Adrian Castro

Jeffrey Knapp talks about Adrian Castro in Miami Beach. "What seems like a whole bunch of years ago – Miami Vice time, probably – Paco de Onis, who ran a jazz festival in Cartagena, Colombia, took a lease out on the then very funky Cameo Theater on Washington Avenue in South Beach, what we old preservationists used to call the "historic district" but in point of fact was much more like the Black Hole of Calcutta. On weekends the Cameo would play host to punky groups with names like The Butthole Surfers, but on Wednesday nights Cessie de Onis would open the place – and a small bar – for Poetry Night. In flowing gauze shirt and crocheted skullcap, Castro performed bilingual poems, often with drums behind him, in a language that spoke Miami."

Adrian is still creating bilingual poetry, although by day he works as a building inspector for an engineering firm. He grew up with Lukumi (or Santería) around him, on the periphery, and it profoundly influenced his life and writing – as can be seen in the following excerpt from his book of poems, Cantos to Blood and Honey (published by Coffee House Press).

He probably placed in circular fashion inside a big calabash all his choices, probably whispered into the gourd a slow "Ashé tó iba Eshu." We say probably because one thing is for sure, El Niño does not remember the details, in fact no one does (except the deities & Iku). No one remembers the details of their creation. No one remembers the destiny, the mission they chose, their personal Orisha and, most importantly, the date of their last breath.
Memory & continuity. Keeping el hilo de la conversación. Never losing the wavy & fragile link that keeps you grounded to your root. The dialogue with spirits that may tap your left shoulder and all that. But no one remembers. No one remembers. Esto sí es trágico.