"Walking the Chupacabra": Spontaneous Writing Prompts from the Edge

I've always been a fan of writing prompts, but my all-time favorite ones come about spontaneously, when everyday language or a phrase overheard in a passing conversation, or a misread headline, goes just a bit astray.  Language-play disrupts my predictable patterns of thought, my internal editorial demon; it encourages wild and unique connections precisely because I am no longer in charge; instead, language is the boss.  

My wife and I are especially fond of word-play, puns, or even just a delicious combination of words that fall out of our mouths and stun us with synchronicity.  "That would make a great poem title," we often blurt out in the middle of such a conversation, "or a great name for a garage band," or "a porno flick title!"  

If a phrase would work for one or two of those things, we're tickled, but if it happens to score for all three, it's a verbal hat trick. 

This is the kind of word-weirdness that reminds us why we're together; nobody else is strange enough to tolerate, let alone enjoy and perpetuate, this reckless enjoyment of the English language.

For example, we recently, acquired a new member of the family, a rescue dog named, inexplicably, StevieNicks! (Margo insists that it's all one name, and the emphasis is on the second half, with a move to the upper register. Don't ask.)

StevieNicks! is a smallish (55 pounds - small to a woman whose past dogs have tipped the scales at 125 lbs), black German Shepherd/Mallinois mix with severe food allergies and the personality of a perpetually delighted puppy. At four years old, she still races around with a ping-pong ball trajectory, does not have a linear bone in her body; she’s on the skinny side, and a bit moth-eaten from hair loss (although two months worth of an allergy-free diet, antibiotics and great veterinary care are having a wonderful effect). She's got gigantic satellite dish ears, a loooong face, and Big Bad Wolf teeth.  She also has hip dysplasia, a Shepherd trait, so her gait is usually a graceful lope, but sometimes crow-hoppy in the back end when going uphill.  For her diminutive size, StevieNicks! has a tremendously scary, full-throated bark, and she's not afraid to use it.

Because of her ferocity, her scruffy appearance, her rangy legs, her sharp white teeth, her loooong snout, and her big bat ears, I started calling StevieNicks! "the chupacabra."  [If you need an explanation, follow that link.]  One morning last week, I asked Margo, "Are you walking the chupacabra?"

There was that beat of silence that happens when word-magic has been made.  We looked at each other.  Walking the Chupacabra.  "Ohhhh," I said, "that is a beautiful poem title. But I don't think it's mine. Hmmmm... I want someone to write it, though ..."

I ended up posting it on Facebook, to any poet/writer friends.  An offering, I said, to someone who felt the same strange electric thrill at the sound of those three words spoken together, but had more poetry mojo at the moment than me.

That's how this kind of poetry prompt works: it's not official, not given to you in a classroom or as an assignment.  It doesn't appear in a how-to book. It comes from the slippage of regular conversation, or a sign seen out of the corner of your eye; it comes from the blurry edges of standard language.  

The blur, the edges: that's where the magic happens.

Here are the three poems I received back from three people who felt it, and responded.  They let language take the reins, and then – like all good poets – stepped in with expertise and craft to support the initial spark.

My thanks to Minal, Ire’ne, and Margo!

(And yes, I think Walking the Chupacabra also works as garage band name and porno flick title - which just goes to show you that when something is awesome, it's truly unstoppable.)

El Chupacabra

by Minal Hajratwala

We are walking the chupacabra

in the morning. Every morning

we check his Twitter to see what bile

he’s spewed, we check the orange rug

to see what we need to clean up,

put down, burn off, weep around.

We count the goats

to see if they are safe.

We clean the blood & tears

off our sustainable

bamboo floor. El chupacabra

hisses, rubs the thorns 

along his spine all over

the house, shredding 

the leather couch. Afternoons

he likes to lie in the sun,

tongue lolling as he licks up smog

from the breasts of the skies. 

This is when we sleep,

huddled up against the wall

through the rough comfort

of his snores. When the sun sets

el chupacabra runs

to the red horizon. 

We hear his howls

all night long, clamoring

for flesh.  We answer—

fire in our bowels, fire in our lungs,

fire in our hearts—for we are 

exploding with love for our people

through the long war

knowing one day we will prevail

& make the beast ours.

WALKING THE CHUPACABRA

--ire'ne lara silva

every morning we put the leash around his rough furred neck let him take the lead out the door and onto the sidewalk while the neighbors look askance at us we walk the chupacabra every morning or shall we say he consents to let us walk him and we walk on the balls of our feet here we are walking the chupacabra or shall we say walking the threat of violence walking the shadow of imminent death we walk on the balls of our feet and breathe rapidly ready to run should he decide to turn and maul us should he become unable to hold his hunger in check not hunger for flesh but hunger to see life spilled life burst life ended

we walk the chupacabra praying under our breaths hesitating when he stops to inspect a bush or a butterfly or a dog walking down the opposite side of the street though we never hesitate when he decides to change direction we speed our steps so quickly we almost trip over ourselves we walk the chupacabra until it is time to return home until he turns his eyes homewards and he waits while we open the lock on the door while we remove the leash while we set his water and food down on bowls on the floor and we sleep in this house this house where the chupacabra sleeps sleep with our eyes open in case he wakes sleep in this house guarded by the chupacabra

Walking the Chupacabra

by Margo Solod

We always walk at night (as though

darkness could hide her trembling anticipation).

She waits for me by the gate, breath hoary,

starlight glinting off daggered teeth.

Darkness hides her trembling anticipation.

Shadows shapeshift into monsters,

starlight glinting off daggered teeth

(what holds the ends of their leashes?)

Shadows shift shapes into monsters.

Every woman has a chupacabra locked away

or at the end of a leash she clings to -

perhaps we should arrange play dates.

Every woman has a chupacabra, locked away

in a midnight corner of her mind.

Perhaps I could arrange a playdate

with a woman willing to release hers.

In the indigo corners of a mind,

or on a hand-knotted living room rug,

a woman willing to release hers

is a treasure not to be discarded.

A hand-knotted living room rug

woven from rags by my grandmother

is a treasure not to be discarded,

a saddle blanket for her own chupacabra.

Woven from rags by my grandmother,

my chupacabra is never cold -

no saddle blanket for her,

black fur glistening in moonlight.

My chupacabra is never cold

waiting for me by the gate, breath hoary,

black fur glistening in the moonlight.  

We always walk at night.

-->

Dear World: Yes I Wrote a Poem About Dicks Let Me Explain

Dear World:

You've been waiting for this book: a celebration of renowned scholar, poet, novelist and all-around-phenomenal woman, Paula Gunn Allen.  These pieces started out as a special insert in a literary journal, then (through a series of unfortunate events that turned out to be fortuitous) morphed into an even better, richer collection with beautiful editing and a perfect press (West End Press in Albuquerque) of its own.  And now, here it is, in your hands, with a classic Paula photo on the front.

So you open it and start flipping through the poems, essays, stories, and lovely artwork.  Such an elegant design! Such wonderful insights!  Such -

                           wait a minute.

  

Ha! You thought you saw . . .  wait.  You did see . . .  a series of words . . .

Naughty words. Bad words. Silly words.

It's a penis . . .

a prick,

a cock, ,

a dangler,

a clamdigger ...

Well, who the heck would put a poem like that in a collection honoring one of the most revered Native American scholar/writers in the 20th century?  What a jerk. How inappropriate.  How disrespectful.

But wait!  I wrote that poem! I swear, my intentions were good!  Yes, I admit, it's a bit odd that a lesbian poet would write a poem for another lesbian poet about male genitalia.  

The problem here is context.  This poem was actually sent off to the editors (many years ago) with an epigraph that Made It All Perfectly Clear.  It included a quote from Paula Gunn Allen herself.  It was the intersection of Paula's quote and a news story that inspired this poem.  

Unfortunately, the epigraph was inadvertently left off the published version - my fault? editorial mistake? printing error? -- I have no idea.  And, for the record, I have never worked with two more determined, honorable editors than Stephanie Sellers and Menouka Case. So let's chalk it up to the trickster energy generated by the poem and which, as Menouka reminds me, Paula would have deeply appreciated.

Future printings of the book will be corrected. For now, I provide the epigraph here for you (below).  I'm curious to know how, or if, access to the epigraph changes how the poem reads within this collection.

By the way, here is the statue in question, created by Joe Pachak.  In the end, the statue was not actually removed from the park, but instead, moved to a less conspicuous area.

Yup. There it is.

For the White Lady Who Had Kokopelli's Statue Removed From a State Park

In her introduction to Off the Reservation, Paula Gunn Allen mourns, "…poor Kokopelli! … he capers sadly about on wall hangings, tea towels, pot holders, tote bags, t-shirts and pricey bronze cutouts sans his joyful manhood . . . Perhaps this sorry loss is symptomatic of all that is wrong with colonization, and indicative of all that fills Native hearts with rage."

It's a penis.

Your father has one.

Your brother has one.

Your son has one.

Your grandson has one.

It's a penis,

not the Mark of Cain.

It's a penis,

a prick,

a cock,

a dangler,

a clamdigger,

a babymaker,

a lovemaker,

a dick,

a dong,

a one-eyed snake

a pee pee

a wiener

a wanker

but it's not

the Mark of Cain.

Your father has one.

Your son has one.

Hell, if you believe

in the Bible

God has one

(we are made

in His Image,

right?)  I've got

news for you:

Indians

have 'em

too

or we wouldn't

still be

here

and maybe that's

your problem

with Mr. Kokopelli

and his joyful

manhood:

Indians having sex

means more Indians,

happy Indians,

straight

and gay,

mono or poly,

mixed or full.

Still here,

still happy:

is that too much

for you

to take?

Deborah A. Miranda

OCTOBER MINI-TOUR!

Before the crack of dawn tomorrow, I'll take off on a mini-tour, doing readings, talks and even a writing workshop, on Muwekma Ohlone, Wiyot, Chumash and Haudenosaunee land, circling back to Monacan land. Hope to see some familiar faces, but also looking forward to new ones. Quick list:

Thursday, October 12, U San Francisco. 5:30-7:00 p.m.. Legacies of Incarceration & Resistance: Colonization, Immigration, and California History. University Center 4th floor lounge. Commemorate Indigenous People's Day by joining Deborah Miranda and Barbara Voss in conversation regarding the historical role of the military and presidios in the colonization of California and the impact of the mission system on the lives of indigenous women. Open to the public.

Saturday, October 14, Audubon Center at Debs Park, Los Angeles. Indigenous Women Rising Honoring Event. Elder Barbara Drake (Tongva), Elder Kat High (Hupa), Deborah Miranda (Ohlone~Costanoan Esselen Nation), Lydia Ponce (Mayo/Quechua), Kumu Mikilani Young (Hawaiian) and Unci, Elder Rachelle Figueroa (Arapaho/Tarascan)[in memorial]. MC is Carry Kim, with Hummingbird Drum, followed by a poetry reading from Deborah Miranda. Potluck meal.More info.

October 18-19: Classroom visit & reading/talk at Humbolt State U in Eureka, CA. Environmental Studies welcomes author Deborah Miranda, author of Bad Indians: A Tribal Memoir, to HSU on Oct. 18th (class visits) and will give a talk on the 19th titled “My Body is the Archive: Personal and Tribal California Indian Identities,” 5 to 6:30 p.m. in the Native American Forum (BSS 162). More info.

October 21-22: San Jose Poetry Festival. History Park San José, 1650 Senter Road. San José, CA 95112. Reading: 2-2:50, 10/21. Workshop: 2-5:00 p.m., Firehouse. Workshop title: “Composting Your Demons: Poetry in the midst of the Zombie Apocalypse.” More info.

October 24-25: Cornell University Creative Writing Program. Outside the Border(s): Art and the Political Imagination brings together Chicano poet Eduardo C. Corral and Native American poet and writer Deborah A. Miranda, as well as graduate and undergraduate students in order to trouble the boundaries between art and activism in contemporary America. Place and time to be announced.

Nora

I met Nora Marks Dauenhauer, Ḵeixwnéi, for the first time back in the late 90s, when we both read on a panel of West Coast poets for MLA in San Francisco. I was still a grad student, and MLA was still one of the few conferences I could go to where Indian scholars could be found, so it was a little like heaven for me. Reading with other Indians, going out to dinner with them afterwards, was a rapture. The tension-filled, status-oriented onslaught of almost 20,000 academics in one place – not so much. I gravitated to Nora; her warm, welcoming persona was like a calm shelter.

One afternoon, neither one of us had any particular place we had to be; Nora told me she'd been saving her "fish money" and wanted to go look for a beautiful dress for herself - to wear to readings and important ceremonies. Would I like to go dress-hunting with her?

Nora meant business when it came to shopping: she headed straight to Saks. I'd never set foot in Saks, much less actually seen the store. I'd heard of it, but it seemed more like Brigadoon than a real place. Walking into the massive ornate building was kind of like finding out an imaginary land actually exists. I trailed after Nora in a state of shock as she searched through racks of dresses that cost hundreds of dollars, if not thousands. It was San Francisco; we were Indians, not dressed especially well, or carrying any of the markers of social status – no diamonds, no gold, no name brand purses or coats. We were treated badly by the staff, which Nora took as a matter of course; she didn't let it stop her, although after one particularly rude encounter, she left the floor saying, "She's not getting a commission off of ME!"

Nora had a particular dream dress in mind: it needed to be floor-length, have at least ¾ length sleeves, a not-too-deep neckline, and be in keeping with the respectful nature of events she planned to attend. Eventually Nora settled on a gorgeous, flowing black gown that had a price tag of $800. Trying to keep my jaw off the floor, I agreed that it was pretty spectacular. "But it has this crease in the back..." Nora worried. "I hope I can get it out. I know some tricks." She made sure the saleswoman saw the crease, and told her she'd bring the dress back if she couldn't steam it out. Then she took out her "Indian purse" (a ziplock baggie) and peeled off $100 bills, laying them on the counter like she was dealing a poker hand.

Back at the hotel, Nora used all her wisdom, but the crease remained ("someone bought this dress, wore it all night, and then returned it!" she sighed), and we had to return it the next day. Nora was not paying good money for someone else’s used dress. This caused some difficulty for the clerk, who remembered us well, but for whom issuing a refund of $800 in cash was not a usual occurrence.  Apparently, Saks didn’t keep that kind of cash on hand in the till.  Nora stood quietly at the cash register, a little like a barnacle on a rock.  “I paid cash,” she said, “And I live in Alaska – I can’t use a store credit up there. Why don’t you go ask your manager what you can do about this.”  The clerk hustled off, and although it took some time, Nora did indeed get her cash refund.  She tucked it back into her Ziploc bag firmly.

As we left the store, Nora reached out and fingered a few other dresses, but she’d already seen them all; nothing was quite right.  "Oh well," she smiled, "there's plenty more fish in the sea. I did want to spend my fish money while I was down here, though."

Later, Nora was passing through Seattle and came to visit the Native Lit class I was teaching at the UW as a grad student. We reminisced about the "black dress incident" and how a couple of Indian women ransacked Saks (I asked if she'd ever found "the dress," and she said she had - but I don't remember where). She was a mischievous, loving, brilliant soul. She taught me how to walk through a store like Saks and act like I owned it, instead of the other way around.

Dignity. It's a lesson I haven't forgotten. Micha eni hikpalala, Nora. I'll see you.

                           Read Nora's obituary here.

The Language of Truth

In 1769, the arrival of two Spanish ships in Alta California coincided with a total eclipse of the sun, in conjunction with the shock of a powerful earthquake. "So it seemed," wrote Junipero Serra in his diary, "that the insensible things of earth and heaven had in this way manifested themselves in the new conquests as heralds and advents to the benighted gentiles, to incline their hearts to receive the truths of the gospel, proclaimed by the ministers of the living God."

The giant snakes stirred inside earth, struck

a few hours after dawn.  Thrown down

on our faces, we cried out – rocks thrust

upward, a fearsome roar rattled our ears –

how our Mother writhes! Then Sun, source

of life, disappeared mid-day, covered

by Moon’s broad face; star-beings shown

like abalone shell in sudden night.

Our star-mapmaker offered fervent prayer

to each sovereign direction, brought light

creeping back, though it felt a lifetime

till we breathed balance again.

We were wary, therefore, when a ship –

bigger than a whale – came over the horizon,

and men, more corpses than living bodies,

crawled from floating grave to shore.  Pale

skins, hairy faces, blue-eyed, green-eyed,

brown-eyed, they died and died. The sands

where their white tents stood stank of death.

Did they not know how to catch fish?

Did they not know to seek out berries,

heavy on the bush?  Did they offend

their gods, or travel beyond the reach

of their gods?

Another ship arrived, pale but abler men

who buried and buried; then men on foot,

strange gray deer bearing burdens of food

and hard heavy tools smooth as stone, sharp

as our best obsidian. When the beasts lay down,

too exhausted to carry any more, the pale men

beat them. It did not make the animals rise. 

In the morning, some men raised up barren

prayer trees; others in long skirts chanted

ugly foreign words, hands waving bowls

of smoke, meaningless gestures in the air. 

Was it the end of the world?  Now,

I wonder we did not hear these warnings

more clearly. Some of us broke traditions

of welcome; the law of sharing food, shelter,

story. Where once we would have brought

baskets of meat and sweet dried cherries,

now we drove off the pale men, their strange

stupid animals not-deer, not-elk.  Vacas.

We drove them all to the north. Some of us

said that was not far enough. Now,

I do not think any distance could spare us

the evil that followed. Earth spoke to us!

Sun and moon warned us!  We did not heed.

Now, we die of disease in their missions,

our blistered bodies weeping pus; women

and children mere vessels of rape and rage.

Perhaps the pale men killed their all wives;

none came with them.  Perhaps their women

revolted, exiled the pale men here,

and somewhere, on an island across the sea,

those wise women live peaceful, free.

We cannot see the sun of our next

generation. We cannot feel the earth

of our Ancestors beneath our bloody bodies.

We did not listen well enough. At night,

or behind trees in daytime, in fields

of strange crops, beneath blows from leather

cat o’ nine tails, we pray: let enough of us

live to tell this story. We will memorize it

in our hearts, trembling in awe. Let us live;

we will teach it to our children forever.

If we live, we will heed our Mother's

thunderous voice: Her dark language never lies.

- Deborah A. Miranda

Filling Up

Took the long way home from Floyd yesterday after a visit to Spikenard Farm Honeybee Sanctuary ... stayed on the Blue Ridge Parkway the whole way. Soaked myself in solitude, green, wildflowers, and the company of Bonnie Raitt and Santana ("Road Tested" still one of my all-time favorite live albums).

There is nothing in the world like that Parkway in early spring: the unexpected swaths of wild violets massing in purple, huge carpets of trilliums right next to the road, and dogwood gone brilliantly mad; the bald eagle flashing above me, the flocks of wild canaries in the trees, the orange bursts of wild azalea, and that first glimpse of mountain laurel in bloom!

At a couple of places the views of the rolling Blue Ridge mountains were so devastatingly gorgeous that I couldn't believe I was expected to drive under their influence. It was like being confronted by a past love in the middle of your regular routine and not being able to throw yourself at her feet. Somehow, I kept driving, and not off the road, either.

Hours of this. I arrived home late, happy, saturated in beauty. I had to apologize to my wife for missing the delicious dinner she had cooked. Eventually, I was forgiven (the giant macaroon drizzled with dark chocolate from the Floyd Country Store might have helped). But oh, it was worth any inconvenience to make that drive, windows down, air rushing in. Worth the tangled hair and the time. In fact, I think it might have added years to my life.

“ . . . the truth is that you're empty...fill yourself back up with observations, flavors, ideas, visions, memories...everything you need is in your head and memories, in all that your senses provide, in all that you've seen and thought and absorbed." - Anne Lamott in Bird by Bird: Some Instructions on Writing and Life.  

I’ve been wanting to take that drive for a long time. It’s a medicinal experience.  Especially now, with all the ugliness, our own fear and anger, injustice in the world, I need to refill my body, my soul, with beauty -- so that I can continue to recover from previous wounds, and so that I have something to offer in current and future struggles.

But this drive (and the visit to Spikenard Farm’s intensely loving work with honeybees) came at a good time for other reasons, as well. This week something terrible happened at my university.  A small group of white male students posted horrific hate-memes online – and were found to have been doing so for some time. Words and images of homophobia, racism, misogyny, anti-Semitism, able-ism, of the worst kind; brutal images posted by young men whose only concern seemed to be topping the outrageous posts of one another.

As an Indigenous, queer woman, I felt these memes and the actions of these young men personally, and deeply; as a faculty member, I was devastated to think that I interacted with these young men in the hallways and gatherings of my university, that quite possibly, one or more of them might turn up in my classroom; that, perhaps, I already have or have had students thinking and acting on such things my classroom.  Perhaps, they were thinking these kinds of things about me.

This kind of thinking is paralyzing.  It is soul-killing.  It goes to the heart of the vulnerability I experience as a person of color, as a queer person, as a woman, every time I step onto my predominantly white, affluent campus – and most other places I might go.

Alerted to these memes by someone outside the community, the university sent out an email telling our community that “The matter has been referred to the appropriate University officials and student conduct bodies” and planned a gathering on campus to “express solidarity for our community values.”  Neither one of these actions provided me much comfort.  I didn’t go to the gathering, fearing that it would follow the usual pattern: POC and queer speakers baring their souls in front of a sympathetic, mostly white group.  If I had gone, I would have asked to speak first, and I would have said, “Not one person of color, not one queer, not one woman should speak tonight.  White men need to be up here, speaking against the culture of privilege and violence that allowed this, and figuring out how to educate and guide their white brothers who do such things.”

But as I said, I didn’t go. I could not drag myself to one more gathering to show my support for my right to be myself. I stayed home as much of the non-teaching day as possible, went into my office to do some class prep, and went right back home.  Some colleagues reached out to offer comfort, but others didn’t even realize what was happening (the university’s oblique email left many of us scrambling for information that was not easily discoverable). My community, my larger social network (which exists primarily online, as I am the only Indigenous faculty member, and one of a handful of faculty of color), reacted with sadness and anger, and consolation, and support, but I couldn’t really feel it – the poison of hatred was working on me.

I tried meditation, and I worked on a poem about a memory I’ve carried for many years – which just happened to be a memory about the old land in Washington State I grew up on, the riot of salmonberries in the spring, my hours of wandering in the woods, feeding myself from what I found there.  Looking back, I see that even as a child, I was feeding myself beauty so I could survive another day in a small, dark trailer filled with smoke, violence and depression, a place where the only thing I was taught was how unimportant I was, how little my body mattered, and my soul, even less.

That land saved me.  I know this.  I was incredibly lucky to have had those three acres, and the surrounding land where I also wandered. I know that, too. Not everyone has those opportunities; not every lost child is found by the mothering of a piece of earth.

Not every faculty member of color has access to the Blue Ridge Parkway at the end of April, or the time to drive it. I’m lucky, and I know it.

I need that medicine now, in the middle of a battle that has lasted my whole life, and will last long after I’m gone. My social community, my colleagues, do make a difference, but perhaps I could not let my guard down for them in this moment of fear and hurt. 

I can throw myself down on my knees before the beauty of this planet. And I will.  Over and over and over again.

Homing In

Salmonberries:
fat orange suns,
solar systems
explode on your tongue.
You love these untamed berries;
the way they are only yours,
illuminated with welcome,
soft white core left behind
on the vine like a note of farewell.

You learn from your mouth down.

These lush green woods
give refuge.  You flee
the small dark trailer,
cases of empty Rainier and Oly bottles,
leather belts and absence. 
Salmonberries,
one by one
or a handful all at once: 
you suck out juice, pulp,
swallow tiny seeds.  Bright little
spitbugs, bitter-spicy, sometimes;
you try to be watchful,
but you know so much hunger.

You swat mosquitoes,
side-step stinging nettles,
swab creek mud
where the tall fanged
leaves swipe an arm or leg. 
This is a world you understand:

Red ants with black heads bite
without hesitation;
honeybees ignore you;
Blackjacks bang around
like bumpercars but don’t sting.
Wasps careen through warm air,
wobbly legs trailing terror.
Trilliums, rich white
or purple petals on thick
jade stems: secret wealth.
You count and count until you lose
track, giddy at such inheritance.

Leggy spiders whose names
you can never find in books
spin among the thorns
and scratchy wide leaves;
beetles, caterpillars, millipedes,
centipedes swirl like jewels
on the crumbling red bodies
of ancient felled cedars. 
And the earth, black
with life – willing
to grow this wilderness,
willing to let you roam –
the earth beneath your footsteps
oozes into mud
made of pine cones,
cedar needles, maple leaves,
made of death and decay
and resurrection
and transformation.

You learn from your feet up.

You are small.
This world is busy,
hard-working, alive.
The longer you stay,
the further your body takes in
this place that takes you in,
the more you understand:

you are no exile.
Salmonberries
glow like lanterns.
Salmonberries
light the way home.

Deborah A. Miranda