The Poetry Closet: David Paz-Mendoza
my existence in this world is whole and unafraid
It’s the last minute.
It so happened that I waited until this moment to write my introduction to the interview. The closet is a humid and hot place in the summer. I sit here wondering what to write that would make sense. Juxtaposing all the events of the month. Still nothing comes to mind. A few more people died this month in my life. I sit with that. But life goes on, right? The big booming life goes on. The sun is as loud as a trumpet at midnight. This is the sixth time I get to introduce a poet to you and while that is not a whole lot of work, I find myself in need of a break. So come August, there won’t be an episode of the Poetry Closet. I’ll get a month of reflection culminating in the end with having revolved around the sun on this little rock for forty three years. So adieu-for-now is the word. I am however quite glad that a poet I first met in the before-times agreed to share their poetry and answer a few questions. David Paz-Mendoza writes strong and vulnerable words and blends Spanish and English beautifully. This blending is the most tender act of revolution in a country that refuses to learn its history and acknowledge where the land comes from, how this or that language came to be spoken on this land. It is my hope that David puts a book together soon (dear publishers, go on, reach out to the poet and put a book together already). Meanwhile, you lucky readers (and I, the lucky instigator), get to hear and read three poems.
Onward
David Paz-Mendoza
bodies are made of water
but the water / in the bodies of the ICE agents / is different / it is not composed of / hydrogen and oxygen / instead / the water / in the bodies of the ICE agents / is made of / pan agrio / leche decolorado / y mierda / all bodies need water to survive / but my mother wanted to do so much more / so she buried her heart / en la tierra Oaxaqueña / and threw her body / across borders / finding that in America / too / all bodies need water to survive / but they need money more / so she works / through pesticides / a half beating heart / and white faces / working more / until the bills are paid / until her daughters are born / until life gets so busy that she forgets / all bodies need water to survive / the ICE agents / in the desert / do not forget this / dumping jugs of water / meant for people like my mother / los bichis beben / quenching a thirst that cries out / to my mother / que no tienes sed? / she awakens / moves her swollen feet / past the sand snakes / and dust bunnies / she fills a cup with liquid / from her bathroom sink / and my mother / walks outside / away / from their America / and back / into her / Oaxaca /
she sighs / and tilts her cup /
sprinkling holy water / onto the dirt below
/ en el nombre del padre / y del hijo / y del espíritu santo /
Amen
NAILED: What is your “poetry closet”?
David Paz-Mendoza: If it were a tangible closet, you would find it in the middle of the woods. Inside there would be coffee beans from every café my partner has worked at, grass from Laurelhurst Park on a Saturday evening, loose baby kitty fur, thousands of gum wrappers, millions of half-full water cups, and a joint that never goes out.
N: What are the best, the worst and the weirdest moments of your poetry life?
DPM: The best moments of my poetry life are the moments when I realize I’m doing what I want; going to open mics, submitting my work, being published/recognized, etc. These are also the weirdest moments since I never imagined my writing could have any sort of importance. I grew up hearing the usual ‘focus on a real career’ and ‘how are you going to support yourself’ rhetoric. Growing up as the person I am was challenging in the environment I had to do it in, so I used to think ‘oh, I’ll make it easier on myself by studying something worthwhile, something that isn’t being a poet’. Of course, that was harder on me. I stopped writing for years. Those were and continue to be the worst moments of my poetry life—the days where every letter I put to paper seems wrong.
N: What’s the longest you’ve gone without writing? What brought you back?
DPM: I stopped writing when I entered high school. There were so many things that came into play at that point in my life—I just didn’t have the energy to produce anything. I stopped for a good 5 or so years, only picking it up again in my sophomore year of college when I chose a poetry course. It was the winter term of one of the hardest school years of my life. Thankfully, I had the most amazing professor and classmates. In that classroom, I remembered how important writing was to me; being able to connect with everyone there through poetry brought me the community that I didn’t know I needed. That feeling brought me right back into writing.
How To Leave the Table
l.
Turn on the lights. Wipe the top clean. Set the spoons and paper towels out. Carry boiling caldo across the plastic kitchen floor. Watch the heat age your hands. Serve everyone except your mother. She will have to stand to flip the tortillas anyway. Watch her fingertips melt into the comal, into the pot of caldo, into every surface except her own. Forget her face.
ll.
When your father engages in conversation, pretend that you know who he is. Joke about being the daughter of an alien and the tv behind you will too. Your father will laugh until his eyes are closed. A new crow’s foot will enter the room. This is the only thing you’ll remember about him.
lll.
Every time your sister doesn’t want the eggs or the onions or the red welts on her body, take them for her. She is only four and the chair she sits on is so large. She cries, anyway. Remind her of sana sana colita de rana. Tell her to wait for the next day.
IV.
Once you’re done eating, collect everything in your bowl. Do not forget the bones soaked in grease on all the paper towels. Do not forget the spoons or the chewed limes or the leftover fat. Try not to look at your mother when she reminds you to thank to God for your meal.
V.
Excuse yourself from dinner, do not shake when your family asks why.
VI.
Promise to return.
VII.
Find a new table.
N: You write in both Spanish & English. What do you think happens when we mix languages in poetry?
DPM: Language is such a personal experience; the Spanish that I grew up with is not the same Spanish that my mother grew up with. And so on and so forth. In using the Spanish I learned growing up, I give space to my entire existence; which includes all of my family members, living or passed on. They are the ones who taught me Spanish. They were the first ones to hold me in their arms. They fed me, they held my hands as I learned to walk, they went to my ballet performances. They all taught me how to dance, how to cook, how to be alive. When I had to learn English, I entered a completely different world. It was a space where my Spanish was seen as a hindrance. It shocked me—this was a gift from those closest to me and now I had to learn a new language to continue existing with some amount of power in the rest of the world. The amount of shame and embarrassment I’ve had to unlearn about having English as my second language is astounding but it’s work that I now consistently do. I use my Spanish to continuously pay homage to the language and people that taught me how to live. I continue to use English to survive in the current world as it is. In mixing languages, my existence in this world is whole and unafraid.
N: What’s the most embarrassing poem you’ve ever written?
DPM: The most embarrassing poem I’ve ever written was about my first Nintendo DS. It’s embarrassing in a heartfelt way—I wrote it when I was way younger and sillier. I used all sorts of tricks to describe how important this limited-edition Legend of Zelda DS was to me. Whenever I re-read it, I laugh but it warms my heart, too. I really loved it when I wrote it!
N: What's next for you in your poetry life?
DPM: My housemates and I were recently accepted for a group residency with the Independent Publishing Resource Center in Portland. We’ll be working on a big project involving our art, poetry, and a giant Lotería board. I’m super excited! I want to apply to other residencies after this one. Some more workshops too. I recently went to a workshop hosted by José Olivarez, who is one of my favorite poets. It was surreal to be in that environment, getting advice from a poet I respect so much. I want more of that.
N: Who sees your first drafts?
DPM: My life partner, Mai. Every edit or suggestion they give me always betters my poetry and my soul.
I love you, flaca
And the way you wash your hair
And the way you clean the house
And the way you feed your sister
And the way you walk quietly
And the way you don’t cry
And the way you do good in school
And the way you play with tree branches
And the way you crack your knuckles
And the way you bite your nails
And the way you take pictures
And the way you pick berries
And the way you forget to clean your room
And the way you stumble with your words
And the way you smile with your big teeth
And the way you are when you are yourself
N: Even poets must eat. What’s been a go-to meal you can whip up on a poet’s budget?
DPM: NongShim Shin Ramyum with fresh veggies and tofu. That’s fed me more times than I can count.
N: Is being a poet what you imagined it would be?
DPM: Not at all. But then again, the life I’m currently living isn’t what I imagined it would be, either. And my life is only getting better.
N: What do you hope for your poetry to do in the world?
DPM: I hope it finds the people that are looking for it. I hope it catches the eye of those that aren’t. I hope for my poetry to exist in every space outside of ink and paper. I hope people read my poetry and sigh afterwards. I hope the sigh releases something they didn’t even realize they were holding onto.
N: How can people support you and your work?
DPM: You can follow my writing on Instagram, @dpazmendoza! If you feel like helping me out financially, my venmo is also @dpazmendoza. Another form of supporting me and my work is through supporting local cafes/bars/venues that host open mics.
N: Would you give a single word prompt to write a poem?
DPM: Caer / To fall
The Poetry Closet is a semi-regular column of poetry and discussion, curated by Igor Brezhnev. You can reach Igor with inquiries, comments, and other messages pertaining to the closet at nailedpoetrycloset@gmail.com
Delve into the previous Poetry Closet, here.
David Paz-Mendoza is the child of immigrants. He has previously been featured in Wordlights, a weekly poetry event at The Rocking Frog Cafe in Portland, Oregon. She is a current resident at the Independent Publishing Resource Center in Portland, OR. You can follow his writing and future endeavors on Instagram, @dpazmendoza.
