Writing Poetry at El Rio Grande
Scoot into the red booth at the busy taqueria.
Roberto remembers my Chori Pollo
& coaxes me into fried ice cream
while I crack my new journal & scratch poems.
Mariachi polkas & corridos
syncopate like coordinated lovers.
Five thumping strings of the little vihuela
& the trumpet–-glaring gleamer!
It’s not just the dangling chili peppers
& tissue paper roses. Not rainbow serapes,
or pinatas of donkeys & bulls.
It’s that my husband’s grandfather
was born in Aguascalientes
It’s that my husband’s grandfather
was born in Aguascalientes
with its red tile roofs, pink quarry stone
& twisted wrought iron. In a dream
he once whispered,
Spanish is spoken here.
he once whispered,
Spanish is spoken here.
15 thoughts on "Writing Poetry at El Rio Grande"
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Love the detail. I can see and smell and hear the activity,
Fav lines:
“Mariachi polkas & corridos
syncopate like coordinated lovers.”
and the “it’s not”s
and:
“In a dream he once whispered,
“Spanish is spoken here.”
I’ve always loved your stories about this. Beautifully done!
This been totally revised. I got Coleman’s grandfather in and researched Aquascalientes.💥
Hot water!
“glaring gleamer!” – how wonderful is that?! So many fine details that place me there in the next booth.
is this Berea? I used to go there to write in my journal!
Yes, it is! It’s a sweet place in an old Hardee’s.
the song and dance in the lines of this poem paint a picture full of color
We’ve eaten there together!
A gorgeous poem.
Love all the specific details–really brings the poem alive–I’m there in the room. Perfect ending.
I love how these elements all come together. What a wonderful place to be: good food, good music, and a fresh notebook.
Your images and vibrant language swooped me in immediately. Beautiful!
Wow ! Wonderful glimpse into a place we have been.
And the notebooks of our lives.
Beautiful rendition and yup.
Fried ice cream!
This poem is a feast for the senses—music, food, and history all entwined. The details (“dangling chili peppers,” “rainbow serapes,” “Aguascalientes / with its red tile roofs”) make it sing, but it’s that final whisper—“Spanish is spoken here”—that lingers. Beautiful.
I was going to highlight lines but then I went through the poem and highlighted it all. But there’s a great turn in “while I crack my new journal & scratch poems.” and then shew:
“It’s that my husband’s grandfather
was born in Aguascalientes
with its red tile roofs, pink quarry stone
& twisted wrought iron. In a dream
he once whispered,
Spanish is spoken here.”