[Issue #1, Winter 1997-98]
In the Gathering of Silence
By Levi Romero
Univ. of New Mexico Press, 1996
Reviewed by Ken Hunt
At the 1997 Albuquerque Poetry Festival, Levi Romero admitted after his
performance to being so nervous he could barely see straight. Sure, many
poets say this, to which the automatic response is, "I couldn't tell"
-- but in Romero's case, he either really did conceal his nerves or the
crowd was literally too spellbound to notice. For more than the magnitude
of his stage presence, his words instantly grabbed the mind and ear, dropping
the listener into the meticulously crafted and wholly real environment of
his life.
The ethos is not lost in translation to the page. Romero's blend of measure
and lyrical effusion, concrete imagery and spiritual extrapolations, and
utter sense of wonder in a ragged world put him alongside some of my other
favorite Southwestern writers, such as Sandra Cisneros and Denise Chavez.
"Lindy's" begins with an exemplary striking image:
we sit
in the gathering of silence
Picasso-faced men
hunched along the counter
like birds on a line
He finds the nexus of himself, family and Chicano culture in "Woodstove
of My Childhood":
woodstove
that heard Mentorcíto's violin bringing in the new year
that saw Tío Eliseo bring in an armload of wood
that heard Tío Antonio coming down the road
whistling a corrido and swinging his cane
woodstove of the blessed noontime
and Grandma Juanita heating up the caldito
Whether in English, Spanish, or a uniquely Southwestern blend of both, Romero
documents Albuquerque like an archivist and activist. Take "One Yesterday
at a Time," for example:
above the chicharra chorus n' rhyme
horns blare impatience
while silent Our Fathers
rise from behind the clouded horizon
as we make our way past
crushed metal and broken glass
steaming out've the asphalt heat
His love of language spans formal poetic tradition, dialect and street slang;
it evidently stems from his love of people. Joy and bemusement infuse "Easynights
and a Pack of Frajo":
Rosendo used to ride the buses
scoring phone numbers from rucas
he'd meet at the parque or
along Central's bus stops and diners
three to five numbers a day, homes
he'd say, by the end of the week
I know, I'll get lucky with
at least one, 'ey
This is an important book by an important voice in Chicano (hell, American
) literature. In a perfect world, I would have heard of Levi Romano
without being in Albuquerque at the right place at the right time.
______________________________
Ken Hunt is a new resident of Madison, Wisconsin, by way of Austin, TX and
Seattle. A journalist as well as a poet, he has written for such publications
as The Seattle Times, The Austin Chronicle, and Madison's
Isthmus.
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