Callaloo最新文献_第2页

The Coven After Katrina, and: Aubade Ending in a Lucid Dream of a Backyard, and: 235 Plum St. Haibun, and: James Hemings Prepares for Paris, the Culinary Capital of the World, and: James Hemings Arrives in Paris for the First Time 卡特里娜飓风后的女巫集会》，以及在后院的迷梦中结束的 Aubade》和《梅子街 235 号》：梅子街 235 号海文》和《詹姆斯-海明斯准备前往世界美食之都巴黎》：詹姆斯-海明斯准备前往世界美食之都巴黎》和《詹姆斯-海明斯首次抵达巴黎》：詹姆斯-海明斯首次抵达巴黎

Callaloo Pub Date : 2024-08-29 DOI: 10.1353/cal.2024.a935731

Rodrick Minor

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引用次数: 0

Berryblack Blues, and: Loving the Dark, and: Generational Curses, and: The Uprooting, and: Re-membering Kin 贝里布莱克蓝调爱黑暗，以及世代诅咒连根拔起重忆亲情

Callaloo Pub Date : 2024-08-29 DOI: 10.1353/cal.2024.a935746

Shanna L. Smith

{"title":"Berryblack Blues, and: Loving the Dark, and: Generational Curses, and: The Uprooting, and: Re-membering Kin","authors":"Shanna L. Smith","doi":"10.1353/cal.2024.a935746","DOIUrl":"https://doi.org/10.1353/cal.2024.a935746","url":null,"abstract":"In lieu of an abstract, here is a brief excerpt of the content:\u0000 <ul> <li> Berryblack Blues, and: Loving the Dark, and: Generational Curses, and: The Uprooting, and: Re-membering Kin </li> <li> Shanna L. Smith (bio) </li> </ul> <h2>BERRYBLACK BLUES</h2> For Crystal I'm in love with old-people words,their memories blowing out at me in riffslike slow drags tolive in-person, up-close kind of blueswhere their faces sweattilted up like remembering God. I squeeze into spacestoo longto listen,catch a wordof rememoryfrom them—a recipe for hard-won living. That slow drag of a cigaretteand diphthong vowelrounding their lipsanticipates my hearingas they improvise memorywhile patiently strokingsquat green glasses of whiskey. I've learned to waitfor muttered-beneath-the-breath talesof Black boyhoods loaded into pickup trucksto strip tobacco;or only-once-told rumors ofBlack girls bartered away for a pint of liquor;about Big Mama wringing chicken headsto feed her berryblack, amber, and butterscotch children.I listen to visualize the Affrilachian hills, knobs, and junketspeopled with brown skin, poor folk [End Page 152] rich with hands that strung cane-back chairs,carved wooden vanity tables, pressedbiscuit dough between fingers,threaded needles through brocade,upholstered couch covers,and laid brick for homes that none of us now own. The stories fill my mouth sourlyand becomes my mourning blues,then a healing balm refrainas I slap hard the tablewhere I sit among the cloud of witnessesthat crowd my memory—as they knew it would—and we laugh together, overtaken,improvising light into life's shadows. [End Page 153] <h2>LOVING THE DARK</h2> For bell I am loving darkness,risk my lifeand daredance dusky hipsin the blueblackdarkness of us. Blackfolk emboldenedby deep burgundy bruisesin our DNA that,when pressed down, explodea shout of joya keening waila roar buckledfrom the mournful, searing acheof holding up the whole worldin the spine of our work-worn backs. I hurt for us,travailing in in","PeriodicalId":501435,"journal":{"name":"Callaloo","volume":"1 1","pages":""},"PeriodicalIF":0.0,"publicationDate":"2024-08-29","publicationTypes":"Journal Article","fieldsOfStudy":null,"isOpenAccess":false,"openAccessPdf":"","citationCount":null,"resultStr":null,"platform":"Semanticscholar","paperid":"142182639","PeriodicalName":null,"FirstCategoryId":null,"ListUrlMain":null,"RegionNum":0,"RegionCategory":"","ArticlePicture":[],"TitleCN":null,"AbstractTextCN":null,"PMCID":"","EPubDate":null,"PubModel":null,"JCR":null,"JCRName":null,"Score":null,"Total":0}

引用次数: 0

Black, Radical, Rural 黑人、激进、农村

Callaloo Pub Date : 2024-08-29 DOI: 10.1353/cal.2024.a935734

Eisa Nefertari Ulen

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引用次数: 0

Home / Road, and: Poem for the End of the World (Bees & Things & Flowers), and: Arroz Con Dulce, and: Augur 主页 / 路，以及：世界末日之诗（蜜蜂、事物和花朵），以及Arroz Con Dulce, and：奥古尔

Callaloo Pub Date : 2024-08-29 DOI: 10.1353/cal.2024.a935713

Amy M. Alvarez

{"title":"Home / Road, and: Poem for the End of the World (Bees & Things & Flowers), and: Arroz Con Dulce, and: Augur","authors":"Amy M. Alvarez","doi":"10.1353/cal.2024.a935713","DOIUrl":"https://doi.org/10.1353/cal.2024.a935713","url":null,"abstract":"In lieu of an abstract, here is a brief excerpt of the content:\u0000 <ul> <li> Home / Road, and: Poem for the End of the World (Bees & Things & Flowers), and: Arroz Con Dulce, and: Augur </li> <li> Amy M. Alvarez (bio) </li> </ul> <h2>HOME / ROAD</h2> I find myself saying I wantto go home aloud sometimes,as I drive my aging silverSoul after work, decidingwhether to stop for someuniversity event or presstoward home. Home sometimesmeaning Queens or Harlem—old haunts where I am notthe object of attention; sometimes,I mean Tampa with a rainbowof cousins playing dominoes likeour abuelo taught us; or home asin a table of Black people in mycurrent state— West Virginia—sometimes youare home—your hills green likethe hills of my mother & father'sisland homelands, rainwaterpouring through sandstone chasms.When I say home, I mean fungi, ash, or ether, ormaybe the hollow of my lover'sneck, the tender center of his chest,& maybe by his chest I mean heavenas I imagine it: spring rain floodingthe roads, wind telling us arrival& departure, sheets tangled, warm,succulent bud of joy at the centerof my self. [End Page 20] <h2>POEM FOR THE END OF THE WORLD (BEES & THINGS & FLOWERS)</h2> You asked what I'd write if the worldwere ending. I don't know that I could find words at that moment, but sincewe're nearing the end anyhow, all I can think to say is this: there were purpleand yellow flowers, a season called spring. There were small fuzzy, flying things—bees—who came to beds of these flowers to feast on their nectar because they couldsee better when shades of gold and violet wove together. Can you imagine, I wouldwrite, words already smoldering on the page, we had all that—flowers and bees and spring—can you imagine? [End Page 21] <h2>ARROZ CON DULCE</h2> <h3>1</h3> A month and a day aftermy abuelita left us to cleanup old squabbles, I foundscrawled notes from our lasttime together in her pink houseon Bougainvillea Ave. When I asked her favoriterecipes that day, she told meabout the pasteles she madefor","PeriodicalId":501435,"journal":{"name":"Callaloo","volume":"32 1","pages":""},"PeriodicalIF":0.0,"publicationDate":"2024-08-29","publicationTypes":"Journal Article","fieldsOfStudy":null,"isOpenAccess":false,"openAccessPdf":"","citationCount":null,"resultStr":null,"platform":"Semanticscholar","paperid":"142182560","PeriodicalName":null,"FirstCategoryId":null,"ListUrlMain":null,"RegionNum":0,"RegionCategory":"","ArticlePicture":[],"TitleCN":null,"AbstractTextCN":null,"PMCID":"","EPubDate":null,"PubModel":null,"JCR":null,"JCRName":null,"Score":null,"Total":0}

引用次数: 0

Blessed, and: From a Wrinkle 有福了从皱纹开始

Callaloo Pub Date : 2024-08-29 DOI: 10.1353/cal.2024.a935738

E.J. Wade

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引用次数: 0

Lake Effect 湖泊效应

Callaloo Pub Date : 2024-08-29 DOI: 10.1353/cal.2024.a935745

William Henry Lewis

{"title":"Lake Effect","authors":"William Henry Lewis","doi":"10.1353/cal.2024.a935745","DOIUrl":"https://doi.org/10.1353/cal.2024.a935745","url":null,"abstract":"In lieu of an abstract, here is a brief excerpt of the content:\u0000 <ul> <li> Lake Effect </li> <li> William Henry Lewis (bio) </li> </ul> The evening Edward Stokes was sure his wife had left him, he took a longer walk than was customary into the winter woods. Just recently, without ever following such a ritual, he had begun walking stretches of his acreage at least once a day. He had been out of work since late spring and had too much time on his hands. After three years teaching at a boarding school, he found a way to get himself fired when he had had enough of that and walked away from Belle Isle Academy and teaching history. He was sure he would not return to either, and did not much want to return to any work at all. He could take shorthand dictation, offer butler-style service for a twelve-guest table, and was as fluid digging footers with a backhoe as he was negotiating the more esoteric realms of Micro-soft Office Suite. Ten years back, he had been a night-shift janitor, cleaning the seminar rooms he sat in by day as a graduate student. He and Janeece had moved north for him to teach in Upstate New York, but now that he had left that job, and Janeece had left him, he wanted to do little more than drink rum and walk his property. He would cross the near pasture, ranging off-trail, into the spruce-covered hills that cupped the back acres, crest the ridge until he could see the house, and then return. He would find his way back to the road and pass through the barn, taking stock of the cherry logs that needed splitting. The uncut cherry had been delivered that day to the barn entrance, the road-side of the pile dusted with snow, and only a half-face cord left in the mudroom. He would survey from barn to house, checking powerlines for downed branches and the insurgence of ice along the gutters. Sometimes he would inspect nothing at all, but pause on the deck, not yet ready to sit down for supper with Janeece. He would stand in the new dark of evening, holding himself as still as he could for long stretches, certain he could hear the trickle of the backyard spring in the field, even in winter. Edward first walked just the berm of the road, where more people would see him. Janeece was sure he would be shot by locals who might run into him on his own land. He had bought it, it was his—it's my got-damn land, he would say—but locals walked it like it was theirs. They still trapped and hunted it, the same trails, the same blinds, just as their great-grandfathers, regardless of whose name was on a deed in the county office. Nobody, out here, expects to see folks like us, out here, Janeece would say, worried he might walk up and surprise some hick, drunk on schnapps and poaching deer, and then you wake up dead on your own 'got-damn land.' So, for a time, he walked the extent of his acreage that fronted the byway, shouting high-pitched hellos!</em","PeriodicalId":501435,"journal":{"name":"Callaloo","volume":"122 1","pages":""},"PeriodicalIF":0.0,"publicationDate":"2024-08-29","publicationTypes":"Journal Article","fieldsOfStudy":null,"isOpenAccess":false,"openAccessPdf":"","citationCount":null,"resultStr":null,"platform":"Semanticscholar","paperid":"142182638","PeriodicalName":null,"FirstCategoryId":null,"ListUrlMain":null,"RegionNum":0,"RegionCategory":"","ArticlePicture":[],"TitleCN":null,"AbstractTextCN":null,"PMCID":"","EPubDate":null,"PubModel":null,"JCR":null,"JCRName":null,"Score":null,"Total":0}

引用次数: 0

Kissing Dixie Goodbye 吻别迪克西

Callaloo Pub Date : 2024-08-29 DOI: 10.1353/cal.2024.a935715

Artress Bethany White

{"title":"Kissing Dixie Goodbye","authors":"Artress Bethany White","doi":"10.1353/cal.2024.a935715","DOIUrl":"https://doi.org/10.1353/cal.2024.a935715","url":null,"abstract":"In lieu of an abstract, here is a brief excerpt of the content:\u0000 <ul> <li> Kissing Dixie Goodbye </li> <li> Artress Bethany White (bio) </li> </ul> (Reprinted from Survivor's Guilt: Essays on Race and American Identity, New Rivers Press, 2020, 2022) I fell in love with the Shenandoah Valley the first time I saw it. The sun shone brightly through intermittent clouds floating overhead and created the illusion of folds along the verdant green mountain range. As a kid traveling south with my family, I promised myself I would live there one day. Though the valley below was only dotted with farms and fields of cattle, and I had no aspirations to own either a farm or livestock, the mountain range won my heart. Years later, I recalled those thoughts while traveling up through the Shenandoah Valley with two of my stepchildren in tow. Every now and then I would yell toward the back seat, \"Kids, come on, look at that majestic view.\" They in turn sighed heavily, ungluing their faces from their respective iPads with a dismissive, \"Yeah, nice,\" before diving right back into cyber world. The beauty was lost on them, but it didn't stop me from interrupting a few more times just so I wouldn't feel guilty for not trying. In the summer of 2017, driving through the Shenandoah Valley represented something else for me: this was my proof that I was finally returning to the North after too many years away. What I didn't know when I was a child was that geography, as beautiful as it is, often harbors politics that are not culturally inclusive and are too often blatantly dangerous. I remind myself regularly that I should not idealize my return to the North, because to do so would be a setup for disappointment. After all, I was returning to live in Pennsylvania, the very state that had gone from blue to red in the 2016 presidential election. Add to that the realities of racism I have faced in the North and the South, and the truth is evident that racism is a pandemic knowing no regional borders. Still, it was reassuring this past winter to see one of those post-election signs planted in a snowy yard while house hunting with my husband before our move to Philadelphia. You know, the signs that state: \"In Our Community, Black Lives Matter, We Fear No Faith, Women's Rights are Human Rights, No Human is Illegal, Science is Real, Love is Love.\" As I read this one I thought, I am surely in the right place. Here was a self-identified human being claiming a sanctuary for all of us who desired to live in a compassionate world. Hugs and kisses to you, too, my new Philadelphia neighbor, I thought. Imagine my delight when, a scant few months later, our eight-year-old brought home her three new girlfriends during the first week in our Pennsylvania neighborhood: a Haitian American, an English-Chilean American, and an Asian American. The great melting pot of America I had previo","PeriodicalId":501435,"journal":{"name":"Callaloo","volume":"19 1","pages":""},"PeriodicalIF":0.0,"publicationDate":"2024-08-29","publicationTypes":"Journal Article","fieldsOfStudy":null,"isOpenAccess":false,"openAccessPdf":"","citationCount":null,"resultStr":null,"platform":"Semanticscholar","paperid":"142182563","PeriodicalName":null,"FirstCategoryId":null,"ListUrlMain":null,"RegionNum":0,"RegionCategory":"","ArticlePicture":[],"TitleCN":null,"AbstractTextCN":null,"PMCID":"","EPubDate":null,"PubModel":null,"JCR":null,"JCRName":null,"Score":null,"Total":0}

引用次数: 0

Confluence 汇合

Callaloo Pub Date : 2024-08-29 DOI: 10.1353/cal.2024.a935717

Joy KMT

{"title":"Confluence","authors":"Joy KMT","doi":"10.1353/cal.2024.a935717","DOIUrl":"https://doi.org/10.1353/cal.2024.a935717","url":null,"abstract":"In lieu of an abstract, here is a brief excerpt of the content:\u0000 <ul> <li> Confluence </li> <li> Joy KMT (bio) </li> </ul> When I travel to the memories of my childhood, I can greet most of my plant friends by name. Crown vetch planted, no doubt, to stop the hillside erosion that might one day bring one house, built into a mountain, crashing down into the next. Hawthorn, whose branches made amazing weapons and wands. Dandelion, Plantain. White Clover, Red Clover, Queen Anne's Lace, Wild Oats. Rose and a smattering of Chicory. Maple and Burdock. Oak, mighty mighty Oak. Buttercup. Mulberry, Rose of Sharon with its little black bugs nesting in the bottom. Morning Glory snaking daintily around trellises and fences. I can recall the friends and enemies I made with insects. Friends: Wooly caterpillar, sugar ants (sometimes, until there were too many of them) butterflies, lightnin bugs, potato bugs, katydids, praying mantises, grasshoppers, crickets, ladybugs. Enemies: anything stinging—sweat bees, honeybees, bumble bees, yellow jackets, wasps. Bee stings leave beauty marks on me; I have one above my lip, one on my index finger. Me and bees have come to a truce since my childhood. It was me who made them enemies, and me who mended the relationship. I cannot say the same about wasps. I recall plump tomatoes from my nana's garden, sliced fresh and seasoned only with a bit of salt, tasting like new summer. My mother's violet, crimson, and fuchsia pansies planted in the thin strip of earth she was allotted in front of our townhouse in the projects. The watermelon man from down south with his trunk full of juicy watermelon posted down by the coliseum aided us in the wilting, non-air-conditioned July heat. Picking the low-hanging cherries with my brother in my nana's backyard and savoring each one on the back porch before seeing how far each tiny, hard pit could be spit with a satisfying crack on the concrete walkway. How we raced down hills, trusting the earth and our feet, our arms outstretched like wings, bidding the wind to carry us like Nike. Of course, the quintessential opening of the fire hydrants and the gush of coolness that followed. The rhythm of snapping string beans reminds me of my nana's hands. In the fall, we dodged and pelted one another with crab apples, traveled through foot paths carved into dense foresty patches, playing in the ravines and creeks until the streetlights came on, earlier and earlier. A body can know a place, and a place can know a body. I don't just remember the wilds. I remember the salt box that sat outside our house for the neighborhood in the winter, right by the streetlight outside of my window that glowed like the moon in the fall when I went to bed. The Kaufmann's wooden escalator and fancy gilded bathrooms, especially near Christmastime. I remember tire screeches and gunshots, counting my distance from the gunshots like one ","PeriodicalId":501435,"journal":{"name":"Callaloo","volume":"05 1","pages":""},"PeriodicalIF":0.0,"publicationDate":"2024-08-29","publicationTypes":"Journal Article","fieldsOfStudy":null,"isOpenAccess":false,"openAccessPdf":"","citationCount":null,"resultStr":null,"platform":"Semanticscholar","paperid":"142182585","PeriodicalName":null,"FirstCategoryId":null,"ListUrlMain":null,"RegionNum":0,"RegionCategory":"","ArticlePicture":[],"TitleCN":null,"AbstractTextCN":null,"PMCID":"","EPubDate":null,"PubModel":null,"JCR":null,"JCRName":null,"Score":null,"Total":0}

引用次数: 0

Still Life with Birch and Creek, and: Bloomhead, and: Instances of Unremarkable Countryside Innocence 桦树与小溪的静物》和《桦树与小溪的静物》：布卢姆海德不引人注目的乡村纯真事例

Callaloo Pub Date : 2024-08-29 DOI: 10.1353/cal.2024.a935711

Ariana Benson

{"title":"Still Life with Birch and Creek, and: Bloomhead, and: Instances of Unremarkable Countryside Innocence","authors":"Ariana Benson","doi":"10.1353/cal.2024.a935711","DOIUrl":"https://doi.org/10.1353/cal.2024.a935711","url":null,"abstract":"In lieu of an abstract, here is a brief excerpt of the content:\u0000 <ul> <li> Still Life with Birch and Creek, and: Bloomhead, and: Instances of Unremarkable Countryside Innocence </li> <li> Ariana Benson (bio) </li> </ul> <h2>STILL LIFE WITH BIRCH AND CREEK</h2> Walking through the swamp, bowingunder matted locks of birch, I long to be known as the damp cardinal longs to knowhis brown counterpart has heard his wailing.Though, since a trilled echo is the only confirmation of thislistening, it's impossible for all to know such reprieve, such desiredoused, at once. The shock —red bird, the dozing rodents, all waitingto know they are wanted, which is to know they exist. But everyone can't know thisat the same time. Where one is touched, another must make dowith only their own soft hand. Like the patient eveningbats, I believe I am owed a gentleness, the kind that leavestrails in the night sky, like those made by fingers run down the velourof fur—no material change, but skin left darker, as if wet by touch. My darknessdemands to be held on the tongue, [End Page 5] and so heard. The minnows,hearing algae foaming in their creek, let their lips skim the drifting greenuntil it hisses relieved undoing. [End Page 6] <h2>BLOOMHEAD</h2> This year, there was no keepingthe aphids away. A shame, thoughI've long grown used to being gnawed at—latticed—by even the sparestof jaws. The horizon, for her part,each day sooner and sooner, spits up the sun. Call it yellow if you must—I've done my best to springwhat parts of me most need caress, need touching. What wiltsis what needed to fall away,I tell myself, yawning, begging the sky, against my best interest,for more sleep. I am only human,after all. I bow at the feet of lightas do all the living. All my weary kin. [End Page 7] <h2>INSTANCES OF UNREMARKABLE COUNTRYSIDE INNOCENCE</h2> Take, for example, the horse. Not the stallion, the satin-sheened result of a perfect recipe. Nor the wild mare, romping in pampas grass, yellow yarrow underhoof. Justa stablehorse: plain, trusting anyone holding out a sweet palm. [End Page 8]</","PeriodicalId":501435,"journal":{"name":"Callaloo","volume":"23 1","pages":""},"PeriodicalIF":0.0,"publicationDate":"2024-08-29","publicationTypes":"Journal Article","fieldsOfStudy":null,"isOpenAccess":false,"openAccessPdf":"","citationCount":null,"resultStr":null,"platform":"Semanticscholar","paperid":"142182624","PeriodicalName":null,"FirstCategoryId":null,"ListUrlMain":null,"RegionNum":0,"RegionCategory":"","ArticlePicture":[],"TitleCN":null,"AbstractTextCN":null,"PMCID":"","EPubDate":null,"PubModel":null,"JCR":null,"JCRName":null,"Score":null,"Total":0}

引用次数: 0

Crossfade, and: my eyes phosphene bodies beneath my hips, and: the devil's wives Crossfade, and: my eyes phosphene bodies beneath my hips, and: the devil's wives

Callaloo Pub Date : 2024-08-29 DOI: 10.1353/cal.2024.a935718

Nitajade

{"title":"Crossfade, and: my eyes phosphene bodies beneath my hips, and: the devil's wives","authors":"Nitajade","doi":"10.1353/cal.2024.a935718","DOIUrl":"https://doi.org/10.1353/cal.2024.a935718","url":null,"abstract":"In lieu of an abstract, here is a brief excerpt of the content:\u0000 <ul> <li> Crossfade, and: my eyes phosphene bodies beneath my hips, and: the devil's wives </li> <li> Nitajade (bio) </li> </ul> <h2>CROSSFADE</h2> Ancestor visits your sleep asks if you have something to say pauses long enough to hear your answer makes space for you to sit Ancestor challenges your tongue to split in testimony in waking life when you voice your visitor all your mama hears is thisisit! her tone insists tellmewhohurtyou! tellme!tellme!tellme!say! call them out and i'll call away they breath you can't remember vividly enough to gamble lives on yet, you know your molestation(s) the same way you know your names: one day out the blue they were called on you syllables swallowed so often you can't recall the first time you spoke them (your names not theirs) your mama needs rescinded-stamped confession your mama needs un-gulped wine she needs un-inhaled blunt she needs unmarred midnight moon a trick of the light illusions of successful safety smoke in mirrors your mama needs erasure until your tongue reverses or (un)splits she will never stop reaching for their names. [End Page 43] Ancestor visits your sleep asks if you have something to say pauses long enough to hear your answer makes space for you to sit Ancestor challenges your tongue to split in testimony in waking life when you voice your visitor all your mama hears is thisisit! her tone insists tellmewhohurtyou! tellme!tellme!tellme!say! call them out and i'll call away they breath you can't remember vividly enough to gamble lives on yet, you know your molestation(s) the same way you know your names: one day out the blue they were called on you syllables swallowed so often you can't recall the first time you spoke them (your names not theirs) your mama needs a rescinded-stamped confession your mama needs un-gulped wine she needs un-inhaled blunt she needs unmarred midnight moon a trick of the light illusions of successful safety smoke in mirrors your mama needs erasure until your tongue reverses or (un)splits she will never stop reaching for their names. [End Page 44] Ancestor visits your sleep asks if you have something to say pauses long enough to hear your answer makes space for you to sit Ancestor challenges your tongue to split in testimony in waking life when you voice your visitor all your mama hears is ","PeriodicalId":501435,"journal":{"name":"Callaloo","volume":"1 1","pages":""},"PeriodicalIF":0.0,"publicationDate":"2024-08-29","publicationTypes":"Journal Article","fieldsOfStudy":null,"isOpenAccess":false,"openAccessPdf":"","citationCount":null,"resultStr":null,"platform":"Semanticscholar","paperid":"142182562","PeriodicalName":null,"FirstCategoryId":null,"ListUrlMain":null,"RegionNum":0,"RegionCategory":"","ArticlePicture":[],"TitleCN":null,"AbstractTextCN":null,"PMCID":"","EPubDate":null,"PubModel":null,"JCR":null,"JCRName":null,"Score":null,"Total":0}

引用次数: 0