Instructions and Directions for Class on Metropolitan Fantasies

Reminder
Our September 19 class will meet at La Posada restaurant at the usual time. Everyone agreed to contribute $5.00 to our initial tapas fund. I will be presenting a movie at the Centro de Estudiantes at 6:00 pm sharp and then heading over, so if anyone needs a ride, meet me at the lobby of the Centro de Estudiantes. See you then!

Directions to La Posada from Colegio:

1. Exit from the Colegio's main gates and turn left onto Rt. 2 (headed south).
2. Take the first exit to the right, onto Mendez Vigo.
3. La Posada is immediately after the BBVA bank, on the right. Park on the street.

Study Questions:
Since this is a relatively brief book, I am not going to subdivide the questions into groups: you should all think about and formulate your own answers the following questions. These questions are designed to direct your thoughts in particular directions on Linda's book of poems, but they are not meant to be the only topics of discussion. Feel free to ask your own questions to Linda, myself, or the class.

• What contexts that we have studied thus far can help us approach and interpret Linda's poems?
  
• The book is structured into several different sections, with titles, images, and other means arranging the poems.
• Identify each section and describe its rationale for organizing the poems within.
• How do the individual poems fit within each section?
• How do the poems work together within each section to create a larger meaning or context.
• How do the sections help shape the overall book?
  
• If you were interpreting the whole book of poems, what would you say Linda Rodriguez was trying to achieve with it?
• How are Linda's more recent poems (included below) similar or different from the poems in Metropolitan Fantasies?
• Judging from the poems you've read, how would you describe Linda's poetics?

Additional Readings:
Linda Rodriguez e-mailed me two of her more recent poems, so you can read it vis-a-vis her work in Metropolitan Fantasies.

I

Birds

I fear their bony feet,

talons cemented round sticks,

slowly they bench their days and nights out,

through steely bars and icy walls gawking at children like me.

I fear their colors of slapdash,

their feathers, green and blue and orange,

birds in parks and places like Busch Gardens,

birds that stand to have snapshots taken on children’s shoulders.

I fear their blunt tongues and beaks,

biting into me as they balance their bodies

on my fleshy forearm for a moment that will last decades

in the yawning caverns and unforgiving pages of childhood summers.

10:00 pm , July27, 2007, ACA, Linda M. Rodríguez

II

Birds

Their bony feet,

their talons round sticks,

slowly benching days and nights,

through steely bars and icy walls,

dreamy souls and innocent hearts

they gawk and spy

and seem to smile at children like you.

Their slapdash colors,

green and blue

and purple feathers,

birds in parks

and birds in gardens,

talons dug deep into children’s arms

they gladly pose for a snapshot with you.

Their blunt tongues

and beaks that bite,

and deadly gold eyes,

their bodies balanced on your flesh,

half-words screeched into children’s ears,

these are moments that fall into yawning caverns

and the unforgiving pages of childhood summers.

III

Having Your Snapshot Taken with Birds

Bony feet, talons round sticks,

slapdash colors, green and blue,

slowly benching days and nights,

steely bars, smiles like ice,

dreamy souls and guiltless hearts

birds in parks, birds that gawk,

birds that spy on children like you.

Blunt tongues, beaks that bite,

deadly feathers, fiendish gold eyes,

bodies balanced on your flesh,

talons dug deep, posing for you,

half-words screeched into a baby’s ears,

moments falling into yawning caverns,

unforgiving pages of childhood summers.

The Coconut Man

Being the coconut man is not a job for me

because he’s the man with the machete,

he’s the one that eyes you up when you say,

“Un coco, por favor.” And if he likes you

he picks up a young one for you,

nice and cold from the industrial size

horizontal fridge, but if you don’t say please

or smile not quite right at him, he’ll pick out

an old one for you, chilled, perhaps but no good.

Old coconuts look fine on the outside, but

in the inside, huh, they are lots of trouble.

Coconuts know all the moves, when to flower

and when to fall, when to fill with water

and when to dry out, when to stay home

or simply ship out, when to line themselves with

a tender jelly flesh, and when to become hard,

good only for cooking and tourists in hotels.

And the man knows this, so be nice and cool

to the coconut man, and when he picks up

that machete, show some respect, move to one side

or the other, because with his strong grip

and one splashy whack the coconut gives way

but not before he has cut off from one side of the husk

a nice baby spoon for you, “una cuchara,” I used to

say to my father, and he would hold the coconut for me

as I spooned out the icy, see-through flesh,

“ice cream,” he would call it, and I would sweep it up

feeling the unevenness of the improvised instrument,

thinking how smart was my coconut man.

And when we had drunk every single drop of its water

and had spooned all of its playful flesh into my mouth,

savoring my way through to its inner core,

then it was time to gather up and dump the remains

which always fell heavy into the metal cans outside.

August 5, 2007

11pm, ACA

LMRG