MiPOesias: The David Trinidad Issue #2

For those of you interested, MiPOesias, an online literary magazine, has published some of my poems. For you geeks out there, two of the three published poems consider super heroics, identity and feminism.

Etta is a Role Model

Recently at Written World, Ragnell expressed her appreciation for the Golden Age Etta Candy. I’ve loved that incarnation of Etta ever since I came across her: her strength and self-confidence. How she always knew what she wanted. She was a leader, and could help Wonder Woman out of a bind. And most importantly, she took up space.

How could I not write a poem for her? (Granted, at the time when I tried to bring in a Wonder Woman-themed poem every week into my advanced workshop. I admit I'm a bit embarrassed to post this poem, since it's pretty different from the way I usually write. I just had to rhyme it, Golden Age dialogue is so wonderfully cheesy.)

I echo Ragnell’s sentiments, I want Etta returned to her initial self.

Wonder Woman’s Sidekick: Etta Candy

“When you’ve got a man, there’s nothing you can do with him—but candy you can eat.” --Etta Candy

A former patient of Diana Prince’s,
fan-favorite Etta Candy wasn’t your typical sidekick.
She wasn’t quick, strong, or righteous,
was rather, instead, addicted to three things—
sweets, girls and Wonder Woman.

Leader of the sorority sisters, the Holliday Girls,
Etta with her scout smarts and red bloomers
could be contacted by mental radio,
would come to untie Wonder Woman with her enthusiastic “Woo Woo!”

Etta assembled an army of one-hundred glamorous girls,
who she lorded over with a plump fist and box of bonbons.
Together they defeated Dr. Poison’s lecherous horde,
then promptly threw a magnificent slumber party as an award.

In 1986, dear Etta was given a facelift—
she lost pounds, height and self-esteem.
Etta got stationed as an Air Force Lieutenant, instead of queen,
and married Wonder Woman’s longtime boyfriend, Steve.

Today is Blog Against Heteronormativity Day

Remember to check out blac(k)ademic for her post and for links to the other blogs that are participating.
Heteronormativity is everywhere and is everything. That is an understatement. I think what gets me the most, however, is how even the things I turn to for relaxation or a bit of catharsis end up putting me into the same mental place in which the real world takes me. It's another understatement when I say there is an extreme lack of queer people in the geeky culture I take refuge in.

Which is why the anime series Revolutionary Girl Utena has been so important to me.

I could write an essay about the show and the characters and how it refreshingly spins heteronormative fairytales on its head, but I think it's more fun to read this poem that pretty much demonstrates what it means to me.

Utena Dances the Wedding

If the egg’s shell does not break,
I haven’t been to the Riviera since high school prom. This time, however, there were lilies and white carnations in revolving[1] chandeliers.
The chick will die without being born.
Chocolate covered strawberries on pink[2] china plates. Does the merlot color my lips or is it my mother’s lipstick?
We are the chick; the egg is the world.
I step on Uncle Ed’s shiny shoes. After the song (Mercy, Mercy, Mercy) he bows, says “I must return to my wife now.[3]”
If the world’s shell does not break,
His wife is Carrianne[4]. Health problems. (Never knew what?) Now ordained. Was Catholic, maybe not Catholic anymore.
we will die without being born.
Betty wears new Nikes under her wedding dress. I saw it so under the bathroom stall. I think of her at Payless buying cross trainers[5] just for dancing.
Break the world’s shell!
The last time I was at the Riviera, Aran and I danced all night. Specifically to Sting’s “Fields of Gold[6]”. I dance with Betty during “Twist and Shout.”
For the sake of revolutionizing the world!
The sweat of her neck was like another string of her pearls. The sweat on my neck: bad lighting. Betty shakes her hips towards mine and whispers[7], “One day it will be just like this for you.”

-------------------
[1] In the opening of Revolutionary Girl Utena, Anthy and Utena revolve on the face of a blossomed rose.

[2]Pink, the color of Utena’s hair is said to represent her immaturity, her ability to trust others.

[3]Now you should have nothing to complain of.

[4] Blood type B people also love to be complimented; yet they are kind to all others and show genuine concern for friends.

[5] Notably, Utena’s uniform consists of a boy's black jacket, and red biker shorts. Anonymous girl says, “Utena-sama came in drag?! How cute!”

[6] In the movie adaptation, Utena and Anthy dance in the flooded rose garden, beneath a CG-rendered sky.

[7] "Though you pose as a prince, in the end you're just a girl."

Today is Blog to Raise Awareness About Sexual Violence Day

Please click on over to Femivist for more details and for a list of links to those who are participating.

Today I want to raise awareness that rape is not only something that all women worry about in their day to day lives, but that it is also being constantly used as a weapon in wars. Lately, I've been doing research, learning, and writing about comfort women--women who were forced into sexual slavery during World War II by Japan. This is one of the poems that I have written in order to honor these women.

Letter from Prime Minister to Former Comfort Women, 2001

Dear Madam, Dear Sir, On the occasion that the Asian Women’s Fund, in cooperation with the Government and the people of Japan, offers atonement from the Japanese people to the former wartime comfort women. Let me tell you what I know. That those who cannot be taught cannot be instructed: the career of my body, to lie on the rush mat. A scrape, a burn picked at eight or nine times a day. Five minutes each. The issue of comfort women, with an involvement of the Japanese military authorities at that time, was a grave affront to the honor and dignity of large numbers of women. The bruise on my leg, a bouquet I gathered when I was fourteen. Pink and purple, the fresh petals of the mugungwha. Yet I did not have what one of the women did: so swollen and ruptured that the nurse couldn’t look. As Prime Minister of Japan, I know we must not evade weight of the past, nor should we evade our responsibilities for the future. They housed our numb waists in stalls. Built on the dirt floor with wooden planks heavy as the pain in my womb. The repeating line of men in boots outside my door splinters light. Twice as long after a battle. I believe that our country, painfully aware of its moral responsibilities, with feelings of apology and remorse, should face up squarely to its past history and accurately convey it to future generations. Blisters weep as we jolt across the yard for morning exercise; women are to be led and to follow others. The only true movement of the day along with eating, sipping water, releasing water. Furthermore, Japan also should take an active part in dealing with violence and other forms of injustice to the honor and dignity of women. Years later and I moved to Pusan—money for working as a dishwasher. What I have left to do, as now my womb is black and sticky. There exists three unfilial acts: the greatest is the failure to produce sons. In water, my hands soften as I scrub dried food from dishes. Watch hot water as it makes my skin bud, bloom red. Respectfully yours, Junichiro Koizumi, Prime Minister of Japan Sincerely, Juugun-ianfu

Attention Women Poets

In my free time I'm one of the poetry editors for the literary zine Inkstains. We're based in Chicago but seek submissions from everyone, anywhere. One of the primary concerns of the zine is to publish those who have a hard time finding an audience (re: writers who are queer, are of color, are of the lower class, are women, or those who resist the gender paradigm.) I'm mentioning this here and now specifically because we haven't received many submissions for our future issues from women poets. For issue 4.5, due online this Spring, all poems so far are from men and for our issue 5 (which will hopefully be in print if we receive the grant we applied for) due out for Winter, we only have one woman poet.

Please if you have any work, or know any woman poets (we also publish prose), head over to our website, browse around and submit--we want to publish you!

A little History

A component of my Poetics class is learning how to write historical poems. This poem is a result of one of our exercises, which was to write about a place in Chicago, from the perspective of the past. Here's my result, a little rough since its only a 2nd Draft. Please not that the formatting is off because Blogger isn't Microsoft Word. The italicized quote is left justified, while the stanzas are supposed to be right justified, though formatted to look like a newspaper column.

The Murder of Charles Sing, 1913

“Unsuspecting white girls like Alice quite often were lured into Chinese men’s parlors, stores, and chop suey

Alice Davis Sing, of 3460 Archer Avenue,

grew up a Christian missionary. Her husband,

Charles Sing, had wooed her in Kansas City’s Chinatown

over plates of Foo Young Dove and rice. He’s the one,

she told her father, she liked the best. Really, loved:

“From the first time I saw him, I loved him.

There was something about him that fascinated me.

He was quiet, lithe, and graceful. He was mysterious,

and I guess that is what attracted me. He never laughed out

loud no matter how happy he was. He chuckled.”

by their pleadings and outward gentleness, then, captivated by the apparent luxury of their lives and apartments

And they married. She converted to Buddhism,

little statues. Fingers that ruffled the edges of pork

and leek dumplings. Spoke Pidgin English fluently.

Charles would pitch forth money for style: red

lace-trimmed cheongsam dresses, blue silk nightgown.

they visit them again and again

It didn’t last long, not after he wasn’t

going to take her to China. When she found that out,

she slipped the knife into him. The blood ran out from

his chest and dried: red and sticky. Barbecued duck,

hung whole in the grocery store front window.

until their ruin is accomplished.”

Grief, when the Chicago police came, sobbing

and dark mussed hair. Wisps that stuck to her

bloated cheeks. They determined murder, though without

sufficient evidence: Regular quarrels, a nation-wide

smuggling ring, a love quadrangle with Alice

and Charles, her sister Emma and Charles Norn.

Best American Poetry

Last year I co-edited the 18th issue of the Columbia Poetry Review, a literary magazine which publishes the poetry of students at Columbia, alongside the poetry of well-known poets. In many ways edited the issue was incredible: we decided to have a theme issue in which we celebrated the work of women poets (because much to our own dismay, we felt that female poets are not being published as much as male poets.) It was also terrible in the ways that we were disorganized--there were some typos in the issue, and our database was wiped out by a virus. All in all, we published it, and I wiped my hands of it.

Until today. I found out from one of my teachers that one of the poems that we published, written by Denise Duhamel (one of my all-time favorite poets) was chosen for Best American Poetry 2006--not only that, but Billy Collins is the guest editor(!). I've never been the largest fan of Billy Collins--I like poets that are more experimental--so I'm surprised. The poem that made it in, a villanelle, almost didn't make the cut (for many different reasons.) I'll be finding out from my teacher if any other poems from the issue will be published.

This means that CPR, though it does pretty well for itself, will get noticed. I feel good, specifically, that our women's issue will get more attention.