One of my favorite sites is Lake Titicaca, located at 12,500 feet in altitude on the border of Bolivia and Peru and surrounded by the majestic snow-covered Andes. My husband, a descendant of the Quechua Indians of Bolivia, and I visited the world’s highest navigable lake over twenty years ago on our honeymoon. After acclimating ourselves to the heights of the altiplano, we explored the region by hydrofoil. Indians in indigenous garb passed us in balseros, or reed boats renowned for their durability. In fact, Thor Heyerdahl of Kon-Tiki fame hired craftsmen of this region to construct Ra II, which he navigated successfully across the Atlantic. Shortly after arriving on the island of Suriqui, we met one of the native weavers hired by Heyerdahl to build Ra II. To some, watching skillful hands braid totora might seem an idle pastime, but to us the spell cast by the intricate art of weaving left us longing for a reed boat of our own to navigate the tributaries of Virginia’s waterways.

 

Sailing back across the lake toward the village of Huatajata was equally enthralling, the fabled Mount Illampu rising like a condor in the distance. Sacred to the Aymara Indians, the mountain beckons believers to its peaks, where they place sacrificial offerings in exchange for life-sustaining rains. Back on shore, we felt light-headed from the lack of oxygen, yet we marveled at the solitude emanating from the nearby fields of grain, the melodic sounds of a quena—ethereal flute of the Andes— floating toward us.

 

During our visit to the highlands, there were so few tourists that we were able to experience the region without the blaring of car horns or the shouts of impatient foreigners longing for modern-day conveniences. We savored the ambiance. Llamas, alpacas, vicuñas greeted us at every turn. I highly recommend the Lake Titicaca region for lovers of adventure and for anyone who’s willing to travel back in time to a world devoid of pollution—one shimmering in a veil of turquoise light.

 

Our South American adventures have definitely influenced the foods we prefer. Shortly after we married, my husband introduced me to quinoa, referred to as “the mother grain” by descendants of the Incas. We both prefer this versatile grain, rich in protein, over rice or pasta as a complement to meals. We add it to simmering tomato soup or to a boiling pot of chicken and vegetables, seasoned with garlic, basil, and onions. At other times we simply add salt, pepper, and olive oil to the grain, then heap it on baked salmon, glazed with honey.

 

Back in the 1990s, it was difficult to find good quinoa, except in a few specialty markets. Often we had to wash the quinoa several times, carefully removing tiny stones typically found in grains transported from certain regions of Bolivia. Today it’s relatively easy to buy top-quality quinoa. A bonus is that this hearty food is ideal for those who prefer a wheat-free/gluten-free diet.

 

I became acquainted with the work of Frida Kahlo and Diego Rivera over forty years ago as an emerging artist and as a self-taught student of art history. My interest in the work of Mexican artists increased after viewing The Jacques and Natasha Gelman Collection in El Museo del Barrio in New York City nearly nine years ago. Kahlo’s self-portraits and Rivera’s Calla Lily Vendors inspired ekphrastic, or art-inspired poems, that eventually led to additional research, followed by excursions to Mexico City. I also traveled to the outlying suburbs of Coyoacán and San Angel to view Kahlo’s home, La Casa Azul, and Rivera’s studio. Both homes are now museums, filled with some of the masterpieces of these two prolific world-class painters.

 

As soon as I had written ten poems, I realized that a book was in the making. Rivera and Kahlo are muses whose artistic visions speak loudly to me. After years of research and widespread travel to view their art, I have finally completed the manuscript, comprised of dramatic monologues in an array of voices.

 

Visual artists, such as Vincent van Gogh, Gauguin, and Georgia O’Keeffe, have long served as my dominant muses. I read constantly, so research is a vital component of my own writing process. An avid traveler, I prefer studying art on site, rather than in books. Once I discover an artist whose work tugs at the heartstrings, I delve into biographies, letters, or memoirs to familiarize myself with the person behind the painting. While working on my doctorate, I studied under two masters of the dramatic monologue form—Peter Klappert and Ai. It seemed logical to combine my newfound interest in monologues with my understanding of art. Now, I thrive on losing myself in someone else’s mind and soul. Speaking in another’s voice is challenging, but it’s a challenge I welcome.

 

My early poems center largely on the visual arts and treat the contraries in life, or polar opposites, such as light/darkness or the traditional exploration of good vs. evil. For example, in one poem from my first book, Contrary Visions, a young deaf boy perceives sound as a “wind-dance.” In short, he relies on the sense of touch to experience the world more fully. Despite being hearing-impaired, this young child perhaps gleans more from his surroundings than someone who’s not deaf.

While writing Contrary Visions, I relied on the revision process to locate the music I grew to love as a child, training to be a concert pianist. Although my dream to play before large audiences never came true, later I sought to achieve rhythmically sound poems by relying on a well-trained ear. I also depended on a poem’s form to control its direction. Sometimes I incorporated internal rhyme or end rhyme into a poem, always striving to choose rhyming words that wouldn’t call attention to themselves.

 

As my work developed, I drew inspiration from the histories, cultures, and dark secrets of other countries. In Gathering Light I wrote about Capri’s grotto, the beehive tombs of Greece, the Rosetta Stone, and Lake Nakuru in Kenya. A year after traveling to one of the most spiritual sites on earth—Machu Picchu in South America—I met my husband, whose Indian culture I researched and wrote about extensively for several years.

 

In Death Comes Riding I focused on a world that opened up after I confronted a near-death experience. The poems in this book center on the Indian culture of South America through free verse and dramatic monologues—all the while exploring a range of characters, some spiritually deplete, others closer to salvation.

 

My recent book, River Country, treats the Chesapeake Bay region of Virginia, where my husband and I currently reside. Although the initial poems appear idyllic, as the book progresses, the poems explore environmental ills that have harmed the natural world. Structurally, I experimented with what I call the two-voice poem, also referred to as a simultaneous poem, which presents two points of view on a single subject. Revision was of the essence in writing these poems. They paved the way for the two-voice poems in the Kahlo and Rivera manuscript.

 

I am most proud of my efforts to promote both professional and student poets. In July 2006, I developed a Poet’s Spotlight page on my website (www.carolynforonda.com) to highlight a diverse range of poets with strong connections to Virginia. Each month for the two-year duration of my term, I featured a different poet. Some of the writers taught in universities. Other poets I met in the workshops I led. Still others were student poets, featured alongside their college professors. The following year, I set up a Student Spotlight page to highlight poems by young writers in elementary and secondary schools.

 

In line with this effort, I started a Poetry Book Giveaway Project to promote the work of poets in university and high school settings. White Pine Press and the University of Arkansas Press contributed numerous books to this effort. Joyce Brinkman, former Poet Laureate of Indiana, gave copies of a Sporting Words CD, which features poems by U.S. State Poets Laureate, international poets, and youth from sports poetry clinics. These books and CDs were widely distributed to universities and high schools throughout Virginia.

 

Finally, I co-edited Four Virginia Poets Laureate: A Teaching Guide to highlight poems by my predecessors. I received several grants to place copies of this teaching guide in secondary schools and universities.

 

In essence, I sought to promote a variety of poetic voices, while also emphasizing the importance of using poetry as a teaching tool to develop students’ creative thinking and analytical thinking skills.

 

Although the poet laureate position in Virginia dates back to 1936, a new law was enacted in 1997 by the Virginia legislature. Basically, the laureate is asked to share arts information and perspectives, but is under no obligation to write any verse. The laureate is encouraged, however, to make some requested appearances.

 

During my term, I received numerous requests to conduct workshops in elementary through university-level classes. I also gave poetry readings in libraries, art galleries, and Lifelong Learning Institutes throughout the state. I can’t begin to tell you how many miles I put on my car traveling throughout Virginia. As an educator, visual artist and poet, I presented quite a few ekphrastic poetry workshops in art galleries and museums. On three occasions my paintings inspired poems in contests, which I judged. Finally, I served on panels at writing conferences and judged book and poetry competitions.

 

I would welcome seeing more residencies in academic settings.  A few years ago I participated in a week-long residency in a private school, where I conducted art-inspired poetry workshops on each grade level.  Last year I spent a week in a rural high school teaching poetry. During both residencies I introduced students to the works of professional artists, represented in the Virginia Museum of Fine Arts in Richmond. In addition to teaching these young writers how to analyze a work of art, I introduced them to various poetic forms and terminology. Their poems, inspired by works of art, were later featured in booklets, shared with parents and the community-at-large.

 

I also endorse working with seniors at retirement facilities, nursing homes, art galleries, and community writing centers. I’m convinced that some of the best poetic voices belong to the older generation, largely because of their wealth of experiences. Recently, I attended a poetry reading by seniors and was astounded by the insights of writers in their 90s.

 

Perhaps my most fulfilling community experience occurred years ago when I worked with patients in a nursing home. One of the workshop participants had Alzheimer’s. What astounded me was her ability to write coherent poetry during the sessions. When intellectually stimulated, she re-entered the world of reality. However, whenever I dropped by her room, she was lost in another world. I encourage other poets to share their expertise in a variety of community settings. I feel certain they’ll be richly rewarded.

 

 

Frida Kahlo

 

 

I

 

Never question my power

or assume I delight in what I do.

I can excite, ignite, or illuminate

bodies.   For hours, they burn

with a fervor that reduces

to an impenetrable gray mass.

Do not label the remains ashes.

Ground into a fine substance

sacred as dust, gather a fistful

of these bone fragments.

Place a loved one in a treasured

cloth to preserve in a cedar box

where memory cannot die

until mind or time releases

it from your grasp.

 

 

II

 

Resting on a cart, Frida Kahlo

approached the oven with royal

dignity, her headband lined

with carnations scarlet as roses,

a shawl gracing the sloped shoulders.

When they rolled her through

my doors, a blaze roared,

thrust her upright, hair haloed,

the vermilion scars all over

her back aglow.  Like a phoenix

she burned.  The ardor of her

trembling built to a crescendo

as the inferno intensified,

her face a sunflower in bloom.

Once the flames subsided,

her skeleton emerged,

intact, lustrous as silver.

 

 

III

 

Unlike the arsonist who derives

pleasure from torching, I value

the artistry of fire and consume

those disfigured by disease

or injuries too severe to mask.

I ignite the forlorn and those

who cannot bear lying

prone for eternity.

 

 

IV

 

No longer confined to a bed,

Frida burned with zeal—

no need for vibrant jewels,

skirts trimmed with flounces,

no want of huipiles or hair

plaited with ribbons and flowers.

In the comfort of an oven,

she became whole again.

Who can fault Diego for

sketching the filigreed bones?

 

 

 

After Diego Rivera’s The Sacrificial Offering, Day of the Dead, 1923-24

 

 

There’s nothing morbid about death,

yet here your family sits:  spectral,

downcast as if the spirits

 

are late, figures adorned, ornamental

paper cut like Posada’s skeletons,

like lace and strung

 

in bourgeois finery while tapers

burn, fill the cemetery

with the absence of praise,

 

lost promises on an altar.  Weightless,

they enter through cracks

of earth, become their former

 

selves while you, content to share

this bounty, pray and offer

 

to deceased relatives who’d rather

once a year eat sugar skulls

with icing, with the scent

 

of incense adorning the bones.

Stop frowning.  Caress them.

La calavera catrina taps

 

on headstones as the sportive angels

take down the imposing wreaths,

snuff out candles, admire

 

their portraits tidied with a wealth

of marigolds for as long

as the dance of death lasts.

 

 

 

 

Diego Rivera

 

 

In twilight’s crimson, Diego

pillows against my breast,

 

wraps the legend of amaranth

around my shoulders.  I become

 

his mother.  He, my child,

a sapo-rana: toad-frog

with sagging skin.  Fisita,

he sings, his large-set eyes

 

droopy, “you are a sparrow

close-knit.” He is my universe,

the meandering stars.  I, his spider

 

monkey, lunge from tree to tree.

But my Buddha is never all mine.

 

A mask, a headdress: my refuge.

I embrace dogs, an eagle,

 

parakeets, macaws.  I endure

his cathedral of blood-red lies.

 

His little Demerol girl

in a dead sleep flirts with lions,

 

black angels with broken

wings.  I, the breath of rose,

 

the fragrance of lust. He is

my destiny, the whistle of wind.

 

 

 

After Diego Rivera’s Our Bread, 1928

 

Partake of the wheat.

Break into morsels and eat.

Break grain, whole meal,

 

graham, rye.  Tongues of flour

baked to a nut-brown.  Bread

of the oven, licking flames.

 

Bread split in two at the fire’s pleasure.

Bread of the fields, scattered to crows

and tossed to the aqua birds.

 

With the first taste will come

pineapples, papayas, peaches

the size of your hand, milk

 

flowing from a split coconut’s cup.

With the taste will come a platterful

of cheeses, jugs of honey

 

the shade of umber flesh.  Give praise.

Partake of wheat’s breath.

Bread of your lips, shaped by gods.

 

Eat to the full:  tortillas, pan rustico.

Leavened, kneaded:  bread of dawn.

Pillars of yeast, rising, rising.