After Dark/Nueva Luz
Rev. Dr. Harold J. Recinos presents excerpts from his latest poetry collection /
En Foco, Inc. illuminates with photography from their journal archives
Open Plaza celebrates the release of two bodies of work that speak to the Latinx experience through literature and photography, respectively.
In this feature, Open Plaza illuminates ten poems from After Dark (Wipf and Stock Publishers, 2021) by poet and cultural anthropologist Rev. Dr. Harold J. Recinos with photography from the Nueva Luz archives of En Foco, Inc., a non-profit founded in 1974 that supports contemporary, primarily US-based photographers of African, Asian, Latino, Native American, and Pacific Islander heritage.
In praise of After Dark, Bruce Smith of Syracuse University writes: “Like Walt Whitman, who found ‘letters of God dropt in the street,’ Harold Recinos finds in the ‘sacramental gutter’ the reliquaries and names of the exiled, banished, and broken by a hostile, almost fatal country. From his side of the Jordan, he sings in a braided Spanish and English.”
It is in such a country that En Foco, Inc. aims to make the work of marginalized artists visible to the art world, yet remain accessible to under-serviced communities. Launched in 1985, Nueva Luz, is an ongoing art publication that addresses social and cultural issues at the fore of photography, with a particular emphasis on narratives from artists of color. Photographers of note in this Open Plaza feature are Charles Biasiny-Rivera, co-founder and former Executive Director of En Foco, and Nueva Luz board member Frank Gimpaya, who originally suggested the idea of a much needed publication opportunity for photographers of color; he developed the Nueva Luz concept and original design. Plans are currently underway for the launch of The En Foco Study Center.
Excerpts from After Dark are used by permission of Wipf and Stock Publishers, https://wipfandstock.com/.
Photographs from Nueva Luz are used by permission of En Foco, Inc. A very special thanks to En Foco, Inc.’s Executive Director Bill Aguado, Collections Archivist Néstor Pérez-Moliére, and Exhibitions and Programs Manager Oscar Rivera for their invaluable contributions to this feature–the first collaboration of its kind on HTI Open Plaza.
POET’S NOTE
Poetry is, for me, a knot in the throat that rearranges my thoughts about reality into expressions of truths about marginality and of the longing for the fullness of life. I use words in After Dark to understand a world “more full of weeping than you can understand,” as Yeats would say—a world in which I find myself weeping more these days. As a Nuyorican poet, I wrote After Dark by leaning into the realities of the barrio that fill me with hope and life. In this collection, I have attempted to lift the veil on cultures of cruelty with a cultural protest in defense of the places I have come to suspect even God forgets.
—Rev. Dr. Harold J. Recinos, November 2021
The Pencils
the children fell awake this
morning to face the hidden
news made in the dark hours
of a passing night. they trip
down long flights of stairs
on the way to school with
hair modestly combed and
clothes from the Catholic
thrift shop staring at the buses
and planes high above their
heads going to the elsewhere
places they will never get to
see. they walk the ten blocks
to the school where learning
is free, hear devoted teachers
butcher their names and after
taking Spanglish size breaths
reach in their schoolbags for
pencils that have secret lives
and hold them tightly in dark
little fingers ready to make their
mark.
Twisted Angel
I was sitting on the stoop
minding my own thoughts
when a twisted Angel
from the church around
the block came to me
saying don’t bother to
come to the church where
people count wrong in
other lives. I nodded my
head to let the heavenly
visitor finish then said
it takes a herculean effort
to spend time in the peace,
joy, milk and cookie space
with the troubling on the
streets. I did not want to
hear a thing about the
distorted readings from
the Holy book, especially
with honey slowly pouring
from the cracked bricks on
the filthy buildings where
my beautiful wretched
people live. before the
twisted Angel left, I said
hedging my bets God must
be with the darkest people
walking by the stained glass
windows of that old church,
so I will stick with my insane
devotion out here and laugh
with friends about the spiritual
escape artists in church saying
the streets are full of wrong.
Dispatch
I am writing to you from
an uncertain country after
saving my place in an Old
Testament story in a leather
bound book beside my bed.
you have no need for me to
tell you how often words in
my chafed heart inch their way
to the tip of my tongue and
then cramp up before levying
a thought about the present
state of things. Did I tell you
the last time I wrote that the
buildings tremble, the dogs
roaming the alleys where you
played handball bark now with
hoarse voices, sometimes you
can still see a policeman on a
mount ambling down Southern
Boulevard and the clouds seen
from the rooftops never have
stopped making faces. I spend
time trying to listen deeper to
hear you shout my name from
the other side of the river, to
lift from the past that sticks like
glue the childhood anxiety we
knew that spoke more English
than the braided Spanish in us.
I often find your invincible soul
crossing the haunted American
border and conjured by the faces
of a new generation of kids who
sit like we did on the stoop. I miss
you, talk about you often and find
myself still going to the market
just to inhale like we did together
when kids the sweet perfume of
the Puerto Rican coffee you so
loved.
Gratitude
music poured out the
apartment door with
a cheap stick-on photo
of the Pope wearing a
smile next to la Virgen
de Guadalupe. the vast
hallway of the tenement
collected the noise that
echoed all the way up to
the fifth floor where God
was getting drunk with
the domestic workers.
when the insane Angels
come roaring across the
sky above rooftops in sweet
chariots they will not hear
the hypnotic strings of
Barber, nor pause in the
middle of a gallop for the
emotional reach of Mozart
instead, they will hear Willie
playing salsa on his big old
trombone and the Jewish
cantor living on the first
floor singing in Spanglish
like it was his first language.
by the time the moon comes
out the whole damn block
will be celebrating Joey’s
release from jail, giggling
with his little sister and
laughing with his mother
whose smile for the last
six months was painted
on the alley walls with
a cross beside it.
The Walk
I asked you in the middle
of an abstract conversation
about the meaning of prayer
whether or not you noticed
yesterday’s wind does not
leave a trace when it flows
through the streets, enters
a church or simply brushes
the hair from the eyes of
young mothers walking kids
home from school. I could
see your weightless soul in
that moment searching the
neighborhood and most certain
the breeze like the words offered
by the living to a divinity not
seen would return. we walked
by a small group of Puerto Rican
girls laughing on the sidewalk for
whom everything was possible,
heard the dim sound of a Spanish
speaking radio coming from an
apartment window and became
breathless with laughter by the
time we reached the corner when
you said no one can know what
gives between the wind and your
Catholic God.
August
I went
for walk
in a
wooded park,
the sun
burning in the
heavens,
hope
floating above
the tree-tops,
birds
cradling their
young
and
the scent of
nature
unable to
keep
from
stirring
the silence.
for that
precious time,
I withdrew
into
myself
uncertain of
what to
find,
pounded on
the stony
parts of
my heart,
then
in whispers
confessed
I was
too small
and
bent in
the
world
for such
regal signs
of grace.
Belief
on an autumn evening
mother came home with
one grocery bag, a big
sack of rice, another
of beans and a six pack
of cheap beer. she said
nothing when entering
the apartment, looked
at her three kids on the
couch smiling, then
turned and then wept.
I only saw the face of
a girl that had already
lived a life too hard for
her years. I looked out
the fifth-floor window
and made out the church
steeple only two blocks
away and I heard words
erupting in my head that
said will you come? I sat
down next to my brother
with a bitter tear making its
way down my Nuyorican
face muttering will you come?
not a single word came back
in answer and I wanted more
than anything else to forsake
religion, then my mother called
us into her bedroom to pray on
knees before her altar of Saints.
I first spoke to her sweet God then
and had a long conversation with
the figure of San Martin de Porres
and decided to give the mute in
heaven and his gang of saints a
chance.
For Such a Time
for such a time as this we
read the biblical prophets,
listened to the marchers
scream, prayed beside the
grieving mothers, sobbed
with family and friends,
found comfort in words
that declare justice. for
such a time as this we
have been made to break
every chain of hate, to
overcome the inventors
of holocausts, to find in
the big sky the chariots
from heaven sent, to dare
in perilous walks to chop
down those lynching trees
and angle history toward
the precious will that died
for justice to be done and
on earth a promised land
of mercy, justice and ever
lasting peace. for such a
time as this we rise away
from lies and we are not
afraid of the grotesque eyes
that stare to tell us to stand
back and never throw these
stones. for such a time as this
Mandela, Martin, Romero,
Chavez, Tubman, Angelou,
Malcolm, Bonhoeffer and the
innocent victims with unknown
names illuminate our steps
and nothing in all the world
will prevail against us!
Bread
we have broken this bread
kneaded by fingers in a place
not far from here, in the heat
of days divided and with those
closer to the flesh of God than
the busted-up world will care
to admit. each tiny piece is a
windblown life with history
inside of it that is gobbled in the
name of the revolutionary peasant
who died in the company of rebels
long before we were born to give
us a little more life. perhaps, you
saw in the hands sharing the scraps
of dough or heard it from the mouths
of disregarded people that no one is
lost.
Jesús
one chilly winter morning
Ana was rushed to Lincoln
Hospital where she gave
birth to a little boy. on the
block, we jumped up and
down at the news and spoke
this child will have bullet
proof skin, his dark eyes
full of hope will leave his
teachers speechless and
in the school spelling bee
he will deliver the names of
every beggar in the troubled
city. the brown boy was named
Jesús and he gave his mother
the power to speak and smiles
crossed the faces in the building
with exiles. on the streets, in the
schools, and in jails, this sweet
child grew strong and he pleaded
for kindness in the world.
“After Dark, while presented as a poetry collection, is better understood as liturgy. Open this book and let love lift you up and break your heart. Through his achingly beautiful words, Harold Recinos asks that his readers labor for justice to remake American society—a society that has failed to meet the basic human needs of too many of our Latino sisters and brothers…” —Lori Marie Carlson, author of Cool Salsa, Red Hot Salsa and The Sunday Tertulia
Rev. Dr. Harold J. Recinos is a professor of church and society at the Perkins School of Theology at Southern Methodist University. A cultural anthropologist, he specializes in work and ethnographic writing dealing with undocumented Central American migrants and the Salvadoran diaspora. He has published numerous articles, chapters in collections, and written major works in theology and culture, including ten collections of poetry. His newest collections of poetry are No Room (Wipf & Stock, 2020) and Wading in the River (Wipf & Stock, 2021). Rev. Dr. Recinos’s poetry has been featured in Anglican Theological Review, Weavings, Sojourners, Anabaptist Witness, The Arts, Afro-Hispanic Review, and Perspective, among others.
En Foco, Inc. is a non-profit that supports contemporary primarily U.S.-based photographers of African, Asian, Latino, Native American, and Pacific Islander heritage. Founded in 1974, En Foco makes their work visible to the art world, yet remains accessible to under-serviced communities. Through exhibitions, workshops, events, and publications, it provides professional recognition, honoraria, and assistance to photographers as they grow into different stages of their careers. En Foco is supported in part with public funds from the New York City Department of Cultural Affairs, in partnership with the City Council, National Endowment for the Arts, New York State Council on the Arts with the support of Governor Kathy Hochul and the New York State Legislature, BronxCare Health System, The Joy of Giving Something, Inc., Rockefeller Brothers Fund Culpeper Arts and Culture, New York Community Trust Mosaic Network & Fund, the Phillip and Edith Leonian Foundation, Ford Foundation, and Aguado-Pavlick Arts Fund.