Carlos Ramirez

Going Away Party

As he lay dying, friends came to say goodbye. Some gifted him with songs. Others gifted him with words. Poetry was abundant—Langston Hughes, Mary Oliver, and his own My Heart in the Matter. He listened and sometimes nodded. Humor never left him. When asked how many pupusas he would like (wish) to have, he held up two fingers.

His beloved Linda assured him that he will be remembered, and there was nothing in this physical world that he needed to worry about. He was kissed and touched and loved and touched and loved.

He often brought flowers that had passed their prime and over ripe fruits to the Poetry Salon. He saw beauty in things that people discard. Time was neither enemy nor friend. Mostly it was not so important to pay attention to. He would sing to a cynic as well as to an ant. He was not ashamed of his tears.

Carlos Ramirez stepped over the threshold a little after midnight on March 10, 2013—a new born, leaving his skin behind. We are left to dance, leap, and sing through the remains of our days.

Photo by Marlene Aron.

Here is a poem for Carlos Ramirez, who is in dire sickness. He was one of the founders of the “Poetry Hotel”, a hotel of the imagination serving the real poet community of the San Francisco Bay Area. Carlos has been hospitalized since mid February and now in the ICU. May blessings be upon him.

Langston Was Found

Langston was found in El Salvador
great big frosty beard
discovered on the library shelf
Langston, Langston Hughes
dances in schoolyards, they called him
Santa Claus
silver liquid drops, he loved the rain.

Pete Seeger was found in Dolores Park
white sleeveless undershirt
Mime Troupe on the Fourth of July
Pete held his arms up
turned turned turned
sun on his brown skin
sun in his brown eyes.

El Poeta de la Treinta
shy in front of the midwife
she penciled a question mark
a spark, a mite
each leaf a time.
“Carlos, Carlos
don’t be afraid.”

He came out
who-ooo, who-ooo
swore not to grow up
El Zipote
met an angel
rolling down the slope
pushing an ice cream truck.

Notes:

“silver liquid drops” April Rain Song by Langston Hughes.
Carlos named himself “El Poeta de la Treinta” in his book, My Heart in the Matter.
Photo credit: Mike Kepka, The Chronicle

Ensouled

Ensouled—a beautiful word—to endow with a soul. If there is such a voice that is ensouled, it is Carlos Ramirez’s. We partnered again tonight for a tribute to Langston Hughes at the Red Poppy Art House. Carlos was hyped up before the show and had trouble containing his excitement. Soon as the spotlights turned on he was afire. His white mane, his smiling eyes, his dancing feet tapped and stomped and bounced and took him within inches of the audience. He sang songs set to the words of Hughes in his baritone voice that could easily drop down to the bass and race up to the tenor register.

“I felt an immediate affinity to Langston Hughes’ poetry when I first read them.” Carlos told me with his wide child-like smile. “They are so singable.”

April Rain, Sun Song, Mother to Child, Daybreak in Alabama, Red Clay Blues…the audience and I were in turn ensouled by Carlos in this December MAPP* night.

*Mission Arts & Performance Project

The Poetry Hotel

The Poetry Hotel is getting solicitation mail to open bank accounts, apply for credit cards, buy liability and all sorts of insurance, linen service, hotel equipment and several times, even phone reservation for stay! They don’t know this is a hotel of the imagination, conceived by the ever imaginative Carlos Ramirez one summer evening in 2004 as we (Dan Brady, Carlos and I) passed by the Marriott on Market Street. Dan and I heartily endorsed the idea and whommm, the hotel was built!

Or maybe these solicitation mail do know that this is not a “real” hotel but imagine that it could be real at some point, and they want to make sure they are the first ones to get the business.

Doing business also requires imagination.

Imagine paying for a night at the hotel with a poem…

The Poetry Hotel

At the Civic Center Bart Station
Carlos, Dan and I had a vision
to take possession of the Mission Street Marriott
after we win the lottery.

We will renovate the building
knock everything down to its bones.
With imagination, joy, and persistence
we give birth to the Poetry Hotel.

When you enter the Poetry Hotel,
observe the grand reception hall.
Poets check in with a poem
check out with a new chapbook.

The ground floor is reserved for first drafts
the second floor is for revision.
From the third to the twentieth floor
there are chutes and ladders built especially
for the out of bound writers.

All the rooms have the essential
desk, chair and bed,
an unlimited supply of paper, and
ink gel pens to write.

There are numerous libraries
each named after a poet.
Collection of works are readily available
for reference, research and read.

As for dining, the Poetry Café
serves daily a scrumptious buffet.
Muffins, puddings and all sorts of pies,
thick soups, black coffee, exotic teas
to nurture the poetic belly.

Every evening there is a gathering
new and old poems are read.
Cakes and champagne are served afterwards
to celebrate the creation of words.

This enterprise is run so successfully
it is franchised throughout the world.
All the poets in this planet
come home to the Poetry Hotel.

Carlos, Dan and I blinked
as we stepped into the train.
It was filled with sleepy people
who wanted to get home quick.

Days of work and nights of toil
weaken our eyes and hearts
But tonight we lay the cornerstone
for the Poetry Hotel.

Poems On Leaves

I found a big bowl of leaves soaking in water next to the fireplace at Carlos Ramirez’s home. Some were brown with hints of red, some yellow green; the leaves were collected from the magnolia trees in his Mission neighborhood. The fall colors and clean water added a playful and soothing element in the living room, a reflection of the poet’s personality.

“I write poems on the leaves after I wash and dry them.” Carlos told me with twinkle in his eyes. He showed me the finished product, stacked together loosely and wrapped in a plastic bag.

“They are mostly haikus. Some are just thoughts. I use a brush tip pen.” His childlike smile spread over his great white beard.

We read them, leaf by leaf.

Reading Langston Hughes Out Loud

“Sun and softness”. Carlos Ramirez gave me his beatific smile when I hesitated. He had invited me to assist him in his performance reading of Langston Hughes. Carlos has put many of Hughes’ poems into songs. His usual partner Greg Pond was unavailable on Saturday to read with him.

“I love Langston Hughes’ poems.” I said to Carlos. ” But I’m Chinese and he is black. I’m not sure if I’ll be able to do the poems justice.” Carlos’ smile broadened even more and I burst out laughing. Carlos is Latino.

At our Monday rehearsal I wanted to read Hughes’ Merry Go Round in a child’s voice. Carlos listened and commented that it sounded like there were a grown woman and a child mixed up in the poem. In other words, the effect didn’t work. I asked him for suggestion.

“Use your own voice.” Carlos of great white beard looked deep into my eyes. “You’re grown, but in your memory there was a time when you were small and you weren’t sure about the merry go round. Tell this memory to the audience.”

I read the poem at MAPP (Mission Artists Performance Project). There was no applause at the end. It was not to be. The audience was stunned by the memory of confusion, when a child looked for the Jim Crow section and found “there ain’t no back to a merry-go-round. Where’s the horse for a kid that’s black?“

After the Beat, What Generation?

carlos2 — Carlos Ramirez. Click image to see Carlos perform.

For one thing, we don’t smoke anymore. And instead of hard drugs, we take psychotic medications and depressant. Alcohol, yes, but most of us has wised up. Even coffee is replaced by tea. Jack Hirschman and David Meltzer are still holding up the Beat, but then what? Poets are still poor, poetry reading is still free, thank God, at least in San Francisco.

The Beat Generation rose from the river of ever rushing poetic fervor. I don’t know who’ll be the next to go viral. The cosmos still holds the upper hand in this matter. But the gems are gleaming in cafes and salons, worthy of a much wider audience. Last night at the Red Poppy Art House in the Mission, Carlos Ramirez and Greg Pond traded Langston Hughes in songs and verse with an attendance of twelve. There was no photographer, no recorder. The magic of Hughes’ poems sung with child-like joy by a nimble seventy-something year old Carlos of great white beard ceased to exist after the reading, except for those who were there.