 Arlington Literary Journal an ejournal also known as ArLiJo, is located in Arlington, Virginia and is sponsored by Gival Press. The intent of ArLiJo is to feature a variety of authors/poets/artists from around the globe whose work provokes readers to contemplate issues, etc. The work chosen promotes understanding and sensitivity across borders, even if initially the work may cause one to take a double-take. Staff: Editor-in-Chief, Robert L. Giron Associate Editor, Sarah Fannon The Reading Period for ArLiJo will open from January 15 to March 15, 2018. Any work published shall remain the property of the author/poet/artist and for any previously published work to appear the author/poet/artist must still retain the copyright of the work. Please note that ArLiJo is an ejournal. Payment for publication is a book from a selection of books published by Gival Press. Books Available to ArLiJo Contributors NONFICTION: Sexy Liberal! Of Me I Sing by Stephanie Miller FICTION: Ghost Horse by Thomas H. McNeely Mayhem: Three Lives of a Woman by Elizabeth Harris Show Up, Look Good by Mark Wisniewski That Demon Life by Lowell Mick White Twelve Rivers of the Body by Elizabeth Oness The Spanish Teacher by Barbara de la Cuesta The Cannibal of Guadalajara by David Winner The Best of Gival Press Short Stories ed. by Robert L. Giron The Second Act by Tim Brown Barrow’s Point by Robert Schirmer POETRY: Poetic Voices Without Borders ed by Robert L. Giron On the Altar of Greece by Donna J. Gelagotis Lee Poetic Voices Without Borders 2 ed by Robert L. Giron Songs for the Spirit by Robert L. Giron On the Tongue by Jeff Mann Bones Washed With Wine by Jeff Mann The Great Canopy by Paula Goldman Sweet to Burn by Beverly Burch Protection by Gregg Shapiro Honey by Richard Carr 12 Sonnets for the Zodiac by John Gosslee Adamah: Poème by Celine Zins |
Don Berger Featured on ArLiJo.com Issue No. 34 To Haiti This poem was read at the We Love Haiti fundraiser at Montgomery College on February 15, 2010. Haiti you’re the poorest but you are not the poorest The amazing blue stripe on your flag I can’t name the color And the remarkable red one that goes along with it You are the first black republic Founded in 1804 And you know this of course but I have to say it Haiti, you’ve got your 27,750 square miles and some of the trees are still up Your French and your Creole are I think about your coffee your sugar your sisal, mangoes, rice Corn sorghum Your improving literacy rate Your total area Your schools were there in place and will be What’s that in your flag in the middle I’ll have to look it looks like And is a tree with things under it O I know and the words Union Makes Force Your cement and textiles 166 years ago people started you On the map you look like an open mouth Or the tails of a comet And you share an island And the island’s name’s the beautiful Hispaniola Like it was yesterday the girl who came out of the rubble after twelve days Golfe de la Gonave In Saturday’s Post you’re only already on page 19 But there are two articles about you And two maps as well It says the chaos has dissipated And something about your people getting along There’s a table of pills and ointments Beside the Grand Rue Someone is trying to sell Claudy Esperance Will find food for his wife and three kids World-wide they’ve pledged $2 billion dollars About 200,000 killed and 300,000 injured A day of mourning in front of the collapsed National Palace O but tent cities with enough shelter by May 1 A man’s asked if his people are starving and can’t get food As shown by the news media and he says No that’s not true Your first big rain fell Thursday But the trucks and buses moved along the street the Grand Rue A small pile of batteries and electrical sockets Joseph Villanord Who was on the second floor of his building But you rode down with the crumbling walls And found yourself settling on top of the rubble A silent but eloquent unfocussed gaze As Frantzo you are bundling together concrete reinforcement rods With the hope of using them to replace your family’s home You’re a young man on a rooftop Pushing chunks of concrete off a ledge The Boulangerie Sant Marc 1929 Where your merchants used to discuss business over a piece of cake and a cup of coffee And your name’s pronounced three ways I know you know this too In the Greater Antilean archipelago Land of high mountains as your name goes From the Taino or Amerindian On top of this French as the only country with French As the language in the Americas Other than Canada I want to see your cave paintings in several locations That’ve become national symbols And the site of Xaragua’s former capital That Columbus landed on Who your princess Queen Anacoana fought Spain took your gold The French pirate Jean Lafitte was born in you With your now 9 million people 9 million 35 thousand Five hundred and 36 You had 30,000 in 1763 while Canada had only 60,000 James Audubon was born in you I think And the founder of Chicago Your slaves fought in heavy majority in 1791 on the northern plains Polish soldiers ultimately fought with your rebels The only nation born of a slave revolt Dessalines Emperor for life Quashed was the idea of Napoleon I like your 1700 kilometers of roads that were made usable And your 189 bridges built And drinking water brought to your main cities In 1923 you helped feed Ghana You of the third largest island Your lowlands, your two plains, the Massif du Nord And fourteen universities 15,200 primary schools And most, listening, hearing and listening, Your complex ever-changing Music vodou ceremonial Rara parading troubadour ballads, Compas Compas or Kompa from Africa and ballroom underpinning of Tipico, meringue Hip hop your castle inscribed a World Heritage You offer peppers and other strong flavorings Seasoned liberally and i.e. Levantine from Arab migration Often red snapper And your beans and rice Several differing ways there is protein there There is mais moulu Or pigeon peas And as you know oregano garbanzo and red peppers So in the crowd pressing toward the stage On the Champ de Mars “Now I know my life is safe,” you through some of your faces sing On Friday “no matter what happens tomorrow” So listen, Haiti, on Sunday you weren’t in the paper Anymore but then I found you on CNN They were pulling your beautiful artworks out of the rubble Which were in good shape I should add And Frank Louissaint was painting again Copyright © 2010 by Don Berger. David Dorantes Featured on ArLiJo.com Poemas en forma haiku en español Sufro las dunas no sé qué hago solo en el destierro Los patos ya van hacia la flama del sur trisca de lagos Fuera del mundo trago tierra, hormigas zafio tornado En la soledad hay cielo e infierno ¿cómo vendrá hoy? Sobre el trigo y en el amanecer reposan nubes En su camino vive un siglo frágil cada hormiga El mar de Cádiz manto de relámpagos catre en vilo Este paisaje de montañas mojadas es nuestro carmen Copyright © 2010 by David Dorantes. Biografía: David Dorantes (Guadalajara, México, 16 de Diciembre de 1967) A los 10 años, descubrió que tenía dos vocaciones que eran una sola: observar y caminar. Por lo tanto decidió emprender el oficio de trashumante urbano sin rumbo, pese a la oposición familiar. Descubrió poco a poco todos los rincones secretos de su ciudad que no aparecían en ninguna guía de turistas. Mientras alternaba su oficio como observador urbano comenzó escribir en cuadernos las imágenes que la ciudad le regalaba. Un día notó que tenía muchos cuadernos y que la ciudad no tenía más rincones ocultos. Así que se fue a buscar otros secretos urbanos… En Puebla Cozumel, San José, Belice, Tegucigalpa, Managua, Tuxtla Gutiérrez, Ciudad de México, San Pedro Sula, Panamá City, Hojas del Toro, Madrid, París, La Paz, Santiago, Zarautz, Lisboa, Praga, Bruselas, Edimburgo, Londres, Santo Domingo y Marruecos fue mimo callejero, vendedor de pantalones, fotógrafo ambulante, actor, pintor de casas a domicilio, vendedor de discos piratas, voceador, cantinero, timador de turistas, jugador de fútbol en un equipo semiprofesional, guitarrista de tres acordes en un trío, lavador de carros, mesero, lavaplatos y cantante pésimo. Un día reparó que ya tenía muchos cuadernos guardados en su mochila y regresó a su casa y a su barrio…. Sus amigos y familiares, al verlo volver, le dijeron que lo malo de que se hubiera ido es que se hubiera regresado. Ante tan cálida bienvenida luego de cinco años de ausencia pensó que lo mejor sería sentar cabeza. Se matriculó como estudiante en las escuelas de Filosofía, Música, Literatura y Teatro. Aprendió mucho, pero no todo en las aulas, y por eso no terminó ninguna carrera…. Un día, sin saber nada de periodismo, se hizo periodista por azar. Lleva casi 20 años en el oficio y la verdad es que, salvo el salario, no se puede quejar. Ha sido reportero y columnista en los diarios mexicanos Paréntesis, Diario Peninsular, Siglo 21, Público, Cambio y Primera Plana. En el año 2000 ganó el Premio Emisario de Periodismo… Desde el año 2002 vive en Houston en donde ha trabajado como valet parking, mesero, repartidor de pizzas y telefonista en una pizzería. Estudio literatura en la Texas Southern University y tampoco terminó. Desde hace dos años trabaja como reportero de entretenimiento en los semanarios La Vibra, hoy desaparecida, y La Voz, ambos del Houston Chronicle. Mantiene como puede el blog “La Butaca” en www.chron.com y hoy es su primera lectura de poesía en toda su vida…. Espera, sinceramente, no decepcionarlos… |
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