William Archila: California Poets Part 8, Four Poems

William Archila

January 8th, 2025

California Poets: Part VIII

William Archila

Four Poems

[I caught a plane exploring the abundance of...]

I caught a plane exploring the abundance of Los Angeles

luminous light where the names of the dead take up

the empty spaces. Something was broken. Something

about nothing. The country told me to go. The dogs bark

to avoid thinking. I cannot escape it. There’s a street of dogs

in El Salvador where it’s impossible to find meaning.

They said corpses were multiplying the empty spaces.

My family advised I stay indoors as much as possible. I was lost.

I was Juned. There was music. That summer heat stuck

to my skin like a sponge. An elder swimming the waters

of a river that I will someday have to cross is another

of God’s disguises. The siblings still had to pay for services.

The reporter says bodies were found in the morgue rotting.

If I close my eyes for a few seconds, I am likely to miss it.

[When I come home & roam the cornhusk...]

When I come home & roam the cornhusk at dusk, my god

crouches on the couch chomping on wood chips & ashes.

I read him facts about tattered ruins & scattered masses

till I’m so ready to thicken the air like a bro who knows

absolutely nothing. When I come home, I tell him there’s

an ash trace of fingers on the walls. A trail of faint smudges

from the fridge to the couch. He piles up the facts to bedevil

my trap. My god, he’s at it again. Out my window, his face

pops up, never lets up. My god, in my ear, his book of curses,

down the chimney howling like a monkey. My god, cast

this outcast out of my house & all the other duendes as well.

Even conquistadors experienced the sublime, carbon-stained

shadow of his body. When they leaned over the cliff, peered

at the river below, hands holding back the dirt in their mouths.

Three Minutes with Mingus                                        

When I read of poets & their lives,

  son of a milkman & seamstress, raised

in a whistle-stop town or village, a child

  who spent his after-school hours deep

in the pages of a library book, I want to go

  back to my childhood, back to the war,

rescue that boy under the bed, listening

  to what bullets can do to a man, take him

out of the homeland, enroll him in school,

  his class-size ten, unfold the fables

of the sea, a Spanish galleon slamming up

  & down the high waters. This is why

I write poems, why I prefer solitude

  when I listen to your lazy sound

of brass on the phonograph. You give

  language to black roosters & fossil bones,

break down phrases between the LA River

  & the yellow taxi cabs of New York.

I picture you in Watts, the 240-pound

  wrath of a bass player building up steam,

woodshedding for the strictly segregated

  hood, those who seek a tiny shot of God,

digging through hard pan, the hammer’s

  grunt & blow. I need a gutbucket of gospel,

the flat land of cotton to catch all those

  Chinese acrobats bubbling inside your head.

When I think of the day I will no longer

  hold a pencil within my hand or glance

upon the spines of my books, I hear

  Picasso’s Guernica in your half-choked

cries, a gray workhorse lost in a fire’s

  spiraling notes, a shrieking tenor sax

for the woman falling out of a burning house.

  I want to tell you if I wrote like you pick

& pat in Blues and Roots, I would understand

  the caravel of my childhood, loose

without oars or sails, rolling on the swells

  of a distant sea. That’s all I got, Mr. Mingus.

I give you the archaeology of my words,

  every painstaking sound I utter when I come

to the end of a line, especially the stressed

  beats of a tiny country I lost long ago.

Guayaberas

In my boyhood, all the men

wore them, a light body shirt

with pleats running down the breast,

two top pockets for pens, notepads,

two bottom ones for keys or loose change,

each sewn with a button

in the middle of the pouch,

a complement tailored to the slit

at the side of the hip. If you look

at photographs in family albums,

men stand against palm trees,

their short-sleeved guayaberas

caught in sunlight, their Panama hats

tipped to the sky. There’s a black and white

of my father, stumbling along fields

of cane, head full of rum,

mouth in an o, probably

singing a bolero of Old San Juan.

On days like these, the sun burned

like an onion in oil. Women hung

guayaberas on windows to dry.

Shirtless, men picked up their barefoot babies

off the floor, held them against their bellies

as if talking to a god. Even my school uniform

was a blue guayabera, but nothing

like my father’s favorite: white,

long-sleeved, above the left breast

a tiny pocket, perfectly slender for a cigar,

arabesque designs vertically stretched.

When the evening breeze lulled

from tree to tree, he serenaded

my mother, guitars and tongues of rum

below her balcony; the trio strumming,

plucking till one in the morning.

I don’t know what came first,

war or years of exile,

but everyone — shakers of maracas, cutters

of cane, rollers of tobacco — stopped wearing them,

hung them back in the closet, waiting

for their children to grow,

an arc of parrots to fly across the sky

at five in the evening. In another country,

fathers in their silver hair sit

on their porches, their sons, now men,

hold babies in the air, guayaberas nicely pressed.

Interview

July 24th, 2025

California Poets Interview Series:

William Archila, Poet, Writer, Educator

interviewed by David Garyan

DG: Let’s begin with exile, which isn’t just a theme of your poetry, but a reality of your life. At the age of twelve you were forced to leave El Salvador because of the civil war. At twenty-four, you returned with hopes of rebuilding the past, only to find that the country you arrived to was no longer the one you had left. You began composing the pieces that would be known as The Art of Exile in around 1992 and though these poems go from front to back cover, do you feel that the collection—in a metaphorical sense—is in fact not finished, and may never be?

WA: That’s a great question. Thank you. I would like it to be. I wanted so much to be done with that theme with my first two books, but it seems like I cannot escape all that which once was lost, the idea of being a ghost to myself and to those I left behind. It seems to me that to be exiled is to be cursed, to never be free from the past, of what I have left, usually because of a war. I don’t think I will ever be finished. I think I might be only interested in two to three themes and I will be writing the same poem again, just in different forms, from different angles, but mainly the same theme, hopefully each time with a greater depth and understanding of myself and the world around me.

DG: Fast-forwarding sixteen years, you’ve found yourself winning the Levine Prize for Poetry with the collection S is For. From The Gravedigger’s Archaeology to The Art of Exile, the title’s you’ve chosen have always been a combination of poignancy and wittiness. Could you elaborate a bit on the writing process of the newest book—how it both differs in style but also builds on your poetic trajectory?

WA: With S is For, I was aware that I wanted to try something different, even if the themes were the same. I tried something linguistically different. First, I tried writing in form and then dismantling the form. It didn’t always work, but it got my imagination going. I was trying to generate content and hopefully a fresh voice. When I detected a new voice, I disregarded the rigidity of the form and dug into what felt right in my body. I stopped reading and writing for meaning. I stopped reading my work the way that I was taught in school. I had to let go of that methodology and trust myself and the poem. As a result, I started playing with language, listening to the sounds as if I was listening to a song. I was taking more of an artistic approach to language as if I was a musician or a painter. This gave me so much freedom that I began to enjoy the writing process more than just following rules. The manual went out the window.

DG: You’ve mentioned Pablo Neruda as an influence and in an interview with Mariano Zaro on Poetry.LA, you’ve talked about how Spanish is somehow at the background of your poetic voice. Though you stated, then, that you write only in English, do you, these days, find yourself sometimes contemplating the possibility of composing poems in Spanish—and perhaps doing a whole book?

WA: Lately, I have had so many interactions with poets living in El Salvador, on the page, via readings or translations, that I have thought about writing in Spanish, but it’s still too soon for me. I need to be living in that language 24/7, maybe breathing and eating in El Salvador for me to digest that language. In the meantime, I don’t want to force it. It will come automatically.

DG: Because Neruda has been such a big influence, I wanted to ask if you’ve happened, also, to read him in translation and, if so, what, if anything, changes when you read the original piece alongside the English one?

WA: The first Neruda book I ever owned was a bilingual edition, the Selected Poems edited by Nathaniel Tarn. I always read the Spanish version first because I lost so much of the poem in the English translation. The translations always seemed too standard of an experience compared to what Neruda was offering in the Spanish. Words lose their taste or connotations. I often found myself surprised at the words the translators had chosen or the way they expressed a phrase. I began to doubt my own knowledge. Now I find myself thinking about how I would say it to make the poem come alive.

DG: Have you contemplated translation and how realistic is that you’ll go down this road at some point in your career?

WA: Yes, I have always thought about translating other poets. I never did it because I felt a deep feeling to get my poems out first. Now that I have three books out, I feel like I can start thinking of translating other people’s work. However, so many things must fall in the right place. For example, I must find an author I’m interested in and one I care about. I recently translated one of Vladimir Amaya’s poems in the New England Review. I was solicited for that publication and accepted the offer because I have always been interested in Vladimir’s work, so much that I might continue translating his pieces in the future if everything works out.

DG: Your work is deeply rooted in California and Los Angeles specifically, but it is not here where you received your education. Can you talk about how—or if at all—the change in scenery affected your writing and the MFA at the University of Oregon in general? 

WA: Aside from the academics I earned in the MFA at the U of O, I think writing the bulk of what became my first book in Eugene, Oregon was very important. One reason was because I was away from the streets of Los Angeles and away from my family and immigrant culture. Two, because so much of Eugene was rural. LA is such a city that you must go out to look for nature. Luckily, you can find nature, unlike other major cities. On the other hand, in Eugene, I was able to experience nature on my front porch, all four seasons long, and so much of the nature, the rivers and mountains I experienced, got me one step closer in touch with the rural side of El Salvador, the lakes and volcanoes. In Eugene I was able to find the language to write about the earth and black fields of El Salvador. Linguistically, I think it elevated the diction in my poems to the bucolic nature of a war-torn country. The physicality of a broken country haunts the language in those poems.

DG: Let’s talk about instruction from the other side. How have your teaching activities in high school shaped your writing and what are the challenges and rewards of teaching in general?

WA: My new book S is For is partly an investigation of the Central American migrant crisis haunted by the past of the civil war in El Salvador. The first section is informed by the stories my students, many of them unaccompanied minors, shared with me between the years 2014-2019. Poems like the “Northern Triangle Dissected” and “All Foot & Bone for My Insomnia” are a response to the violence, hunger, illness and threats of physical harm they encountered along their dangerous journey to the US-Mexican border. The impetus for the migration of many of these unaccompanied minors was the lack of resources, such as jobs, better education, housing and health, and the result was always post-traumatic stress disorder and depression. By the time they got to the US, their anxiety and mood disorders were devastating. These were the causes for dropping out of high school and developing mental illness and what not. Now, in the middle of all this, my challenge as a high school instructor was trying to teach these very same students how to write five-paragraph essays, how to present them, how to read critically and how to listen to their peers. However, I also had to wear the hat of a counselor, a therapist, a confidant, or father figure, etc. At the same time, I was struggling with the notion that these asylum seekers were considered less than human by the White House, but in the end, I confirmed what I have always known, what I have always believed, and that is the reward that teaching is an extension of love.

DG: What are the positives and negatives of working in a city like Los Angeles?

WA: Working in Los Angeles has its pros and cons for me. One of the advantages is its thriving literary community and diverse and vibrant culture which adds fuel to my work. Poetry readings pop up all over, from open mics, spoken-word nights, and readings at venues such as Beyond Baroque in Venice and The World Stage in Leimert Park Village. There's a supportive literary community in Los Angeles, including the independent Red Hen Press and organizations like the Los Angeles Poet Society. LA is one of the most culturally diverse cities in the US. The area is home to many enclaves and neighborhoods including Boyle Heights, the Pico-Union and the Westlake area, Chinatown, Koreatown, Little Tokyo, and Watts. Unfortunately, the city has no focus. It’s all spread out like an amoeba. Plus, the high cost of living and competitive nature of the city poses a lot of challenges. Fortunately, I love the Mediterranean climate with mild, wet winters and hot, dry summers, but sometimes summers can get a bit too hot and dry, creating conditions for wildfires. From my days in Eugene, Oregon during my MFA, I miss the cold weather and sometimes dream about moving to northern California.

DG: In the same interview with Mariano Zaro, you talk about the need to distance yourself from the po-biz, and to write more for yourself. Eleven years have passed, and since that interview you’ve seen increasingly greater amounts of success. On the one hand, it would be sensible to assume that poetic development has made writing poetry easier; on the other hand, it wouldn’t be unnatural to say that technology and visibility have become even more inseparable. How do you feel about the challenges of writing a strong poem today?

WA: Well, writing a strong poem has always been a challenge and I hope it remains that way. Otherwise what’s the point? However, some things have changed over time and got easier when it comes to publishing and generating work, but at the same time other issues arise and make it difficult. For example, the managing of submissions has gotten easier with technology, but there’s also a lot more competition now, especially with the Hollywood focus on young writers. It’s a challenge that pushes me to keep wanting to improve myself. It’s getting harder to stand out in a crowded space. Plus, maintaining a reader’s attention span now is a difficult task in this era of constant scrolling and immediate gratification. Connecting with readers and building a community is an obstacle for me when social media seems to be the medium everyone has agreed on. I don’t do social media, and this makes it difficult for me to reach readers in the old fashion way. Fortunately, I now have more confidence in my work, and I no longer doubt my voice nor the mastering of my craft. So, I’m hoping I can still reach readers through the page.

DG: I’d like to keep with the po-biz theme and talk about the entire trajectory of your career. Having published The Art of Exile in 2009, you’ve released two more books in a span of sixteen years. These are long stretches between publications and run contrary to the approach of more prolific poets. Are you concerned that increasingly rapid advancements in communication, coupled with greater and greater redefinition of the term relevance—by mere proxy of informational bombardment might force you to sacrifice quality for volume in the next ten years?

WA: Yes, I have given it some thought, and I try not to focus my energy on such conundrums. I enjoy writing and I enjoy sharing it with readers who are interested in the themes I’m interested in. If the reader is hungry for the type of poetry I’m interested in, they will search for it. Like you said, I don’t want to sacrifice the quality of my writing for the sake of relevancy. I will write as inspiration comes to my desk. I don’t believe in forcing poems out for the sake of being out there all the time just to make sure I’m relevant. Now having said that, there’s another more significant reason why it’s taken me 16 years to put out two books. I started a little family. My wife and I have twin boys. They are now eleven and they have kept us busy for the last eleven years. It’s a been a beautiful and chaotic journey.

DG: In a 2010 interview with Aaron Michael Morales published in the Notre Dame Review, you stated the following: “Today I know that the U.S., like most other empires, is founded upon genocide. However, if I compare the daily freedom—or should I say the illusion of daily freedom—I have and enjoy here with the lack of freedom and comfort experienced in other countries, which is considered the norm, especially third-world countries, I must say that I’m very fortunate to have come to the U.S. I realized that I’ve allowed this country to shape me into the best of what it can offer, but I also believe that I’m adding shape to this country and I want to offer the best of who I am.” The question Aaron Michael Morales asked to illicit that part of the response was about your perception of the US at the time. Taking the matter to its most logical conclusion, I would hence like to ask if the answer you’d give to that inquiry might be different today?

WA: Yes and no. There once was a time when it was debatable if this country had a racism or classism issue. That argument is very difficult, almost impossible, to defend now.

DG: What are you reading these days and have you already begun thinking about your next collection?

WA: After AWP here in Los Angeles, I picked up a lot of my colleagues’ new books and I’ve been reading those throughout the summer, too many to name here. I’m always reading contemporaries and classic authors. It’s a combination I like to keep for insights into historical contexts and perspectives with present-day conversations.

As far as my next book is concerned, I have a book coming out next year titled Canícula/Dog Days. It is a bilingual selection of his first two books of poetry, The Art of Exile and The Gravedigger’s Archaeology. Translated by Mario Zetino, it is an introduction to my work for the Spanish reader.

Author Bio:

William Archila is the winner of the 2023 Philip Levine Prize for Poetry for his collection S is For. He is the author of The Art of Exile which was awarded the International Latino Book Award, and The Gravedigger’s Archaeology which received the Letras Latinas/Red Hen Poetry Prize. He was also awarded the 2023 Jack Hazard fellowship. He has been published in Poetry Magazine, The American Poetry Review, AGNl, Copper Nickle, Colorado Review, Kenyon Review, Los Angeles Review of Books, The Missouri Review, Pleiades, Poetry Northwest, Prairie Schooner, Indiana Review, TriQuarterly and the anthologies The BreakBeat Poets Vol. 4: LatiNext, Latino Poetry The library of America Anthology, and The Wandering Song: Central American Writing in the United States. In 2010, he was named a Debut poet by Poets & Writers. He is a PEN Center USA West Emerging Voices fellow. He is an associate editor of Tía Chucha Press. He lives in Los Angeles, on Tongva land.