxnardAnonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01125804263802433680noreply@blogger.comBlogger4125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8806872406661990907.post-56040901556308425702013-06-14T10:23:00.000-07:002018-03-28T17:24:43.324-07:00REVIEW<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinGNJXHFN2rnQRbxq-47ghxvsWeoEplyybhX38jQOXEKari_Fexod3qEdKUVcJHjAe6WA4ikQ3_dP8bGmV2Atb_QHm6TewK04tEuY9YZ4Vp0qsePDuQMHgUwUa7CAQ3f_8d-ObOdLII9Q/s1600/20130613_110949.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinGNJXHFN2rnQRbxq-47ghxvsWeoEplyybhX38jQOXEKari_Fexod3qEdKUVcJHjAe6WA4ikQ3_dP8bGmV2Atb_QHm6TewK04tEuY9YZ4Vp0qsePDuQMHgUwUa7CAQ3f_8d-ObOdLII9Q/s320/20130613_110949.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
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<b>From </b><b><i>Al-Khemia Poetica</i>, </b><b>6-13-13:</b><br />
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<b>"Alden Marin and Enrique Gonzales - Gonzales Avenue poets' The Problem with Oxnard"</b></div>
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<br /></div>
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<b>by Marie Lecrivain</b></div>
<br />
<i>The Problem with Oxnard</i>, a small (literally) chapbook of poems by Alden Marin and Enrique Gonzales – Gonzales Avenue poets – presents a conundrum of sorts. Google the phrase “the problem with Oxnard,” and in the top three Internet searches is the comment “a small city with big problems.”<br />
<br />
Manifestos can come in any form – big, small, bombastic, unassuming. The cover, an image of a strawberry (one of the Ventura County's more popular crops), with an insert of the title, is intriguing in its simplicity. <span style="font-size: x-large;"><i>Oxnard</i> packs a punch, with no apologies</span>. The introduction explains, as many people are wont to forget, that Oxnard used to be part of what was once Mexico (or, Azteca, according to the authors). Anyone who has driven up the California Coast, or Route 126, will no doubt remember that the landscape is populated with fruit stands, and, in the warmer part of the year, with migrant workers who harvest the produce. The poets, whose roots go deep into the soil of Oxnard itself, invite the reader to experience the dichotomy that is Oxnard, with their straightforward and 'staccato' verse.<br />
<br />
<i>Oxnard</i> contains seven poems, which seems a bit on the skimpy side, however, <span style="font-size: x-large;">each little poem captures accurately, and beautifully, the sinister weirdness of living in a place millions obliviously travel through every year</span>. The first poem, “Detour Use Gonzales,” tells the story of life's goals being detoured, by circumstance, class oppression, and diminished expectations. From there, the poems spell out the alienation, and, the discrimination, migrant workers, and their children, have faced/still face in land that once belonged to their ancestors.<br />
<br />
The overall tone of the poems in <i>Oxnard</i> are strong, and, <span style="font-size: x-large;">infused with the dignity of the migrant workers</span> the authors extol; that's what saves this little gem of a book from the falling into the ponderous whirlpool of angry political poetry.<br />
<br />
<i>The Problem With Oxnard</i> <span style="font-size: x-large;">successfully documents what most Californians prefer to forget</span>; the sins of history cannot be concealed by the sweet smell of (agricultural/retail) commerce. Poets like Alden and Enrique will always remember, and that is necessary.<br />
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Read the full review here:</div>
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<a href="http://alkhemiapoetica.blogspot.com/2013/06/emilio-and-enrique-gonzalez-avenue.html">http://alkhemiapoetica.blogspot.com/2013/06/emilio-and-enrique-gonzalez-avenue.html</a></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01125804263802433680noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8806872406661990907.post-67936169618281897792012-04-24T10:07:00.000-07:002018-03-28T17:25:02.082-07:00THE POEMSDETOUR USE GONZALES<br />
<br />
There was a time<br />
before we came<br />
to Gonzales Avenue<br />
that the world<br />
was all promise –<br />
now years later, we live<br />
in small, expensive boxes<br />
pay rent to an owner<br />
we don’t know<br />
and speak quietly<br />
to our neighbors<br />
the seasons offer<br />
little by way of change<br />
and on holidays<br />
we hang our piñatas<br />
make meals for<br />
family friends and<br />
relatives who visit<br />
from Mexico. They<br />
smile, share our<br />
occasional joy and<br />
berries; and do not<br />
understand our<br />
frustration. But the<br />
sign on Rice Ave.<br />
near our street says<br />
it all – “DETOUR<br />
USE GONZALES,”<br />
and indeed we have<br />
detoured to a place<br />
less than certain<br />
under such blue skies<br />
with fields of abundance<br />
we often ask ourselves,<br />
“Have we been used?”<br />
Only our time here<br />
will bear witness. Maybe<br />
you can ask our children.<br />
<br />
<br />
OFTEN, THIRSTY<br />
<br />
Clouds in the fields<br />
of our youth – another<br />
drop of blood...<br />
another berry bush<br />
to pick, another fence<br />
to disdain for what<br />
it keeps in – and out;<br />
This is not my land<br />
This is not my fruit<br />
But I pick it anyway<br />
For the people<br />
who employ me<br />
In those tall, cold<br />
buildings on the horizon –<br />
And yes, this is<br />
my sweat, upon<br />
years of toil<br />
As my father did<br />
But I cannot drink it<br />
as much as it pours<br />
And I sometimes<br />
remain hungry, in spite<br />
of the bounty...<br />
and often, thirsty.<br />
<br />
<br />
OVER THE LAND<br />
<br />
As we look out<br />
Over the land, this land –<br />
the land we manage<br />
and harvest with our hands<br />
we know it is not our earth<br />
but that of men, with<br />
strange children, who live<br />
far away – their names<br />
are on the paper that pays us –<br />
but they never come<br />
to these bountiful, dirty<br />
beautiful acres we work<br />
and have for years where we<br />
hear our brown children cry<br />
for beans and rice...never<br />
the strawberries, kale<br />
asparagus and flowers we pick –<br />
and send to unknown tribes –<br />
but the meager food of<br />
an honest people who<br />
are simply seeking<br />
a better day.<br />
<br />
<br />
LAND OF OPPORTUNITY<br />
<br />
Sam’s Club, Walmart,<br />
VONS. These venues<br />
are not ours up on the<br />
corner where we gather<br />
to shop. Get the necessary<br />
ingredients to make ends<br />
meet. TGI Fridays, Quizno<br />
Subs, OfficeMax, and Best<br />
Buy near the Hometown<br />
Buffet. Not anywhere<br />
we would choose. But<br />
these in our “land<br />
of opportunity” are<br />
our options.<br />
<br />
<br />
STARS<br />
<br />
The same star<br />
on one side<br />
of the sky –<br />
then another;<br />
emerald with<br />
blue glints<br />
over Oxnard –<br />
appearing red<br />
and orange<br />
above the unlit<br />
darkness of Highway 1 –<br />
a scattering of them<br />
to the south, to match<br />
Palos Verdes’ jumble<br />
of jewels... confusing<br />
how these myriad<br />
points of light<br />
owe so little<br />
to our world.<br />
<br />
<br />
THE MIGRANTS<br />
<br />
It was the day<br />
that never came, for us –<br />
People passing who might wave –<br />
or stopping in their haste<br />
to shake our strawberry-stained hands<br />
And say, “Thank you for all you gave...”<br />
But here we are<br />
In the midst of this stark<br />
And moody landscape<br />
Raked by the west wind –<br />
The Oxnard plain<br />
With tractors still at dusk;<br />
Agricultural terrain<br />
You can smell the fertilizer<br />
And strawberry scent<br />
Thick – like a fruity musk<br />
Then, there are<br />
The intersections, some<br />
With blaring, thumping cars<br />
Others, pictures<br />
Of total emptiness<br />
Only tumbleweeds<br />
In late spring<br />
Cartwheel across<br />
And the flower fields<br />
Stretch to other horizons<br />
Past which migrant workers<br />
Have turned in, hearthside<br />
For the night; tomorrow<br />
At the first light of dawn<br />
We, clad in bright<br />
shawls and sweaters<br />
Will reappear and gather<br />
Like true monuments to this<br />
And other farm towns<br />
And the idle passersby<br />
Will have no way<br />
To understand<br />
Our grit and stick-to-it-ivness<br />
And family ties<br />
Though they feature<br />
our manicured blossoms<br />
As their centerpieces<br />
And on our fruits and greens<br />
And vegetables<br />
they survive…<br />
<br />
<br />
OXNARD<br />
<br />
Thunderous guns<br />
Along the forgotten fields<br />
That feed this land –<br />
I spill my coffee<br />
And it makes sense;<br />
A stain in the shape<br />
Of half America<br />
Dirt under my nails<br />
Like the forgotten lines<br />
Of some country –<br />
A horizon that begs<br />
With blue<br />
A culture biting<br />
Like feral dogs might<br />
If not fed; bones<br />
By the side<br />
Of the highway<br />
Bleached in a hundred<br />
Seasons of sun<br />
Doesn’t anyone see them?<br />
<br />
<br />
(c) 2012 by Alden Marin and Enrique Gonzales<br />
<a href="mailto:oxnardpoets@gmail.com">oxnardpoets@gmail.com</a><br />
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01125804263802433680noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8806872406661990907.post-69440955098805144532012-04-24T09:35:00.000-07:002018-03-28T17:25:14.087-07:00INTRODUCTIONWe have been ignored for decades by a juggernaut culture. Flown over by planes. Driven over by freeways.<br />
<br />
We feed your children in the supermarket. Our fingers are worn by the white man’s appetite.<br />
<br />
But now we have been called upon by the Gods of Acculturation to remember all that has been plowed under in the furrows.<br />
<br />
You say there are skyscrapers in Oxnard, but there are only two.<br />
<br />
Our town is misnamed after an Englishman. It should be Hispania. It should be Mexicoland. Azteca!<br />
<br />
Feel our desire of willingness in your feet and hands; the gnaw of hunger that makes our children cry.<br />
<br />
See the man in the very eucalyptus shadows.<br />
<br />
We are the people who work the hardest for the least.<br />
<br />
Our verse is staccato, like the act our people endure of picking the berries.<br />
<br />
From these baskets of fruit we enter your consciousness – your bloodstream!<br />
<br />
You can smell it in the fertilizer. In the fog that rolls in from the Channel Islands. In the berry fields as you pass them on the freeway. The heavenly scent of God’s fruit on the auto route.<br />
<br />
This cornucopia of plenty is yours America, yes – but it is ours too!<br />
<br />
The problem with Oxnard is that YOU are missing. Come as Cabrillo did, as Vizcaíno, as de Anza....<br />
<br />
There is no time like now. There is no place like Oxnard.<br />
<br />
<br />
(c) 2012 by Alden Marin and Enrique Gonzales<br />
<a href="mailto:oxnardpoets@gmail.com">oxnardpoets@gmail.com</a><br />
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01125804263802433680noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8806872406661990907.post-21499509899286007542012-04-24T09:02:00.000-07:002013-06-15T23:04:58.522-07:00OXNARD<iframe width="425" height="350" frameborder="0" scrolling="no" marginheight="0" marginwidth="0" src="http://maps.google.com/maps?q=oxnard&ie=UTF8&hq=&hnear=Oxnard,+Ventura,+California&gl=us&t=m&z=12&ll=34.197505,-119.177052&output=embed"></iframe><br /><small><a href="http://maps.google.com/maps?q=oxnard&ie=UTF8&hq=&hnear=Oxnard,+Ventura,+California&gl=us&t=m&z=12&ll=34.197505,-119.177052&source=embed" style="color:#0000FF;text-align:left">View Larger Map</a></small>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01125804263802433680noreply@blogger.com0