Rick Kearns
Last month, Mayor Eric Papenfuse named Harrisburg native Rick Kearns as the city’s new poet laureate, the first Latino to be so honored. Amidst his busy schedule, Kearns, a professor and tutor at HACC, made some time to tell us about his craft, his culture and his new position.
TheBurg: How did you get involved in writing poetry and where did you initially find success doing it?
Kearns: I was drawn to poetry when I was still very young. I was a kid, maybe 8, 9 years old. I enjoyed what I heard because of the music in the language. That was the first thing that attracted me. The second thing was the ideas. But the format attracted me, and I was always attracted to music. I’ve been a part-time jammer since I was a little kid. So, that was where it began, and I was writing off and on from maybe age 12 to forever from that point on.
As I grew older and came to know a bit more about the Puerto Rican side of my family and the situation of Puerto Ricans here, it sort of politicized me. I began to see poetry as a way of telling that story. For instance, when I was, remember now, I’m 56, so in the late ‘60s, early ‘70s, as I was coming of age, the only Puerto Ricans I saw on movies or TV or anything, they were either criminals or just foolish, negative characters. And I wasn’t seeing any of the people I was relating to on the screen. That’s how I got to know about racism in general, and I got to know about racism against other people of color because a bunch of my friends were African American. So, I was sort of politicized, and I was using poetry to express myself in that direction.
For instance, my mother was a professor. She spoke six languages. My grandfather was a hardware salesman who loved his job so much that we had to fight with him to get him to stop working when he was in his mid-70s. I didn’t see that reflected in the media, and I rarely see it today. It’s not as bad as it was, but it was pretty bad.
So, that was part of what drew me in. But, as I got to know the art form more, I began to study it more, and I was influenced by all of the great U.S. poets as well as some of the English poets. When I started to study Spanish, I began learning about the Spanish poets and Puerto Rican poets and then poets of color in this country, meaning African American, Native American and Puerto Rican and Latino. So, all of that stuff together was influencing me, and I think it’s been reflected in my work.
TheBurg: What language do you primarily write in?
Kearns: I write in English. I was raised in English in an English-speaking household, but I grew up knowing Spanish. But I didn’t have to write it, and I didn’t have to speak it that often. So, when I got to college, I decided to study it so that I could read about, for instance, Puerto Rican history, Puerto Rican literature, in Spanish, because the only place you could find any information was in texts in Spanish. So, it was through studying Spanish that I got to know that world better. I became fluent enough that I’ve been able to do some basic translating and interpreting. And, along the way, I learned some French and Italian, and I’m married to a Brazilian, so I’ve learned some Portuguese.
So, I love language, and I really have enjoyed learning these other languages. And I’ve also found that it’s given me a better appreciation of the relationship between language and meaning and feeling, in that I can tell you that I’ve read certain poems in Spanish, then seen translations of them, and I know the translations are missing something—and vice versa. I’ve read, for instance, American poets translated into Spanish, and I can see some things missing there. So, that was another thing that emphasized to me that power of language. And it’s been fun; I’ve really enjoyed it. And I’ve also found that the poetry that I’ve been writing has been somewhat educational to various folks who’ve heard my work. So, I’ve read my poems in rural settings, where nobody has seen hardly any people of color. Or I’ve read in some suburban settings, too, where the folks haven’t been exposed to or know about Puerto Rican writers, for instance. And, like I said before, things are a bit better now, but, in other ways, we’re having similar battles right now. There are a whole lot of Latino kids going to school in Harrisburg High School. There’s little or nothing in their literature courses talking about writers of Puerto Rican or Dominican or Mexican heritage writing in this country or writing from their countries. So, the battle isn’t over. These are some of the things that I’ve been engaged with, aside from just trying to be a better writer, trying to develop my craft and pay attention to that.
TheBurg: What do you find yourself writing about frequently?
Kearns: If I were to generalize, I would say it’s just people’s stories, stories of the lives of not-so-famous people. I found myself, aside from writing about famous situations or people, writing a number of stories about people who are on the margins, or who just aren’t famous, just so-called regular folks. I think, if I was to generalize, that’s what I’d say. I write about everybody, and I’m drawn to stories, personal stories. And, every once in awhile, I go off on these little themes. In the last three years, I’ve written maybe 10 or 11 poems that all involve crows. So, I’ve written about crows, also using crows as a symbol of other things. I’ve also written pieces that are sort of dedicated to certain people. I wrote a poem to my mom, which was really a very emotional thing. She was an amazing person. It was about nine or 10 years ago when I wrote it. It was around the time that these friends of hers had put together a little testimonial dinner for her. So, I wrote a poem for her. But, before that, I already had written a poem for my grandfather. I had written a poem to certain famous people, where I just sort of addressed them and tried to ask them questions. For instance, this guy, who was fairly famous in Puerto Rico a long time ago was a guy named Pedro (something) Campos. I wrote a poem to him that got published in a few places. The poem that the mayor read was a poem that I wrote to Dr. Martin Luther King. I was addressing him, in a sense. So, some of the poems I write are sort of dedicated or directed. So, those are some of the different themes.
TheBurg: How did it come about that you were named poet laureate of Harrisburg by Mayor Papenfuse?
Kearns: I got to know Joyce Davis [Papenfuse’s communications director] a few years ago. I met Joyce, and she was telling me about her organization—the World Affairs Council. Eventually, she told me that the upcoming Martin Luther King Day celebration involved the winners of a poetry contest, and would I like to read a poem there? And that was last year, in 2013. And I said, “You know what, Joyce, I’ve been meaning to write a poem to Dr. King, so yeah, I’m going to do that.”
So I wrote a poem for that event, and I came and I read that poem, and I read the mom poem. I read the poem for my mom. At that point, she was very ill, and it was this past year that she passed. I was also grieving at the time. So, I read those poems. They were very well-received by Joyce and those folks. And then it was a couple months ago, maybe a month or so ago, that Joyce wrote to me and was telling me about the inaugural and that there would be a poet laureate and that she wanted to nominate me. And I said, “Well, thanks, Joyce.” I had no idea what my chances were or anything like that. And, honestly, I really didn’t think it was going to happen. But she said, “OK, send me your information and send me a poem.” So, I sent her this thing that’s like a poet’s CV, it’s called a literary bio. I sent her my bio, and I sent her the King poem. And, a few weeks after that, I got an email from her saying, “OK, tomorrow, I’m sending you the letter signed by Mayor Papenfuse, saying you’re going to be announced.” Apparently, he really liked that poem. And I had no idea—I mean no idea—that he would want to read it. At the event, as he’s about to introduce me, he looks and says, “Rick, by the way, could I read this poem?” I said, “Of course.” You know what, he did a really good job. He did a fine job. So, it was a very nice surprise. I didn’t expect the honor, and I especially did not expect that the mayor would like the poem enough that he was going to read it. So, yeah, it was very nice, and I got a lot of reaction from a variety of friends, people in school and other writer-friends of mine in various parts of the country.
TheBurg: So, what types of responsibilities come with that title?
Kearns: Well, I was kind of hoping for a cape, but there’s no cape [laughs].
No, it’s very vague. I was told that I would be asked to represent the city at some literary events. And sometime in the future, at some arts-related events, I will probably be asked to participate. But, at that ceremony where the mayor handed me the proclamation and so forth, I did say that I would like to help develop creative writing or poetry workshops in the barrio and in city neighborhoods. So, one of the things I’m hoping to do with this new platform is to promote the idea of creative writing and other arts programming for kids in this city. And I have done some of that in the past, but unfortunately keeping arts programming going almost anywhere is tricky, especially in poor neighborhoods. Funding and everything else is very iffy. But I taught at least four writing workshops in the Latino neighborhood and one or two others in other parts of the city in the early ‘90s. And, as a result of those experiences, I know that they can have a really good effect, a long-term effect, on the kids who participate and, to a certain degree, their families. And I’ve also taught creative writing at the college level. I’ve taught at HACC. I taught many years ago at the Pennsylvania School of Art and Design in Lancaster. And I taught a really neat seminar course at Rutgers, back in the mid-‘90s. And it’s a wonderful job when you can get it, to teach creative writing. But, right now, a lot of people are looking at this time in the city as a time where, OK, let’s start over, let’s try something new. And I think, in that environment, it’s going to be easier, in a sense, to get people’s attention, at least, to the idea of this arts-focused programming. So, I’m hoping that, aside from maybe reading at events in the next four years, I can get one or two of these workshops going. That’s what I really would want to do.
TheBurg: What do think of the state of the writing arts in Harrisburg? What do you think we might need?
Kearns: Starting in the early ‘90s, and up until today, there have been reading series and poetry in the city almost continuously. And, right now, there are one or two others right on the West Shore. So, I’d say that the state of poetry in the city, in that sense, is healthy. It’s very healthy. There’s a nice scene here, and there has been a nice scene. Some talented folks have come and gone, and some are staying. So, that part of it is really good.
But the problem is that the art of poetry, in general, has not been supported financially. This is the old story of the arts, that very talented people can go throughout a whole career without getting compensated or recognized. And that problem still exists. It’s getting funding for arts; it’s getting funding for poetry, for music, for dance. On the one hand, there is a vibrant scene, but it’s still very tenuous because of getting funding to develop a series to pay writers, to perform, to cultivate their art. That’s what’s missing. There a saying we used to have back in the day, which I still throw around a lot, which is $2 and a great poem will buy you a small order of fries. It’s basically still true, but, I think, with myself promoting the arts when I can, and more folks hearing about these reading series and about these local poets, I have some hope that that will result in encouraging political leaders to reinvest in the arts because, without going into too much detail, this has always been a problem in this country, especially around poetry. But, starting with the mid-to-late ‘80s, there was an attack on arts funding at the federal level. Federal funding took a huge hit. It was replaced in part in the 1990s, but then it got chewed away again. I think, for instance, the NEA budget was something like $80 or $90 million. The city of Paris spends $1 billion. The city of Paris spends $1 billion on the arts. The United States total has a federal allotment of $90 million. The city of Munich spends close to $1 billion. And they know the results. The arts bring in tourists. It generates income. It helps other businesses. And it’s healthy for the culture. It’s healthy for the intellectual life of the country. And I guess I’m hoping that that message gets through, that the arts are good in and of themselves, but that they have these other benefits. If we can get enough people to understand that, things will improve, at least a little bit.
The Moon Rides a Black Horse (for Lorca)
The moon is
riding along
the shore
thinking violins
and howling wolves,
the moon is
riding a black horse,
looking for a widow
who sings
the deep song
llanto of
the unforgiving sea,
buleria of
smokestacks and
isotopes.
The moon
wants a good
red wine
and a woman
who can dance.
Crow Dish TV
Crow is speaking to me
but I can’t understand what he’s saying.
Crow sits on top of
chain-link fence of
my back yard he’s
flown down from
neighbor’s roof where
he and 10 more large
pitch black crows sit on and
around Mr. Moody’s
6-foot diameter TV dish.
Hitchcock would love this
but it’s making me nervous.
Crow is screeching now, louder
and I’m getting the idea that
he’s found a way to
intercept TV waves he’s
pissed off at what we’ve done
to, well, everything and so
he and his family are
addling us through the eyes
lucky for them, doesn’t take much
to make us stupid
but Crow
is still pissed off
he wants more of a challenge
this is too damn easy
is what I think
he’s saying now
or maybe he’s telling me
something else that will
re-appear in one of my
animal dreams
again
I ask him to please
do something other than
Reality TV and he screeches
And flies off, back to the
gang by the dish, they
commence to caw in a
raucous fashion
I’m guessing they’re
laughing at me
again.
I go inside
turn on the box.
Nothing has changed.
I say out loud
to no one in particular
‘Damn, we’re screwed.’
Crow’s Midtown Battalion
They swoop in from the south.
Targeting the cars of
state workers and
apartment dwellers
on a side street
near the capitol.
Multi-colored splatter.
Crow has a new hobby
He and his
Midtown Battalion
align themselves on the
telephone wire that runs
just above the unlucky vehicles.
At the same time of day
just before dusk and
maybe there’s another pattern.
It does happen in sequence
probably follows a melody.
No one interested in
transcribing this one.
Crow has a new hobby
He’s tired of banking.
People in Small Rooms
“5. Something that you feel will find its own form” J. Kerouac
I knew it was there
Connection
Kid wearing tie and fancy shirt
normally dressed in jeans
I asked,
“Court date?”
He looked at me blankly.
You smiled and said
“Wow, haven’t heard that one
for a long, long time.”
We were
the only ones laughing at this
and became friends
allies from a place
where ties used to mean
Police
DA’s
Bikers in court
people in tight places
and small rooms.
Missing You, As Usual, In the Wintertime
Hidden in the trunk of the Ausubo
floating through the house in Las Lomas
riding the blood blossoms of
the flamboyan inside the
guitar
Boricua
Puerto Rican
Latino
Hisss-panic
All these words
don’t catch the smell
or spark or the
goose bump charge volt
rumbling up my spine
and through my head
when I think of you
Borinquen,
Puerto Rico
and I think of you
Puerto Rico
As I sit in front of
this computer screen
wrestling articles out
of actions, statistics
subtle assaults and the
sulfurous vapor coming
out of politicians’ mouths,
I dream of you
my beautiful
brilliant
deranged country.
I make do
trying to
help my young
cousins deal with
the language of
industrial consonants
the language of
Shakespeare, Updike
and of Espada and Soto,
of Martin Luther King
and of
English-only paranoia
the language of lynching.
I remember sea breezes
when I shop the bodega
for cafe puro, bacalao
candles with San Lazaro
and enormous plastic dolls
wrapped in clear sheets
enormous Indian chief
figures designed as if
there were still Tainos in
Puerto Rico
and the secret is,
there are.
There in Vega’s
“Spanish American Grocery”
There in my
mother’s house
There on the
street in front of
the church on Market St.
Inside the yautia
in the air above the
cinammon colored girls
laughing in the doorway,
in the roar of the
engines gunning down
Derry Street,
I see you
Borinquen.
I cry for you
and my blood that
has returned to
your earth Puerto Rico
I cry for Abuelo
my Mom
for Tio Raul
for the people
and the things not
here not now not
within
reach
Puerto Rico
I’ll be looking for you
again
tonight.