Día de la Madre: poemas tiernos y extraños / Mother’s Day poems, tender and strange
Posted: May 8, 2016 Filed under: English, Grace Paley, Jean Nordhaus, Judith Kroll, Kenn Nesbitt, Robert Louis Stevenson, Spanish, ZP Translator: Alexander Best | Tags: Poemas para el Día de la Madre Comments Off on Día de la Madre: poemas tiernos y extraños / Mother’s Day poems, tender and strange 
Jean Nordhaus (nace 1939)
Un diente de león para mi madre
.
Cómo yo amaba esos soles apuntiagudos
– arraigados tercamente, como la niñez, en la hierba;
resistentes como los niños de la granja – con sus grandes cabezas
(esos tapetes de cabello amarillo con el flequillo “corte a la taza”).
.
Cómo eran robustos eso amargones
– y se transformaron en galaxias,
bóvedas de estrellas-fantasmas apenas visibles por día,
cerebros pálidos agarrándose de la vida en sus tallos verdes correosos.
.
Como tú.
Como tú, finalmente.
Si habías estado aquí, yo habría recolectado esa estera temblorosa
para enseñar la belleza que posea una cosa
– una cosa que el aliento arrancará.
.
(2006)
. . .
Kenn Nesbitt (nace 1962)
Nota de amor en la lonchera
.
Dentro de mi lonchera
hay una nota de amor, acorazonada;
qué sorpresa – descansa ahí.
.
Se lee el exterior:
¿Serás mía?
¿Quisieras ser mi pareja de San Valentín?
.
La saqué,
preguntándome
quien quiera decirme Te Amo.
.
Quizás es una muchacha
que es tan tímida – no puede dármela
cara a cara.
O tal vez fue escribido, suavemente, a solas,
de una amiga secreta,
que buscó mi lonchera
y metió la nota – furtivamente.
.
Oh, estaré entusiasmado
si es Josefina
– la linda en la fila segunda.
¿O sea Jennifer?
¿Ha descubierto que quedo encantado con ella?
.
Mi mente está encendido,
mis hombros – tensos;
no me necesita más suspenso.
Mi estómago se tambalea en mi garganta
– abro mi pequeña nota.
.
Pues el mensaje retumba
igual que una bomba;
adentro se lee
“Te quiero –– tu mamá”.
.
(2005)
. . .
Robert Louis Stevenson (1850-1894)
A qualquier lector
.
De la casa tu madre te mira mientras estás jugando
alrededor de los árboles en el jardín.
Pero veas, si doy una miradita por la ventana de este libro,
que un otro niño existe, en otro jardín – a lo lejos –
y juega también.
.
Pero no pienses en absoluto que
podrás tocar a la ventena para
llamar a ese niño;
parece decidido a jugar a su negocio – su asunto;
no puede oírte y no te contemplará:
él no estará sonsacado de este libro.
.
Porque hace mucho tiempo
– hablo la verdad –
ha madurado y se ha marchado,
y solo hay un niño etéreo que
se detiene en el jardín allí.
. . .
Judith Kroll
Tu ropa
.
Son cáscaras vacías, claro – sin esperanza de ánimo;
por supuesto son artefactos.
Aunque mi hermana y yo nos pongamos esas prendas
– o donemos unas otras –
siempre serán tus vestidos, sin ti,
así como seremos para siempre tus hijas
– sin ti.
.
(2000)
. . .
Grace Paley (1922-2007)
En el Día de la Madre
.
Salí y caminaba por el viejo barrio…
.
¡Mira! Hay más árboles en la manzana,
con “nomeolvides” en los alrededores;
hiedra lantana que brilla y
geranios en la ventana.
.
Hace veinte años
la gente creía que las raíces de los árboles
se meterían en la tubería del gas
pues se caerían, envenenados,
sobre las casas y los niños;
o saltarían a las cañerías de la ciudad,
hambreando por nitrógeno;
¡obstruirían el alcantarillado!
.
En esos días, durante las tardes,
yo flotaba en el trasbordador hacia Hoboken o Staten Island
pues empujaba a los bebés en sus carriolas
a lo largo de la pared del río, observando Manhattan.
¡Mira Manhattan!, grité, ¡Nueva York!
Donde no brilla, aun al atardecer,
pero la ciudad está parado en fuego,
carbón de leña hasta la cintura.
.
Pero durante esta tarde de domingo, este Día de la Madre,
caminé al oeste y llegué en Hudson Street;
banderas tricolores ondeaban sobre muebles en venta
hechos de madera de roble viejo;
armazones de la cama de latón,
y cacerolas y jarrones de cobre
– por libra de la India.
.
De repente, ante mis ojos,
veintidós travestis en un desfile alegre
metieron cojines bajo sus vestidos bonitos
y entraron en un restaurante
debajo de un letrero que se leyó:
Todas las madres embarazadas comen gratis.
.
Les observé colocando servilletas sobre sus vientres
y aceptando café y zabaglione.
.
Estoy especialmente abierta a la tristeza y la hilaridad
desde mi padre murió,
como si fuera un niño,
hace una semana,
y en su año nonagésimo.
. . .
Versiones de Alexander Best
. . .
Jean Nordhaus (born 1939)
A Dandelion for my Mother
.
How I loved those spiky suns,
rooted stubborn as childhood
in the grass, tough as the farmer’s
big-headed children—the mats
of yellow hair, the bowl-cut fringe.
How sturdy they were and how
slowly they turned themselves
into galaxies, domes of ghost stars
barely visible by day, pale
cerebrums clinging to life
on tough green stems. Like you.
Like you, in the end. If you were here,
I’d pluck this trembling globe to show
how beautiful a thing can be
a breath will tear away.
.
(2006)
. . .
Kenn Nesbitt (born 1962)
Lunchbox Love Note
.
Inside my lunch
to my surprise
a perfect heart-shaped
love note lies.
.
The outside says,
“Will you be mine?”
and, “Will you be
my valentine?”
.
I take it out
and wonder who
would want to tell me
“I love you.”
.
Perhaps a girl
who’s much too shy
to hand it to me
eye to eye.
.
Or maybe it
was sweetly penned
in private by
a secret friend
.
Who found my lunchbox
sitting by
and slid the note in
on the sly.
.
Oh, I’d be thrilled
if it were Jo,
the cute one in
the second row.
.
Or could it be
from Jennifer?
Has she found out
I’m sweet on her?
.
My mind’s abuzz,
my shoulders tense.
I need no more
of this suspense.
.
My stomach lurching
in my throat,
I open up
my little note.
.
Then wham! as if
it were a bomb,
inside it reads,
“I love you—Mom.”
.
(2005)
. . .
Robert Louis Stevenson (1850-1894)
To Any Reader
.
As from the house your mother sees
You playing round the garden trees,
So you may see, if you will look
Through the windows of this book,
Another child, far, far away,
And in another garden, play.
But do not think you can at all,
By knocking on the window, call
That child to hear you. He intent
Is all on his play-business bent.
He does not hear; he will not look,
Nor yet be lured out of this book.
For, long ago, the truth to say,
He has grown up and gone away,
And it is but a child of air
That lingers in the garden there.
. . .
Judith Kroll
Your Clothes
.
Of course they are empty shells, without hope of animation.
Of course they are artifacts.
.
Even if my sister and I should wear some,
or if we give others away,
.
they will always be your clothes without you,
as we will always be your daughters without you.
.
(2000)
. . .
Grace Paley (1922-2007)
On Mother’s Day
.
I went out walking
in the old neighbourhood…
.
Look! more trees on the block,
forget-me-nots all around them;
ivy lantana shining,
and geraniums in the window.
.
Twenty years ago
it was believed that the roots of trees
would insert themselves into gas lines
then fall, poisoned, on houses and children;
.
or tap the city’s water pipes – starved
for nitrogen; obstruct the sewers.
.
In those days in the afternoon I floated
by ferry to Hoboken or Staten Island
then pushed the babies in their carriages
along the river wall, observing Manhattan.
See Manhattan, I cried: New York!
Even at sunset it doesn’t shine
but stands in fire, charcoal to the waist.
But this Sunday afternoon on Mother’s Day
I walked west and came to Hudson Street: tricoloured flags
were flying over old oak furniture for sale;
brass bedsteads, copper pots and vases
by the pound from India.
.
Suddenly, before my eyes, twenty-two transvestites
in joyous parade stuffed pillows under
their lovely gowns
and entered a restaurant
under a sign which said All Pregnant Mothers Free.
.
I watched them place napkins over their bellies
and accept coffee and zabaglione.
.
I am especially open to sadness and hilarity
since my father died – as a child,
one week ago in this his ninetieth year.
. . . . .
May Day poems: For a better world and the best Us!
Posted: May 1, 2016 Filed under: English | Tags: Poems for International Workers' Day (May 1st) Comments Off on May Day poems: For a better world and the best Us!
. . .
William Heyen
(born 1940, Brooklyn, New York, USA)
Emancipation Proclamation
.
Whereas it minds its own mind
& lives in its one place so faithfully
& its trunk supports us when we lean against it
& its branches remind us of how we think
.
Whereas it keeps no bank account but hoards carbon
& does not discriminate between starlings and robins
& provides free housing for insects & squirrels
& lifts its heartwood grave into the air
.
Whereas it holds our firmament in place
& writes underground gospel with its roots
& whispers us oxygen with its leaves
& so far survives our new climate of ultraviolet
.
Whereas it & its kind when we meet beneath them
shade our sorrows & temper our prayers
& their colours evoke our dream of beauty
from before we were born into this hereafter
.
We the people for ourselves & our children
necessarily proclaim this tree
free from commerce,
& belonging to itself
as long as it
& we
shall live.
. . .
Glenn Sheldon
(Massachusetts, USA)
Years Unite to Become Centuries
.
There is much in accumulation:
snow becoming snowstorms,
books burning to reveal
libraries as our only eternities.
.
One poet murdered by a revolution
leads to other poets hanging naked
in another dictator’s courtyard.
.
One kiss can become kisses,
all the prodigal sons returned home
at the same time: laughter unleashed.
.
Not one wine bottle to toast with
but millions.
.
Not a stampede by one, but by hundreds
of humans with purpose
(in a universe placing its bets on chaos).
.
A tree looks solid, until its rings
are revealed, ripples in a secret history.
.
Then there are the mass graves,
where names become one – The-Stolen-From-Us.
.
Never forget or become forgettable, for
zero is a trickster, a turncoat, a secret tyrant.
The calendar is both a powerful ally and a foe.
. . .
Susan Lang
(Arizona, USA)
Out the Window
.
No one should design a kitchen
without a window over the sink.
Imagine washing dishes
.
when you couldn’t watch the clouds
break apart after an afternoon rain,
backlit so their centres glow
.
like swirling clouds in Tiepolo’s
paintings, the edges shredding
into neighbours’ trees, or like papers
.
you read about in the Sunday Times,
memos “tangled in the boughs”
after days of protests in the streets
.
of a city you’ve never visited.
You don’t know if the kitchens
in that city have windows,
.
you aren’t familiar with the buildings
that line the central square, or the sound
of the sirens police use
.
in that city. But you can imagine
the papers, imagine throwing
fistfuls of papers from the office
.
which does, indeed, have a window
looking out over the square;
you can feel the wind that stirs the papers
.
like leaves that have not yet pushed
into the revolution of a painted sky.
. . .
Luis H. Francia
(Philippines / USA)
#7: Prayer for Peace
.
May a bird kill a cannon
and a baby destroy a gun
May buildings banish missiles
and children stop tanks
May a mother’s love burn bombs
and hand grenades
May palm trees and olive groves
overwhelm planes with their
beauty and bounty
May the rivers and the earth repel
all things that stain and sully them
May blood spilled flow back into the
veins of the innocent dead
May families rise up out of the ashes
to break bread once more
May love curl around the barren hearts of men
May the flowers of imagination bloom in their minds
May our wars be only of words, never of swords
May the gods we pray to be
without history, without names
without nations, without creeds
without religion
May I love you in laughter and grace all the
Days without end.
. . .
More poems…
https://zocalopoets.com/2012/05/01/poems-for-international-workers-day-may-day-2012-we-hurl-the-bright-bomb-of-the-sun-the-moon-like-a-hand-grenade/
.
Otros poemas…
https://zocalopoets.com/2012/05/01/unos-trabajadores-poetas-de-cuba-del-ano-1974/
.
https://zocalopoets.com/tag/a-poem-for-labour-day/
. . . . .
“Our particular whirlwind”: poetry by African-American Innovators
Posted: April 30, 2016 Filed under: Amiri Baraka, Bob Kaufman, Dolores Kendrick, English, Gloria Oden, Gwendolyn Brooks, Ishmael Reed, Jayne Cortez, Joseph Jarman, June Jordan, Lucille Clifton, Ted Joans, William J. Harris | Tags: African-American poetry, Black-American poets Comments Off on “Our particular whirlwind”: poetry by African-American Innovators
. . .
Gwendolyn Brooks
(1917-2000, Topeka, Kansas, USA)
Sadie and Maud
.
Maud went to college.
Sadie stayed at home.
Sadie scraped life
With a fine-tooth comb.
She didn’t leave a tangle in.
Her comb found every strand.
Sadie was one of the livingest chits
In all the land.
Sadie bore two babies
Under her maiden name.
Maud and Ma and Papa
Nearly died of shame.
Every one but Sadie
Nearly died of shame.
When Sadie said her last so-long
Her girls struck out from home.
(Sadie had left as heritage
Her fine-tooth comb.)
Maud, who went to college,
Is a thin, brown mouse.
She is living all alone
In this old house.
. . .
Gloria Oden
(1923-2011, Yonkers, New York, USA)
Testament of Loss
.
You would think that night could lift;
that something of light would sift
through to grey its thick self
sealing.
It’s five years now.
Still black gloams over
day unable to slip
across my sill
one finger
to raise its white form
of hope.
. . .
Bible Study
.
In the old testament
“Hizzoner” was forever
singling out someone
to speak with.
Dream
and he would make
a visit.
Cruise the world
from your favourite
mountain top
and he would come
to call.
Even out of the garrulous
mouth of the whirlwind
he would fetch
himself forth
for a bit of
spirited conversation.
Indeed,
he was apt to
catch up with you
at the most staggering
of times,
and in the most debatable
of places.
So, I think,
he does still.
Who else, my dear,
could have snapped us
together and put us
so warmly to bed?
What puzzles me now
is our particular whirlwind.
Tell me,
did the Old Guy
trumpet us out of
your upset
or mine?
. . .
Bob Kaufman
(1925-1986, New Orleans, Louisiana, USA)
Oregon
.
You are with me, Oregon,
Day and night, I feel you, Oregon.
I am Negro. I am Oregon.
Oregon is me, the planet
Oregon, the state Oregon, Oregon.
In the night, you come with bicycle wheels,
Oregon you come
With stars of fire. You come green.
Green eyes, hair, arms,
Head, face, legs, feet, toes
Green, nose green, your
Breasts green, your cross
Green, your blood green.
Oregon winds blow around
Oregon. I am green, Oregon.
Oregon lives in me,
Oregon, you come and make
Me into a bird and fly me
To secret places day and night.
The secret places in Oregon,
I am standing on the steps
Of the holy church of Crispus
Attucks St. John the Baptist,
the holy brother of Christ,
I am talking to Lorca. We
Decide the Hart Crane trip,
Home to Oregon,
Heaven flight from Gulf of Mexico,
The bridge is
Crossed, and the florid black found.
. . .
Dolores Kendrick
(born 1927, Washington, D.C., USA)
Jenny in Love
[the poet imagines the voice of a young black slavewoman in the nineteenth century]
.
Danced in the evenin’
while
the supper
burn;
.
whupped
in the morning:
.
danced again!
. . .
Ted Joans (born Theodore Jones)
(1928-2003, Cairo, Illinois, USA)
The Overloaded Horse
.
On a battu le cheval, au mois de Mai and they ate him
his buttons were crushed into powder for their soup
his hair was wovened into ship sails
his foreskin was sewn by an antique dealer
his manure supplied several generations with xmas gifts
and now they speak bad of him, the horse, the head of their family
On a battu le cheval, au mois de Mai and they ate him
his earwax was packaged in America
his rump was displayed on early morning garbage trucks
his crossed eye is on loan to a soap museum
his manners have since been copied by millions of glass blowers
and still yet, they spit at this stable, the horse, the head of the house
On a battu le cheval, au mois de Mai and they ate him
his ribs were riveted outside an airbase
his knees bend in shadows of Russia
his shoelaces are used to hang lovely violinists
his dignity is exported as a diary product to the Orient
and in spite of it all, those he loved most, lie and cheat horse’s heirs
On a battu le cheval, au mois de Mai and they ate him
his tears now drown the frowning yachtsmen
his urine flows rapidly across millionaires’ estates
his annual vomit destroys twelve dictators’ promises a year
his teeth tear wide holes in the scissormaker’s Swiss bank account
and even in death, filled with revenge, they eat him, again and again
they deny and lie as they speak bad of the horse,
the head of their house, the father of their home
. . .
Amiri Baraka (born Everett LeRoi Jones)
(1934-2014, Newark, New Jersey, USA)
How People Do
.
To be that weak lonely figure
coming home through the cold
up the stairs
melting in grief
the walls and footsteps echo
so much absence and ignorance
is not to be the creature emerging
into the living room, an orderly universe
of known things all names and securely placed
is not to be the orderer the namer, the stormer
and creator, is not to be that, so we throw it
from our minds, and sit down casually
to eat.
. . .
Jayne Cortez
(born 1934, Fort Huachuca, Arizona, USA)
Indelible
.
Listen i have
a complaint to make
my lips are covered
with thumb prints
insomnia sips me
the volume of isolation
is up to my thyroid
and i won’t disappear
can you help me
June Jordan
(1936-2002, Harlem, New York, USA)
All the World moved
.
All the world moved next to me strange
I grew on my knees
in hats and taffeta trusting
the holy water to run
like grief from a brownstone
cradling.
Blessing a fear of the anywhere
face too pale to be family
my eyes wore ribbons
for Christ on the subway
as weekly as holiness
in Harlem.
God knew no East no West no South
no Skin nothing I learned like
traditions of sin but later
life began and strangely
I survived His innocence
without my own.
. . .
Lucille Clifton
(1936-2010, Depew, New York, USA)
why some people
be mad at me sometimes
.
they ask me to remember
but they want me to remember
their memories
.
and i keep on remembering
mine.
. . .
Joseph Jarman
(born 1937, Pine Bluff, Arkansas, USA)
.
what we all
would have of
each other
the men of
the sides of ourworlds
contained
in a window
yes ” go contrary
go sing………. “
to give
all you have
yourself
to each yourself
yet never
to remember
to look back
into a void
––it is time
yes; to move from
yourself to
yourself again
to know
.
what you are
.
song
. . .
Ishmael Reed
(born 1938, Chattanooga, Tennessee, USA)
Dualism
(in Ralph Ellison’s Invisible Man)
.
i am outside of
history. i wish
i had some peanuts, it
looks hungry there in
its cage
i am inside of
history.it’s
hungrier than i
thot
. . .
William J. Harris
(born 1942, Yellow Springs, Ohio, USA)
Practical Concerns
.
From a distance, I watch
a man digging a hole with a machine.
I go closer.
The hole is deep and narrow.
At the bottom is a bird.
I ask the ditchdigger if I may climb down
and ask the bird a question.
He says, why sure.
It’s nice and cool in the ditch.
The bird and I talk about singing.
Very little about technique.
. . . . .
The poems above are by no means representative of all the Innovators among African-American poets; they are a brief sample. Readers should also look up the following poets’ work, wherever it is available – whether at the library, the bookstore, or upon the internet!
Lloyd Addison
Russell Atkins
Lawrence S. Cumberbatch
Randy Bee Graham
Percy Johnston
Stephen Jonas
Eloise Loftin
Clarence Major
Oliver Pitcher
Norman Pritchard
Ed Roberson
Melvin B. Tolson
Gloria Tropp
Tom Weatherly
&…
. . .
Photographs:
Bob Kaufman in the 1950s
June Jordan in 1968
. . . . .
La rueda de la vida: cinco poemas de Rita Dove
Posted: April 28, 2016 Filed under: English, Rita Dove, Spanish, ZP Translator: Alexander Best Comments Off on La rueda de la vida: cinco poemas de Rita Dove
Rita Dove
(nace 1952, Akron, Ohio, EE.UU.)
Canario
(para Michael S. Harper)
.
La voz quemada de Billie Holiday
poseía sombras tantas como luces,
un candelabro afligido contra un piano brillante,
y la gardenia era su firma bajo esa cara arruinada.
(Ahora estás improvisando, tamborilero a bajista,
cuchara mágica, agula mágica.
Toma todo el día, si te necesita
– con tu espejo y tu pulsera de canto.)
El hecho es que el invento de la mujer sitiada
ha sido por el bien de afilar el amor en servicio de mito.
.
Si no puedes ser libre, sé un misterio.
.
(1989)
. . .
Tarjetas educativas
.
Durante las mates yo fue la niña prodigio,
la custodia de naranjas y manzanas.
Dijo mi padre: Lo que no entiendes, domínalo.
Y el más rápido mi respuesta, pues
el más rápido vinieron las tarjetas.
Yo podía ver un capullo en el geranio del instructor,
y una abeja definida chisporroteando contra la hoja de vidrio húmedo.
Siempre rozaban los tuliperos después de un diluvio copioso
así que me plegué la cabeza mientras mis botas abofeteaban a casa.
Mi padre se ponía cómodo después de su trabajo,
relajándose con un jaibol y La Vida de Lincoln.
Después de la cena hacíamos practicar pues
yo subía la oscuridad antes de dormir, y antes de
una voz flaca siseé números múltiples
mientras yo giraba en una rueda. Tuve que adivinar:
Diez, yo seguía diciendo, Solo tengo diez años.
.
(1989)
. . .
Viejo éxito
.
Llegué temprano a casa,
pero me paré en el acceso,
meciéndome al volante
como un pianista ciego cachado por una tonada
diseñada para más de dos manos tocar.
La letra era fácil,
canturreado por una muchacha muriendo del deseo
ser viva / descubrir un sufrimiento bastante majestuoso
para guiarse.
Apagué el aire acondicionado,
y me recliné para flotar en una capa de sudor,
escuchando su sentimiento:
Chico, ¿Adónde fue nuestro amor?
––un lamento que pillé con gula,
sin la menor idea de quien pudiera
mi amante o donde empezar a buscar.
.
(1995)
. . .
El grillo primaveral considera el asunto de la Negritud
.
Solita, yo tocaba mis tonadas;
no conocí a ningún otro que podía acompañarme.
Claro, fueron tristes las canciones
–– pero agradable también, y no vendrían hasta que
el día se agotó. Sabes, ¿no?, la manera que tiene el cielo
de colgar sus últimas volutas radiantes?
Eso era cuando el dolor brotaba dentro de mí
hasta que no pude esperar; me arrodillé para rasparme limpia
y no me importó quien escuchara.
Pues los gritos y las chiflas, vinieron,
y la redada en tarros – y el trepar de patas.
Ahora vinieron otros: revolcados y enturbiados;
no supe sus nombres.
Éramos un farol musical;
los niños, dormían a nuestros suspiros.
Y si, de vez en cuando, uno de nosotros
se sacudió libre y cantó mientras trepaba al borde,
siempre se caía de nuevo.
Y esto les hacía reír y palmotear.
Al menos – en ese momento – entendimos
lo que les complacía
– y donde estuvo el borde.
.
(2012)
. . .
Trans-
.
“Yo trabajo mucho y vivo mucho menos de lo que pudiera,
pero la luna es hermosa y hay estrellas azules…..
Yo vivo la casta canción de mi corazón.”
(Federico García Lorca a Emilia Llanos Medinor, 1920)
.
La luna está en un estado de duda
sobre si deba escoger ser hombre o mujer.
Ha habido rumores y todo tipo de
alegatos, declaraciones atrevidas, embustes públicos:
Él es beligerante; Ella está deprimida.
Cuando él se disipa el mundo se balancea al filo;
cuando ella florece el crimen brota.
¡Oh, cómo vacila el impulso operístico!
Busca, querido/cosita,
en lo profundo del charco en blanco.
.
(2015)
. . .
Rita Dove
(born 1952, Akron, Ohio, USA)
Canary
(for Michael S. Harper)
.
Billie Holiday’s burned voice
had as many shadows as lights,
a mournful candelabra against a sleek piano,
the gardenia her signature under that ruined face.
(Now you’re cooking, drummer to bass,
magic spoon, magic needle.
Take all day if you have to
with your mirror and your bracelet of song.)
Fact is, the invention of women under siege
has been to sharpen love in the service of myth.
If you can’t be free, be a mystery.
.
(1989)
. . .
Flash Cards
.
In math I was the whiz kid, keeper
of oranges and apples. What you don’t understand,
master, my father said; the faster
I answered, the faster they came.
I could see one bud on the teacher’s geranium,
one clear bee sputtering at the wet pane.
The tulip trees always dragged after heavy rain
so I tucked my head as my boots slapped home.
My father put up his feet after work
and relaxed with a highball and The Life of Lincoln.
After supper we drilled and I climbed the dark
before sleep, before a thin voice hissed
numbers as I spun on a wheel. I had to guess.
Ten, I kept saying, I’m only ten.
.
(1989)
. . .
Golden Oldie
.
I made it home early, only to get
stalled in the driveway, swaying
at the wheel like a blind pianist caught in a tune
meant for more than two hands playing.
The words were easy, crooned
by a young girl dying to feel alive, to discover
a pain majestic enough
to live by. I turned the air-conditioning off,
leaned back to float on a film of sweat,
and listened to her sentiment:
Baby, where did our love go?—a lament
I greedily took in
without a clue who my lover
might be, or where to start looking.
.
(1995)
. . .
The Spring Cricket considers the Question of Negritude
.
I was playing my tunes all by myself;
I didn’t know anybody else
who could play along.
Sure, the tunes were sad—
but sweet, too, and wouldn’t come
until the day gave out. You know
that way the sky has of dangling
her last bright wisps? That’s when
the ache would bloom inside
.
until I couldn’t wait; I knelt down
to scrape myself clean
and didn’t care who heard.
.
Then came the shouts and whistles,
the roundup into jars, a clamber of legs.
Now there were others: tumbled,
clouded. I didn’t know their names.
We were a musical lantern;
children slept to our rasping sighs.
And if now and then one of us
shook free and sang as he climbed
to the brim, he would always
fall again. Which made them laugh
and clap their hands. At least then
we knew what pleased them,
and where the brink was.
.
(2012)
. . .
Trans-
.
“I work a lot and live far less than I could,
but the moon is beautiful and there are
blue stars . . . . I live the chaste song of my heart.”
—Federico García Lorca to Emilia Llanos Medinor,
1920
.
The moon is in doubt
over whether to be
a man or a woman.
There’ve been rumours,
all manner of allegations,
bold claims and public lies:
He’s belligerent. She’s in a funk.
When he fades, the world teeters.
When she burgeons, crime blossoms.
O how the operatic impulse wavers!
Dip deep, my darling, into the blank pool.
.
(2015)
. . . . .
Cornelius Eady: “Abril” y otros poemas
Posted: April 26, 2016 Filed under: Cornelius Eady, English, Spanish, ZP Translator: Alexander Best Comments Off on Cornelius Eady: “Abril” y otros poemas
Cornelius Eady
(nace 1954, Rochester, Nueva York, EE.UU.)
Abril
.
De golpe, las piernas quieren un tipo diferente de empleo.
Esto es porque los ojos miran por la ventana
Y está llena de esperanza la vista.
Es porque están mirando por la ventana los ojos
.
Y la calle luce un quebrado mejor que el día antes.
Esto es lo que dicen los ojos a las piernas,
Y las articulaciones se vuelven embadurnadas con una savia fresca
Que echaría brotes si pegada a una rama diferente.
.
Las piernas quieren una clase de empleo diferente.
Es porque los oídos oyen lo que estaban esperando,
Lo que uno no puede trazar con palabras
Pero lo hace latir más veloz el corazón, como si
Uno había acabado de encontrar dinero en la calle.
.
Las piernas quieren actuar delante del mundo entero.
Quieren recuperar su garbo.
Esto es porque la nariz encuentra por fin el aroma correcto
Y ella jala el cuerpo protestando en la pista de baile.
Es porque las manos, estirando en su aburrimiento,
Rozan por casualidad las faldas del mundo.
. . .
Cuervos en el viento fuerte
.
Se van del techo los cuervos.
No pueden agarrarse;
También podría posarse en una fuga de petróleo.
.
Tal baile tan torpe,
Estos caballeros
Con sus chamarras negras moteadas.
Tal baile mareado,
.
Como si no supieran donde estaban.
Tal baile cómico,
Mientras intentan poner las cosas en orden
Al tiempo que el viento los reduce.
.
Y tal baile apesadumbrado.
El amor – tan embarazoso
Cuando se equivoca
.
En frente de todos.
.
(1985)
. . .
Un pequeño momento
.
Cruzo la entrada de la panadería de al lado de mi apartamento.
Estan a punto de extraer del horno algo de tostada con queso,
Y les pregunto: ¿Cuál es ese aroma? Soy siendo un poeta,
Estoy preguntando
.
Lo que todos los demás
Querían decir pero, de alguna manera, no habían podido;
Estoy hablando de parte de dos otros clientes
Que deseaban comprar el nombre de ese aroma.
A la mujer detrás del mostrador
Pido un porcentaje de su venta – ¿estoy coqueteando?
¿me vuelvo alegre porque se alargan los días? Y ésto es
.
Lo que hizo: ella toma su tiempo eligiendo las rebanadas.
“Estoy escogiendo las buenas,” me dijo.
Es el catorce de abril; la Primavera, con
Cinco a diez grados aún no llegan – pero vendrán.
Algunos días me siento mi deber;
Algunos días me encanta mi tarea.
.
(1997)
. . .
Un poeta baila con el objeto inanimado
(para Jim Schley)
.
El paraguas, en este caso;
Previamente, el taburete y
Los pilares de madera que
Soportan el techo.
.
Este cuate – sabes –
Danzará con cualquier cosa;
Le gusta la idea.
.
Pues recoge unas sandalias desechadas de alguna señora,
Las empuja contra su cabeza
– como caracolas – o
Orejas de un burro.
.
¡No hay nada
– declara su cuerpo –
Que está seguro de la danza de ideas!
.
(1985)
. . .
Cornelius Eady
(born 1954, Rochester, New York, USA)
April
.
Suddenly, the legs want a different sort of work.
This is because the eyes look out the window
And the sight is filled with hope.
This is because the eyes look out the window
.
And the street looks a fraction better than the day before.
This is what the eyes tell the legs,
Whose joints become smeared with a fresh sap
Which would bud if attached to a different limb.
.
The legs want a different sort of work.
This is because the ears hear what they’ve been waiting for,
Which cannot be described in words,
But makes the heart beat faster, as if
One had just found money in the street.
.
The legs want to put on a show for the entire world.
The legs want to reclaim their gracefulness.
This is because the nose at last finds the right scent
And tugs the protesting body onto the dance floor.
This is because the hands, stretching out in boredom,
Accidentally brush against the skirts of the world.
. . .
Crows in a Strong Wind
.
Off go the crows from the roof.
The crows can’t hold on.
They might as well
Be perched on an oil slick.
.
Such an awkward dance,
These gentlemen
In their spotted-black coats.
Such a tipsy dance,
.
As if they didn’t know where they were.
Such a humorous dance,
As they try to set things right,
As the wind reduces them.
.
Such a sorrowful dance.
How embarrassing is love
When it goes wrong
.
In front of everyone.
. . .
A Small Moment
.
I walk into the bakery next door
To my apartment. They are about
To pull some sort of toast with cheese
From the oven. When I ask:
What’s that smell? I am being
A poet, I am asking
.
What everyone else in the shop
Wanted to ask, but somehow couldn’t;
I am speaking on behalf of two other
Customers who wanted to buy the
Name of it. I ask the woman
Behind the counter for a percentage
Of her sale. Am I flirting?
Am I happy because the days
Are longer? Here’s what
.
She does: She takes her time
Choosing the slices. “I am picking
Out the good ones,” she tells me. It’s
April 14th. Spring, with five to ten
Degrees to go. Some days, I feel my duty;
Some days, I love my work.
. . .
Poet dances with inanimate object
(for Jim Schley)
.
The umbrella, in this case;
Earlier, the stool, the
Wooden pillars that hold up
the roof.
.
This guy, you realize,
Will dance with anything—
—He likes the idea.
.
Then he picks up some lady’s discarded sandals,
Holds them next to his head like sea shells,
Donkey ears.
.
Nothing,
his body states,
Is safe from the dance of ideas!
. . . . .
Poetry for Earth Day: “And I’ve been waiting long for an earth song”: Poems about Nature and Human Nature
Posted: April 22, 2016 Filed under: Arna Bontemps, English, Helene Johnson, Jessie Redmon Fauset, Langston Hughes | Tags: Poems about Nature and Human Nature Comments Off on Poetry for Earth Day: “And I’ve been waiting long for an earth song”: Poems about Nature and Human Nature
Milkweed and bumblebee_Ward’s Island, Toronto
…..
Langston Hughes (1902-1967)
Earth Song
.
It’s an earth song ––
And I’ve been waiting long
For an earth song.
It’s a spring song!
I’ve been waiting long
For a spring song:
Strong as the bursting of young buds.
Strong as the shoots of a new plant,
Strong as the coming of the first child
From its mother’s womb ––
An earth song!
A body song!
A spring song!
And I’ve been waiting long
For an earth song.
. . .
Helene Johnson (1906-1995)
Metamorphism
.
Is this the sea?
This calm emotionless bosom,
Serene as the heart of a converted Magdalene ––
Or this?
This lisping, lulling murmur of soft waters
Kissing a white beached shore with tremulous lips;
Blue rivulets of sky gurgling deliciously
O’er pale smooth-stones ––
This too?
This sudden birth of unrestrained splendour,
Tugging with turbulent force at Neptune’s leash;
This passionate abandon,
This strange tempestuous soliloquy of Nature,
All these –– the sea?
. . .
Jessie Redmon Fauset (1882-1961)
Rondeau
.
When April’s here and meadows wide
Once more with spring’s sweet growths are pied,
I close each book, drop each pursuit,
And past the brook, no longer mute,
I joyous roam the countryside.
Look, here the violets shy abide
And there the mating robins hide –
How keen my senses, how acute,
When April’s here.
.
And list! down where the shimmering tide
Hard by that farthest hill doth glide,
Rise faint streams from shepherd’s flute,
Pan’s pipes and Berecynthian lute.
Each sight, each sound fresh joys provide
When April’s here.
. . .
Remica L. Bingham (born Phoenix, Arizona)
The Ritual of Season
.
1. Autumn
.
The candles we burned each monsoon night in August
stained the wooden holders that kept them in place.
As storm beat mauve to night and night beat mauve to damp morning,
we extinguished fire and bore the day like a crown.
.
II. Winter
.
dogged air nipped our faces
as we lay in formation
along the stiff ground – the young tribe
athirst
waiting mouths open
longing for snow
.
daily the heavens held back their glory
and we swept angels
into hard earth –
donning the silt of adobe wings
mocking the sun
damning her
.
III. Spring
.
The swollen hum, circadian rhythm,
displaced cockcrow, heralded dawn.
.
We toured the tan flatland, the ages
marked in furrowed caverns –
empty, cactus-ridden – sacred
secret paintings the only life
left on cave drawn walls.
.
Noon day, come high sun and oasis,
the headland showed her fury.
Dust would flare and we’d call it devil –
sheathing our faces, yielding to copper
coating our skin.
.
IV. Summer
.
Under desert sun, road became wavering river.
The shimmer of heat, salamander swift, crossed
the burning middle of July.
.
When the moon, large as ancestry, conquered the sky,
our weapons were bare feet and laughter –
a porchswing vigil staving off the day.
. . .
Shara McCallum (born 1972)
The Spider Speaks
.
No choice but to spin,
the life given.
.
Mother warned me
I would wake one dawn
.
to a sun no longer yellow,
to an expanse of blue,
.
no proper word
to name it. Weaving
.
the patterned threads
of my life, each day
.
another web and the next.
If instead I could carve
.
my message in stone,
would it mean more?
.
I have only this form
to give. When the last
.
silvery strand leaves
my belly, I will see
.
what colour the sun
has become.
Arna Bontemps (1902-1973)
Prodigal
.
I shall come back when dogwood flowers are going
And passing drakes are honking toward the south
With eager necks, I shall come back knowing
The old unanswered question on your mouth.
.
When frost is on the manzonita shoots
And dogwoods at the spring are turning brown,
There between the interlacing roots
With folded arms I shall at last go down.
. . .
Ed Roberson (born 1939)
Urban Nature
.
Neither New Hampshire nor Midwestern farm,
nor the summer home in some Hamptons garden
thing, not that Nature, not a satori
-al leisure come to terms peel by peel, not that core
whiff of beauty as the spirit. Just a street
pocket park, clean of any smells, simple quiet ––
simple quiet not the same as no birds sing,
definitely not the dead of no birds sing:
.
The bus stop posture in the interval
of nothing coming, a not quite here running
sound underground, sidewalk’s grate vibrationless
in open voice, sweet berries ripen in the street
hawk’s kiosks. The orange is being flown in
this very moment picked of its origin.
. . .
C.S. Giscombe (born 1950)
Nature Boy
.
Air over the place partially occupied by crows going places every evening; the extent unseen from sidewalk or porch but obvious, because of the noise, even from a distance. Noise glosses – harsh, shrill, a wild card. Sundown’s a place for the eye, crows alongside that. Talk’s a rough ride, to me, what with the temptation to out-talk. At best long term memory’s the same cranky argument – changeless, not a tête-à-tête – over distance: to me, the category animals excludes birds, the plain-jane ones and birds of passage, both.To me, song’s even more ambiguous – chant itself, the place of connection and association. It’s birdless, bereft. I’m impartial, anhedonic. I’m lucky about distance but I would be remiss if I didn’t hesitate over image before going on.
. . .
Clarence Major (born 1936)
Water USA
.
america, tom sawyer, is bigger
than your swim
hole. You meant, the union, water-
falls, one waterfall
a path near, from which you
jump, folklore, holding
your nose. a chemical change
takes place as you pollute
the water i drink. as your
jet lands, crashing my
environment. tom sawyer can’t hold
all the dead bodies upright
nor get anything
out of a lecture on control
systems. and bigger
thomas didn’t have an even
chance to study chemistry
. . .
Ishmael Reed (born 1938)
Points of View
.
the pioneers and the indians
disagree about a lot of things,
for example, the pioneer says that
when you meet a bear in the woods
you should yell at him and if that
doesn’t work you should fell him.
the indians say that you should
whisper to him softly and call him by
loving nicknames.
no one’s bothered to ask the bear
what he thinks.
. . .
Carl Phillips (born 1959)
The Cure
.
The tree stood dying – dying slowly, in the usual manner
of trees, slowly, but not without its clusters of spring leaves
taking shape again, already. The limbs that held them tossed,
.
shifted, the light fell as it does, through them, though it
sometimes looked as if the light were being shaken, as if
by the branches – the light, like leaves, had it been autumn,
.
scattering down: singly, in fistfuls. Nothing about it to do
with happiness, or glamour. Not sadness either. That much
I could see, finally. I could see, and want to see. The tree
.
was itself, its branches were branches, shaking, they shook
in the wind like possibility, like impatient escorts bored with
their own restlessness, like hooves in the wake of desire, in
.
the wake of the dream of it, and like the branches they were.
A sound in the branches like that of luck when it turns, or is
luck itself a fixed thing, around which I myself turn or don’t,
.
I remember asking – meaning to ask. Where had I been, for
what felt like forever? Where was I? The tree was itself, and
dying; it resembled, with each scattering of light, all the more
.
persuasively the kind of argument that can at last let go of them,
all the lovely-enough particulars that, for a time, adorned it:
force is force. The tree was itself. The light fell here and there,
.
through it. Like history. No –– history doesn’t fall, we fall
through history, the tree is history, I remember thinking, trying
not to think it, as I lay exhausted down in its crippled shadow.
. . .
Frank X. Walker (born 1961)
Homeopathic
.
The unripe cherry tomatoes, miniature red chili peppers
and small burst of sweet basil and sage in the urban garden
just outside the window on our third floor fire escape
might not yield more than seasoning for a single meal
.
or two, but it works wonders as a natural analgesic
and a way past the monotony of bricks and concrete,
the hum of the neighbour’s TV, back to the secret garden
we planted on railroad property when I was just a boy.
.
I peer into the window, searching for that look on mamma’s face,
when she kicked off her shoes, dug her toes into dirt
teeming with corn, greens, potatoes, onions, cabbage and beets;
bit into the flesh of a ripe tomato, then passed it down the row.
.
Enjoying our own fruit, we let the juice run down our chins,
leaving a trail of tiny seeds to harvest on hungry days like these.
. . .
Tim Seibles (born 1955)
Fearless
(for Moombi)
.
Good to see the green world
undiscouraged, the green fire
bounding back every spring, and beyond
the tyranny of thumbs, the weeds
and other co-conspiring green genes
ganging up, breaking in,
despite small shears and kill-mowers,
ground gougers, seed-eaters.
Here they comes, sudden as graffiti
.
not there and then there ––
naked, unhumble, unrequitedly green ––
growing as if they would be trees
on any unmanned patch of earth,
any sidewalk cracked, crooning
between ties on lonesome railroad tracks.
And moss, the shyest green citizen
anywhere, tiptoeing the trunk
in the damp shade of an oak.
.
Clear a quick swatch of dirt
and come back sooner than later
to find the green friends moved in:
their pitched tents, the first bright
leaves hitched to the sun, new roots
tuning the subterranean flavours,
chlorophyll setting a feast of light.
.
Is it possible –– to be so glad?
The shoots rising in spite of every plot
against them. Every chemical stupidity,
every burned field, every better
home & garden finally overrun
by the green will, the green greenness
of green things growing greener.
The mad Earth publishing
her many million murmuring
unsaids. Look
.
how the shade pours
from the big branches – the ground,
the good ground, pubic
and sweet. The trees – who
are they? Their stillness, that
long silence, the never
running away.
. . .
Marilyn Nelson (born 1946)
Last Talk with Jim Hardwick
(a “found” poem)
.
When I die I will live again.
By nature I am a conserver.
I have found Nature
to be a conserver, too.
Nothing is wasted
or permanently lost
in Nature. Things
change their form,
but they do not cease
to exist. After
I leave this world
I do not believe I am through.
God would be a bigger fool
than even a man
if He did not conserve
the human soul,
which seems to be
the most important thing
He has yet done in the universe.
When you get your grip
on the last rung of the ladder
and look over the wall
as I am now doing,
you don’t need their proofs:
You see.
You know
you will not die.
. . .
Ross Gay (born 1974)
Thank You
.
If you find yourself half naked
and barefoot in the frosty grass, hearing,
again, the earth’s great, sonorous moan that says
you are the air of the now and gone, that says
all you love will turn to dust,
and will meet you there, do not
raise your fist. Do not raise
your small voice against it. And do not
take cover. Instead, curl your toes
into the grass, watch the cloud
ascending from your lips. Walk
through the garden’s dormant splendour.
Say only, thank you.
Thank you.
. . . . .
Poemas para el Ciclo de Vida: Anne Spencer: “Otro abril”
Posted: April 20, 2016 Filed under: A FEW FAVOURITES / UNA MUESTRA DE FAVORITOS, Anne Spencer, English, Poemas para el Ciclo de Vida: Anne Spencer, Spanish, ZP Translator: Alexander Best | Tags: Poemas para el Ciclo de Vida Comments Off on Poemas para el Ciclo de Vida: Anne Spencer: “Otro abril”
La poetisa Anne Spencer con su marido Edward y dos nietas_Lynchburg, Virginia, EE.UU._hacia 1930 / Poet Anne Spencer and her husband Edward in their Lynchburg, Virginia garden with two of their grandchildren_circa 1930
. . .
Anne Spencer (Annie Bethel Bannister, 1882-1975)
Otro abril
.
Ella está demasiado débil para cuidar a su jardín este año,
y no pudo hacerlo el año pasado; es una mujer mayor.
Las plantas lo entienden
entonces se agrupan pues crecen sin reservas.
La glicinia, púrpura y blanca,
salta del árbol a la caja-casa de golondrinas,
está arrastrado hacia abajo por globos de pétalos fragantes
que apuntalan y robustecen la vid, pues
desciende y toca la Tierra…y
se dispara otra vez
– serpenteando, colgante – y
repiquetea: “¡Abril, de nuevo, aquí está abril!”
Y la ventana de donde la vieja contempla
necesita un lavado ––
. . .
Réquiem
.
Oh, yo que había deseado tanto ser dueña de algún suelo
– ahora mejor estoy consumida por la tierra.
La sangre al río, el hueso al terreno
– la tumba restaura lo que encuentra un lecho.
.
Oh, yo que bebía del barro oloroso de la Primavera
– devuelvo su vino para otra gente.
El aliento al aire, el corazón a las hierbas
– mi corazón estando despojado,
entonces yo descanse.
. . .
Tierra, te agradezco
.
Tierra, te agradezco
por el placer de tu idioma.
Has experimentado unos momentos difíciles
trayéndolo a mí – del suelo –
gruñir a través del sustantivo
todo el camino hacia
sensibilidad
sensación
forma de ver
sentido de olfato
tocar
–– dicho de otro modo:
el conocimiento que
¡yo soy! / ¡sigo aquí!
. . .
Poemas del florilegio Black Nature: Four Centuries of African-American Nature Poetry (Naturaleza Negra: Cuatro Siglos de Poesía Afroamericana sobre la Naturaleza) © 2009, Camille T. Dungy (editor)
. . .
Anne Spencer (Annie Bethel Bannister, 1882-1975)
Another April
.
She is too weak to tend
her garden last year, this
year – and old.
The plants know, and
cluster, running free.
The wisteria, purple and white,
leaps from tree to martin-
box dragged down by globes
of the fragrant wet petals
to shore up, strengthen the vine, then
drops to touch Earth, to shoot
up again looping, hanging,
pealing out “April again!”
.
April is here!…
And the window from
which she stares needs washing ––
. . .
Requiem
.
Oh, I who so wanted to own some earth,
Am consumed by the earth instead:
Blood into river
Bone into land
The grave restores what finds its bed.
.
Oh, I who did drink of Spring’s fragrant clay,
Give back its wine for other men:
Breath into air
Heart into grass
My heart bereft – I might rest then.
. . .
[Earth, I Thank You]
.
Earth, I thank you
for the pleasure of your language.
You’ve had a hard time
bringing it to me
from the ground
to grunt thru the noun
To all the way
feeling seeing smelling touching
––awareness
I am here!
. . . . .
Lucille Clifton: “La muerte de Caballo Loco”
Posted: April 19, 2016 Filed under: English, Lucille Clifton, Spanish, ZP Translator: Alexander Best | Tags: Poemas para El Día Americano del Indio (19 de abril) Comments Off on Lucille Clifton: “La muerte de Caballo Loco”
“Strange Man of the Lakota” (Crazy Horse around 1876): giclée print on watercolour paper © Kenneth Ferguson
.
Un poema para El Día Americano del Indio / El Día del Indio Americano (19 de abril):
.
Lucille Clifton (1936-2010)
la muerte de Caballo Loco * (5 de septiembre de 1877, a la edad de 35)
.
en los cerros donde el aro
del mundo
se inclina a las cuatro direcciones
ha mostrado a mí el WakanTanka*
el camino que caminan los hombres es una sombra.
Yo era un niño cuando llegué a comprender ese hecho:
que los cabellos largos y las barbas grises, y yo,
tendríamos que entrar al sueño para ser real.
.
por lo tanto soñé y soñé
y sobreviví.
.
soy el último jefe de guerra,
nunca derrotado en batalla*.
Lakotah*, acuérdense mi nombre.
.
ahora durante esta vuelta
mis huesos y mi corazón
están calentitos en las manos de mi padre.
WakanTanka me ha enseñado que
las sombras van a quebrarse
cerca del arroyo llamado Rodilla Herida*
.
acuérdense mi nombre, Lakotah.
soy el último jefe de guerra.
padre, el corazón,
nunca vencido en batalla,
padre, los huesos,
nunca dominado por batalla,
déjenlos al sitio de Rodilla Herida
.
y acuérdense nuestro nombre: Lakota.
estoy soltado de la sombra.
Mi caballo sueña / baila debajo de mí
mientras entro en el mundo real.
. . .
*Caballo Loco = “Crazy Horse” en inglés y Tȟašúŋke Witkó en la lengua Sioux. aprox.1840 – 1877. Era un líder de guerra de los indios Lakotah (una rama de la nación indígena Sioux de las Grandes Llanuras de los EE.UU.)
*WakanTanka = el “gran espíritu” o el “gran misterio”: el término para lo sagrado o lo divino en la cosmovisión de la gente Sioux.
*nunca derrotado en batalla = La Batalla de Little Big Horn (junio de 1876)
*Lakotah = la gente Sioux en los estados de Dakota del Norte y Dakota del Sur.
*Rodilla Herida = “Wounded Knee” en inglés. Lugar en Dakota del Sur. Sitio de una matanza de los indios Sioux por los soldados del gobierno estadounidense. Considerada como “el episodio final” en la conquista de la gente indígena norteamericana.
. . .
Lucille Clifton (1936-2010)
the death of crazy horse (sept.5th, 1877, age 35)
.
in the hills where the hoop
of the world
bends to the four directions
WakanTanka has shown me
the path men walk is shadow.
i was a boy when i saw it,
that long hairs and grey beards
and myself
must enter the dream to be real.
.
so i dreamed and i dreamed
and i endured.
.
i am the final war chief.
never defeated in battle.
Lakotah, remember my name.
.
now on this walk my bones
and my heart
are warm in the hands of my father.
WakanTanka has shown me the shadows
will break
near the creek called Wounded Knee.
.
remember my name, Lakotah.
i am the final war chief.
father, my heart,
never defeated in battle,
father, my bones,
never defeated in battle,
leave them at Wounded Knee
.
and remember our name. Lakotah.
i am released from shadow.
my horse dreams and dances under me
as i enter the actual world.
. . . . .
Otras reflexiones para El Día del Aborigen Americano…
.
.
https://zocalopoets.com/category/juan-felipe-herrera/
. . . . .
“Language Current”: Latino and Chicano poets from the 1980s and 1990s
Posted: April 12, 2016 Filed under: English, Spanish | Tags: Latino and Chicano poetry Comments Off on “Language Current”: Latino and Chicano poets from the 1980s and 1990s
El jardín de sueños_The garden of dreams_by Chicana artist Judithe Hernández (born 1948, Los Angeles)
Gioconda Belli
(born 1948, Managua, Nicaragua / Los Angeles, California, USA)
Menopause
.
I’m not acquainted with it, yet.
But, so far,
all over the world,
women have survived it.
Perhaps it was that our grandmothers were stoic
or that, back then, no one entitled them to complain,
still they reached old age
with wilted bodies
but strong souls.
Now, instead,
dissertations are written on the subject.
At age thirty the sorrow begins,
the premonition of catastrophe.
.
A body is much more than the sum of its hormones.
Menopausal or not
a woman remains a woman,
beyond the production of secretions or eggs.
To miss a period does not imply the loss of syntax
or coherence;
it shouldn’t lead to hiding
as a snail in a shell,
nor provoke endless brooding.
If depression sets in
it won’t be a new occurrence,
each menstrual cycle has come to us with tears
and its load of irrational anger.
There is no reason, then,
to feel devalued:
Get rid of tampons
and sanitary napkins!
Use them to light a bonfire in your garden!
Be naked
Dance the ritual of aging
And survive it,
as we all shall.
. . .
Rafael Campo
(born 1964, Dover, New Jersey, USA)
The Return
.
He doesn’t know it yet, but when my father
and I return there, it will be forever.
His antihypertensives thrown away,
his briefcase in the attic left to waste,
the football game turned off – he’s snoring now,
he doesn’t even dream it, but I know
I’ll carry him the way he carried me
when I was small: In 2023,
my father’s shrunken, eight-five years old,
weighs ninety pounds, a little dazed but thrilled
that Castro’s long been dead, his son impeached!
He doesn’t know it, dozing on the couch
across the family room from me, but this
is what I’ve dreamed of giving him, just this.
And as I carry him upon my shoulders,
triumphant strides across a beach so golden
I want to cry, that’s when he sees for sure,
he sees he’s needed me for all these years.
He doesn’t understand it yet, but when
I give him Cuba, he will love me then.
. . .
Sandra Cisneros
(Chicana, born 1954, Chicago, Illinois, USA)
Tango for the Broom
.
I would like to be a poet if
I had my life to do over again.
I would like to dance with the broom,
or sweep the kitchen as I am
.
sweeping it today and imagine
my broom is a handsome
black-haired tango man whose
black hair scented with Tres Flores
oil is as shiny as his
black patent leather shoes.
.
Or, I would like to be a poet laundress
washing sheets and towels,
pulling them hot and twisted
from the dryer, wrapping
.
myself in the warmth of
clean towels, clean sheets,
folding my work into soft towers,
satisfied. So much done in a day!
.
Or, I would like to be a poet eating soup
today because my throat hurts. Putting
big spoonfuls of hot soup
into my big fat mouth.
. . .
It occurs to me I am the creative / destructive goddess Coatlicue
.
I deserve stones.
Better leave me the hell alone.
.
I am besieged.
I cannot feed you.
You may not souvenir my bones,
knock on my door, camp, come in,
telephone, take my Polaroid. I’m paranoid,
I tell you. Lárguense. Scram.
Go home.
.
I am anomaly. Rare she who
can’t stand kids and can’t stand you.
No excellent Cordelia cordiality have I.
No coffee served in tidy cups.
No groceries in the house.
.
I sleep to excess,
smoke cigars,
drink. Am at my best
wandering undressed,
my fingernails dirty,
my hair a mess.
Terribly
.
sorry, Madame isn’t
feeling well today.
Must
Greta Garbo.
Pull an Emily D.
Roil like Jean Rhys.
Abiquiu myself.
Throw a Maria Callas.
Shut myself like a shoe.
.
Stand back. Christ
almighty. I’m warning.
Do not. Keep
out. Beware.
Help! Honey,
this means
you.
. . .
Judith Ortíz Cofer
(born 1952, Hormigueros, Puerto Rico / Georgia, USA)
The Tip
.
Just days before the crash
that killed him, my father
lost the tip of his index finger
while working on the same vehicle
that would take him away.
.
I recall my mother’s scream
that brought me out of Mann’s
The Magic Mountain,
and to the concrete drive
now sprinkled in crimson.
His stunned look
is what has stayed with me.
Shock that part of him could take leave
without permission or warning.
He was a man who hated surprises,
who lined his clothes and shoes
like a platoon he inspected daily,
and taught us to suspect the future.
His was the stranger in a strange land’s fear
of not knowing, and not having.
.
After the doctor snipped the raggéd end
of joint and skin like a cigar
and stitched it closed, my father
stared transfixed at the decapitated
finger, as if it had a message for him.
As if he suspected this small betrayal
of his body was just the tip
of chaos rising.
. . .
Carlos Cumpián
(Chicano, born 1953, San Antonio, Texas / Chicago, Illinois, USA)
The Circus
.
A cougar’s howl blasts
out of brass cornets,
matched by blaring bugles,
thunderous trombones,
plus two marching kettledrums
dum dum dumbing us deaf
as six muscle men carry cudgels,
four women wearing less than
what’s wrapped in ribbon around
their lances bounce freely alongside
13 elephants that line up, turn, mount
and massage each other,
except grey guys one and thirteen
who represent wrinkled
alpha and omega
cosmic pachyderms
possessing the patois of saints
amid the frantic pulse of these
under-the-big-top idiotics.
Puerto Rico Conga Man in Lights_copyright 2011 Carlos Reyes, photographer
Sandra María Esteves
(Nuyorican / Dominicana, born 1948, The Bronx, New York City, USA)
In the Beginning
.
In the beginning was the sound
Like the universe exploding
It came, took form, gave life
And was called Conga
.
And Conga said:
Let there be night and day
And was born el Quinto y el Bajo
.
And Quinto said: Give me female
There came Campana
And Bajo said: Give me son
There came Bongos
.
They merged produced force
Maracas y Claves
Chequere y Timbales
.
¡Qué viva la música!
So it was written
On the skin of the drum
.
¡Qué viva la gente!
So it was written
In the hearts of the people
.
¡Qué viva Raza!
.
So it is written.
. . .
Amor Negro
.
In our wagon oysters are treasured
Their hard shells clacking against each other
Words that crash into our ears
We cushion them
Cup them gently in our hands
We kiss and suck the delicate juice
And sculpture flowers from the stone skin
We wash them in the river by moonlight
With offerings of songs
And after the meal we wear them in our hair
And in our eyes.
. . .
Rosario Ferré (1938-2016, Puerto Rico)
Language Current
.
English is like a nuclear reactor.
I’m in it right now.
As I shoot down its fast track
small bits of skin, fragments, cells
stick to my sides.
Once in a while whole sentences gush forth
and slam themselves against the page
condensing their rapid sprays of pellets
into separate words.
Sometimes I travel in it at 186,000 miles an hour,
the speed of light,
when I lie sleepless on the bed at night.
No excess baggage is allowed.
No playful, baroque tendrils
curling this way and that.
No dreamtime walkabout
all the way down to Australia.
In English you have to know where you’re going:
either towards the splitting of the self
or the blasting of the molecules around you.
.
Spanish is a very different tongue.
It’s deeper and darker, with so many twists
and turns it makes me feel like I’m navigating
the uterus. Shards of gleaming stone,
emerald, amethyst, opal
wink at me as I swim down its moist shaft.
It goes deeper than the English Channel,
all the way down to the birth canal and beyond.
. . .
Leroy Quintana
(born 1944, Albuquerque, New Mexico, USA)
Zen – Where I’m From
.
A good door needs no lock, yet no one can open it.
(Lao Tsu)
.
You simply have to admire how, immediately after
the twelve-foot-high chainlink fence
crowned with coils of wicked barbed wire was
erected, the fence the City Council voted on
unanimously to guard against anyone ever again,
again breaking into one of the town’s
storage sheds, how immediately after, the
thieves drove up with their welding torches and
stole it!
. . .
What it was like
.
If you want to know what
it was like, I’ll tell you
what my tío told me:
There was a truckdriver,
Antonio, who could handle a
rig as easily in reverse as
anybody else straight ahead:
.
Too bad he’s a Mexican was
what my tío said the
Anglos had to say
about that.
.
And thus the moral:
.
Where do you begin if
you begin with
if you’re too good it’s too bad?
. . .
Bessy Reyna
(Panama/Cuba/USA)
Lunch Walk
.
He came bouncing down the street
heavy body, long hair, jacket and tie
there was an oddness about him
then, as he approached
I heard the sound of maracas
coming from his pockets
– was it candy?
I pictured hundreds of multi-coloured sweets
crashing against each other
he, oblivious to the crackling rhythm.
.
Along Capitol Avenue
our paths crossed
lunch break nearly over.
How can I explain
being late for work
because I was following a man
who sounded like maracas?
Mural on the side wall of El Milagro tortilla makers (founded in 1950 by Raul Lopez)_East Austin, Texas_photograph by J.C. Shea
Raúl R. Salinas
(1934-2008, San Antonio/Austin, Texas, USA)
Poema del Nuevo León
.
S
e
n
t…a…d…o
e………..m
n…………i
.
favourite restaurant
surrounded by carnitas
y coronas
me pongo a platonear.
.
Meanwhile…
en un booth by the bar
Gloria (la waitress
especial) sits smiling
whiling away
minutes before her
shift / swiftly munching
on a bunch of
(what i hope are
farmworker-friendly,
pesticide-free,
pro-union!)
Grapes.
.
– Austin, 1986
.
Frank Romero (born 1940)_Ghost of Evergreen Cemetery (1987)
A Walk through the Campo Santo
.
i walked through the Campo Santo of my ciudad tonight
visiting friends and relations playmates from childhoods
hurried / lived other mates from capitalist caves request stop
machinery for a while share in the sacred plants spreading the
presence of peace above / beneath the earth birthrights given
up the Spirit rusty nail at the heel locks the jaws locomotive
wheels become meat grinders the plague in the colony gang-
land guns coming and going family feud with his pistol in his
hand jazz trumpets blare flares catch the glimmer of the gun
running partner my blood of no more sounds no smoke-em-
stickpins in the skin pop poisonous veins 12 gauge shotgun
in the mouth scattered brains become wall designs life left
dangling on the old homestead backyard live oak tree elders
those who checked out caught the bus all on they own / popos
and grandpas grandmother gabriela dead not dead bracing up
temper the steel softening of the machine priestly eulogies
She Gave Birth to a Nation! an indio poet smiles and matriar-
chal voices set the tone as six generations sheep lonely in their
assimilation slump on cold, wooden church pews scratching
they heads wonder what it was the preacher meant bent on
knee i honour primos y tías compas & comrades shoulder to
shoulder laid out beneath caliche stones on sacred ground
i walked through the campo santo of my ciudad tonight.
.
– Austin, 1989
. . .
Gary Soto
(born 1952, Chicano, San Joaquin Valley/Fresno, California, USA)
The Essay Examination for what You have read in the Course “World Religions”
.
From his cross Jesus said, Sit up straight,
And Buddha said, Go ahead and laugh, big boy,
And although no god, Gandhi said, Do onto others…
The last one didn’t seem right. I re-licked my pencil
And looked out the classroom window – two dudes smoking joints,
Yukking it up while I was taking a timed exam.
I noticed a stray dog nosing a paper bag,
Which prompted me to look down at my feet –
My own lunch bag with three greasy splotches.
That was Pavlov, the reaction thing.
And at any moment I could start salivating.
I returned to my exam. I had to concentrate
And wrote, Zoroastrianism was a powerful religion
In a powerful time. Of Taoism, I wrote,
The split personality made you more friends.
I liked my progress. I looked out the window again –
The two hippie dudes now petting the dog
And blowing smoke into its furry face. I wrote:
Confucius was a good guy who stroked his whiskers.
I stalled here. The last part didn’t seem right,
And it didn’t seem right that our teacher
Should be reading the sports page while we suffered.
I got back to work. Who was Shiva?
When did Shinto start? Why did the roofs of the pagodas
Swing upward? The rubbings from my eraser snowed
To the floor and my tongue was black as plague.
The clock ate up the hour. The teacher put down
His newspaper and said, You’ve been good students.
After class I went around to see the hippie dudes,
Now passed out against the wall. The dog lay
Between them, also snoozing, the joint smouldering
Next to his furry face. Unlike Gandhi
I didn’t have much to say on the matter,
I opened my lunch bag with no judgement, no creed,
No French philosophical nada. I ate
A hog of a burrito and then the ancient, mealy fruit,
The apple of our first sin.
. . .
Gloria Vando
(Puerto Rico/New York City, USA)
HE 2-104: A True Planetary Nebula in the Making
.
On the universal clock, Sagan tells us,
we are only moments old. And this
new crab-like discovery in Centaurus,
though older by far, is but
an adolescent going through a vital
if brief stage in the evolution
of interacting stars. I see it
starting its sidereal trek
through midlige, glowingly complex –
“a pulsating red giant: with a “small
hot companion” in tow – and think
of you and me that night in August
speeding across Texas in your red
Mustang convertible, enveloped in dust
and fumes, aiming for a motel bed,
settling instead for the backseat of the car,
arms and legs flailing in all directions,
but mostly toward heaven – and now
this cool red dude winking at me
through the centuries as if to say
I know, I know, sidling in closer
to his sidekick, shedding his garments,
shaking off dust, encircling
her small girth with a high-density
lasso of himself, high-velocity
sparks shooting from her ringed
body like crazy legs and arms until
at last, he’s got his hot companion
in a classic hold and slowly,
in ecstasy, they take wing and
blaze as one across the Southern skies –
no longer crab but butterfly.
. . .
The above poems were featured in the 1997 anthology El Coro: A Chorus of Latino and Latina Poetry, edited by Martín Espada.
. . . . .
Nieve en abril: tres poemas / Snow in April: three poems
Posted: April 7, 2016 Filed under: English, Spanish, ZP Translator: Alexander Best | Tags: Poemas para el Cambio de Estaciones Comments Off on Nieve en abril: tres poemas / Snow in April: three poems
Zócalo Poets 