Editor’s Note: As has become a tradition, when a new Poet Laureate is installed, they read a poem to the Santa Barbara City Council in honor of the occasion. Given that our newest Laureate has made the Santa Barbara Independent his “journalistic home” for the past 20 years (primarily in the Food & Drink arena), we jumped at the opportunity to share his new poem here.
Santa Barbara, a City Symphony
by George Yatchisin
Some in town wake in the morning before morning,
work for a day longer than a day, shipping
out to the channel, nets trawling for ridgeback shrimp,
so sweet when served peel n eat you’re obliged
to suck their heads for the last mighty morsel.
Others up that early make the world we casually
dirty clean again, with that hum of the buffers on
schoolroom floors. And then the a.m. bakers
attest to all the international powers of flour,
and out of their ovens come crispy conchas,
donuts to savor, not just devour for sugar,
croissants that might make Parisians weep.
Mothers of all genders pack lunches their kids
might end up trading but nothing dims parental hope.
Teachers, too, in stately schools named to honor
long dead presidents, take a last silent moment
to summon the serenity of an ocean-blue sky.
In the miracle hill and dale expanse of Hope Ranch
beauties on horses navigate paths first blazed
by those who spoke Barbareño, while beaters
crawl the twisty turns between gated estates,
bringing gardeners, cleaners, carpenters, cooks
to the mansions they burnish, brighten,
provide heart that turns each house home.
At noon alongside the landmark Spanish
Colonial Revival County Courthouse, a raucous
caucus of car horns consecrate the cranky chants
of citizens crowding street corners with signs
expressing the fervent hope their country remains theirs.
To further consider the just consent of the governed,
let’s say this day is a Tuesday, for such afternoons
a wise city council each April recognizes the worth
of the word, officially lauds the literary arts,
for even if there ain’t no money in poetry, it still
offers clarity as golden as California sunshine,
as life-attesting as the UC’s motto Fiat lux.
Afternoon is a tribute to institutions—the Library
assists an immigrant with their rights, a docent
at the Museum of Art encourages visitors to go ga-ga
over Chagall, and in Mission Canyon an anxious tot
presses the button making a fake, 90-year-old snake rattle.
Later, on State Street, taught the one good lesson
by the pandemic to be pedestrian only, for cars are basic-
ally a mistake, those who bring us greatness from the ground
and sea pitch their colorful canopies, tables laden with
Little Gems, Puntarelle, Rutabaga, Lunar White Carrots,
Scarlet Runner Beans, Murcotts, Pomelos, Zutanos,
and Cherimoya — its outside armor hiding a creamy surprise.
After work hikers gasp at the aptness of Inspiration Point,
while sunset sideways silhouettes surfers conquering
the fast and dumpy beach break of The Pit. On the cliff
above that the locals insist will always be Wilcox, dogs
dance ecstatic their owners came home from work.
We will let everyone have their own joy and privacy
for supper. As for me I’m blessed in a westside
Spanish charmer, a native garden for a yard,
sitting amidst ceanothus, all spring cerulean
and lightning, alongside a laureate love of my life.
The scent of citrus blossoms always suggests
oranges and limes for nightcap margaritas.
A landmark Norfolk pine sings its stately song
in the evening breeze, which on remarkable
evenings also offers the wistful hoot of owls.
And then a scatter of stars, for the great ocean
grants us true evening, every last drop of dark.
