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​
​​SOMOS EN ESCRITO
The Latino Literary Online Magazine

POETRY
​POESÍA

Tonantzin… Derramando flores/Spilling flowers

12/11/2020

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Iconic image by Robert Lentz

​Rezo a Tonantzin

​By Rafael Jesús González
 
Tonantzin
         madre de todo
         lo que de ti vive,
es, habita, mora, está;
Madre de todos los dioses
                           las diosas
madre de todos nosotros,
           la nube y el mar
           la arena y el monte
           el musgo y el árbol
           el ácaro y la ballena.
 
Derramando flores
haz de mi manto un recuerdo
que jamás olvidemos que tú eres
único paraíso de nuestro vivir.
 
Bendita eres,
cuna de la vida, fosa de la muerte,
fuente del deleite, piedra del sufrir.
 
concédenos, madre, justicia,
            concédenos, madre, la paz.

​Prayer to Tonantzin

​By Rafael Jesús González
 
Tonantzin
         mother of all
         that of you lives,
be, dwells, inhabits, is;
Mother of all the gods
                       the goddesses
Mother of us all,
            the cloud & the sea
            the sand & the mountain
            the moss & the tree
            the mite & the whale.
 
Spilling flowers
make of my cloak a reminder
that we never forget that you are
the only paradise of our living.
 
Blessed are you,
cradle of life, grave of death,
fount of delight, rock of pain.
 
Grant us, mother, justice,
          grant us, mother, peace.
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​Rafael Jesús González is an international activist for human rights and social justice, a bilingual poet and writer, Poet Laureate of Berkeley, California, and, always with our deepest appreciation, a frequent contributor to Somos en escrito. © Rafael Jesús González 2020.

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"A mature, intelligent, fully formed 6 year old, and a playful, giddy, un-focused 60 year old."

2/25/2020

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https://circulowriters.com/

Círculo ​

A community of diverse poets and writers supporting literary arts in California.  Somos en escrito provides a venue for these aspiring  poets to feature their poetry, interviews, reviews and promote poetic happenings.

"Let your lips feel what I think/
​Deja que tus labios sientan lo que pienso"

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Paul Aponte's interview by Lucha Corpi
with accompanying poetry

​​THE POET

​Paul Aponte is a Chicano Poet from Sacramento. He is a member of the writers’ group Escritores del Nuevo Sol. The poet Francisco X. Alarcón was one of the original founders of the group.  Paul is also a member of Círculo, a group of poets from various cities in Northern California who come together to produce and promote poetry in workshops & public performances. The group is headed by poets Paul Aponte, Naomi Quiñonez.  Lucha Corpi, Adela Najarro, Javier Huerta and Odilia Galván Rodríguez.
 
Paul has been published in Poetry In Flight (the Tecolote Press Anthology), Un Canto De Amor A Gabriel Garcia Márquez (a publication from the country of Chile), in the Anthology Soñadores - We Came To Dream, in La Bloga (a southwestern U.S. online literary review), and in the Los Angeles Review Volume 20 - Fall 2016, and is now often called upon to be the featured reader around the greater Sacramento and San Francisco Bay areas.
 
The Beginning:
In the mid 90's Paul became a Web Jefe and published his poetry online.  He then was an original member of the performance poetry group, Poetas Of The Obsidian Tongue (modeled after the San Diego based group Taco Shop Poets),  performing throughout the South SF Bay area. Finally, in 1999 he published his 1st works in the book of poetry entitled Expression Obsession.
​IN CONVERSATION
Lucha Corpi (LC) and Paul Aponte (PA)


LC:  Paul, Tell me something about your earlier years:  Themes or subjects of interest, hobbies. Adventures. Misadventures. What path or paths brought you to writing poetry and reading or reciting your poems in public?

PA:  I think my real plunge into poetry began in the early 90’s, when I decided to act on my knowledge that life was deep, complex, and filled with nuances beyond most people’s comprehension.  Until then, I had felt stagnant and life deprived.  

You see, I was a father of two young children and husband to a hard working wife, and I loved them all very much.  I was also involved, more or less by default, in a religion that required a lot of my time.  I would lead Bible studies, give speeches in various congregations, go preaching door to door, attend meetings 4 times a week, and help the congregation with the financial monthly reports.  I did it very well because I was more capable than most.  However, father time began wearing through the light coating of satisfaction I would get from helping out, and was replaced by frustration at some of the things I was forced to teach by the religious organization.  I always knew the knowledge they shared was flawed, but the momentum of life kept me on this path that was not me.

So, I felt stagnant and life deprived.   That is when I began writing every chance I’d get – usually during breaks at work.  I kept a binder at work with many thoughts, rants, sketches, and some early (really bad) poetry.  Somehow, within all these thoughts, I scribbled the words Expression Obsession, which became the title of my first publication; some of those rantings and words became a part of this book.  Even though today some of those poems in my first publication make me cringe, I’m still proud of the fact that I went all out and did it at a time when it wasn’t an easy project to get done, and that I received positive comments from many poets I respected.  Among them, Alurista, who by chance came across my book at the MACLA arts center bookstore in San Jose.  He was performing later that evening with the group that I was a member of: Poetas Of The Obsidian Tongue.  He mentioned that he found a book of poetry that he considered deeply honest and liked the voice of the poet, and asked if we knew him.  I was floating on air for the rest of the day.

The religious organization excommunicated me for my “new” way of thinking, and I found myself free to be who I am.  A free-thinking writer, a loving father and husband, and a flawed but generally loving human being (god I hate Prius drivers).
​

LC: When I was six I was asked to memorize and recite poems at school and in public. I had no idea I would one day write poems of my own. But it took a series of painful events in my life as a young divorced woman and mother, and as a cultural transplant in the U.S., learning a second language to force open the gates of literary dams and let the streams flow and reveal what was in my heart, mind and soul.  This is my experience.  How about yours? When did you start writing

PA:  Hah-hah!  I can see you reciting poetry as a cute little girl in school!  It would be great to time travel and look back at those events.  I think I was about 7 or 8 when I was taught by my uncle to recite with my brother a poem for my Mother, who was visiting us from the states.   She was impressed and shed tears, but that was the first and only poem I remember being involved in as a child.  
My writing really began on its own.  It flowed from the aforementioned life stagnancy, but also from the losses of family members that I loved and respected.  I think mainly, though, from my openness to a great desire to write.   For me, somehow, out of nowhere, I get a thought or even a complete poem in my head, and I stop whatever I’m doing and write.   I feel lucky or tortured (still not sure) that I have to write.
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Poet Paul Aponte at 2 years old.
LC: Between ages 6 and 12, what kinds of subjects more than interested and impacted you?

PA:  There were two subjects that still interest me to this day.  Oddly on the surface they appear to have nothing to do with words or poetry.  They are arithmetic-mathematics-geometry, and ancient artifacts and ruins of the ancient peoples of southern Mexico. 

About math, I just love the honesty and truth in numbers.  There can be no lies, and no matter how complex the problem, there is always a solution, even if that is zero or null.  I like  the process of chipping away at a mountainous conglomeration of words and numbers, organizing it into several pieces, and then resolving those pieces to put together towards the final solution.  I’m not a genius at Math, and I don’t always get it, but do enjoy it.

About my love of ancient ruins:  You see, I lived in La Plaza De Las Tres Culturas, in 1960's Nonoalco, Tlatelolco, México D.F. "Las Tres Culturas" was the Aztec, Spanish, and the Mestizo, as seen thru their architecture. We always had one lookout for the "tecolotes" (brown-suited police) who would surely arrest all of us, if they could catch us. Actually, one or two were usually caught, but it was way too much fun. We'd play spider-man. Climbing and clinging to the lava rock walls of the Aztec ruins, jumping from one wall to another, and hoping our grip was as good as our courage.
 
We would often find obsidian knives and arrows, along with clay figurines, in the evenings at dig sites around this area where they were laying down plumbing or repairing something down below level ground.  It amazed me that so much life and history was here so long ago, and that then conquerors changed the area to what we knew today.
 
This same area was the site of many a conflict between the "estudiantes" and "granaderos". I was living there, in the middle of the conflict. Molotov Cocktails going off, bullets flying, students running, granaderos giving chase. We would sleep in the hallway, to ensure stray bullets had a chance to be stopped by a 2nd wall, but no bullets ever came near our 2nd floor apartment at San Juan de Letrán 402, Edificio C-11, Entrada 5, Departamento 201. At a time when every corner, every building entrance, every building top, had a fully armed soldier my uncles opted to put my brother and I on a bus to Ciudad Juárez, Chihuahua, to live with my maternal grandparents - Jesús and Casimira Canchola.
 
I was deeply impressed by my having lived there during my formative years.


LC: Have any of those subjects, hobbies, themes still resonate in you at present?

P.A.  It is what I know about myself.  I feel I am a child and a grown-up.  A mature, intelligent, fully formed 6 year old, and a playful, giddy, un-focused 60 year old. I am all times in my life, I was now – then, and am then - now.  I don’t want to forget or erase any pains, but forgive all and live to the fullest today, and I keep coming across the same path in different forms.  My life is on a Mobius strip.

Yes.  Those themes resonate with me to this day.

LC: When did you start playing music and what role has it played in your poetic production?  

PA:  As a child, I saw my father and my brother Louie sing and play guitar.  My mother sang beautifully as she worked around the house.  When I moved to Mexico City with my uncles, I was 5, and my Tío Ángel, played guitar and sang corridos. I naturally progressed to wanting to learn to play. Later, when my voice changed in my early teens, I began to explore singing and took guitar lessons in high school.  To this day, I enjoy playing and singing.  This is its own creative outlet, and my experiences and creativity come from different sources for music vs. writing.  However, there may be a fine thread between poetry and some of the very few songs I’ve composed, but that is pretty much it.  I’ve often been at poetry events where music is available to be played with my words, and I usually opt out.

LC:  Have you set any of your poems to music? Written songs?

PA:  No.  I’ve only written songs for music, and separately written poetry.   It would be a dream come true if a professional musician would use my poetic words for a recording, but I don’t have that capability, that skill.
  
LC:   As far back as you can remember, when was the first time the “muse” spoke to you or the “duende” (a spirit) tricked you into writing a poem, although you might not have called it a poem?

PA :  Well, el “duende” was me because I wanted to impress a girl (who later became my wife) and so I wrote my first poem  when I was 16 years old.  I’m pretty sure I still have that poster with a poem.  I also water-colored a rose on it, and called it “La Rosa Inmarchitable” and later wrote a song by the same name (but completely different words).

LC: How/when/where did you come to realize you were a poet? Was there an instant of revelation, or a déjà vu moment--something you had felt all along but hadn’t yet named? Something that was as common as nourishment/a meal?

PA:  I knew that I was not only a poet, but a Chicano Poet, after I went to the Chicano Poetry workshop led by Marc David Pinate in San Jose, California.  I think it was 1996.

LC: How many of those earlier feelings, predilections, revelations, negative or positive experiences still move you to write?

PA:  My connection to the Aztec culture can still be an influence, because the boundary of a forward moving time capsule disappeared for me with my experiences around their ancient ruins, and I feel very connected to it.  I like to point to the mural depicting the market of Tlatelolco and the ancient Aztec city by Diego Rivera as the place where I lived about 500 years later.

LC: You must also feel very connected and perhaps you identify more closely with Odysseus as I noticed that you have titled one of your poems, a great poem, as “Ithaca.” If I remember correctly, it is the kingdom and home of one of the heroes in The Illiad. He is the main character-hero Odysseus in the classic epic poem The Odyssey by Homer.  Odysseus has been considered by many critics and writers as the prototypical, common man, an existential man, a modern man: inquisitive, willing to take calculated risks, adventurous and smart. In the end, he is also a man bound by duty to family and country.  How is all this significant for you if so, since your life, as you have related here, has also been a kind of “odyssey?”
 
PA:  Interesting that you caught this to ask a question.  It’s about all the things you mention in your question about Odysseus.  However, I was deeply impressed by Odysseus’ adventures, which were really an exploration of the unconscious, and his subsequent “awakening” to the realization of who he was and where he belonged.  That “awakening” was my experience.  I came to know that I would never find home if I didn’t live life with truth and honesty to my knowledge and acquired wisdom.  Now that I do, now that I am in the realm of the conscious, I have found my home in a truly amazing love, my life partner and wife, Anita.
          
LC: Any future plans, publications, readings or other programs worth mentioning here? Please do tell us.

PA.  Maybe this year or next year I plan to put together much of my poetry in one final book.  I’ve also been considering writing an adventure novel that would require more time than I have available right now, but I am excited about it.  That may have to wait until I retire, and as things are, it will not be anytime soon.

​LC. Gracias, Paul. It has been a most enjoyable and rewarding conversation with you. I look forward to reading more of your poetry, and of course listening to you reading it for a total enjoyment.  

THE POETRY

​PASSION THAT FOLDS
​

Kiss me with your eyes
Touch me with your mind
Vibrate like a silenced alarm
 
Let your lips
feel what I think
Let your torso note
the caresses of my perceptions
Your buttocks  
my strong hands
that lift you
on to my thighs of passion
That scream for your sliding heat
and moans
and sighs with low tones
 that call the flames
and the tireless rhythm
 
Until the physical rejections
due to the unrestricted
and growing explosive pleasure 
 
Until then when you close your doors
and bend your beautiful body
in pleasure that pleads for the end
Only then
Do I love you again.


​PASIÓN QUE DOBLA
​

Bésame con tus ojos
Tócame con tu mente
Vibra como alarma en silencio
 
Deja que tus labios
 sientan lo que pienso
Que tu torso note
las acaricias de mis percepciones
Tus glúteos
mis manos fuertes
que te levantan
sobre mis muslos de pasión
Que gritan por tu calor deslizante
Y gemidos
Y suspiros con tonos bajos
que llaman las llamas
y el incansable ritmo
 
Hasta los rechazos físicos
por el irrestricto
y creciente placer explosivo
 
Hasta entonces
que cierras tus puertas
y doblas tu hermoso cuerpo
en placer que ruega fin
 
Sólo entonces
te vuelvo a amar. 
​MY ITHACA, MY HOME
​

The gentle, cool breeze. 
The shade under this lush tree. 
Laying
upon bay leaves. 
Your beautiful feet on my thighs. 
Your smile. 
All. 
Pillow of my being,
my Ithaca. 
​​MI ÍTACA, MI HOGAR
​

El viento lento y fresco. 
La sombra bajo este frondoso árbol. 
Reposando 
sobre hojas de laurel. 
Tus pies bellos
sobre mis muslos. 
Tu sonrisa. 
Todo. 
Almohada de mi ser, 
mi Ítaca. 
​FRANCISCO X. ALARCON WORKSHOP
​

Flower and song blooms
birthing spirit teachers
 learning
 flourishing
 
Poetic mint plant
love's gift to relax and cure
spreading and growing
 
A magical feast
motivating soul and mind
Expansion of love
creating spirit teachers
an Earth cleansed with In lak'ech 
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​EAST SIDE
​

Checkalo:
Super Taqueria,
Century 21 turned into a Mercado,
Mervyn's Home Depot.
Story Rd with no more stories.
 
The home of memories standing,
The orchards & morning fog gone.
Old pachanga and gathering places replaced.
 
Chicanos y hueros
ahora más revueltos
con Tortas y Pho y Tikka Masala.
 
The low riders resting in garages,
The cars of the streets angry,
claustrophobic, and green light deprived.
The old panaderias y mercados
paved over with unoriginal shopping centers
with expensive coffee
and bumptious pastries.
 
But we're still there.
On clear blue skies
Alum Rock Park beckons
or el Happy Hollow.
The car covers come off.
The dark glasses
and slicked back hair come on.
The moves are on,
and we join nuestros carnales
en el parque
porque ya aprendimos a hacer arrachera,
and to eat frijoles y salsa with nan,
and start with a rice noodle vegetable soup,
y nos encanta. 

​LENTO

Las noches pasan. 
Los árboles se marchitan. 
La vida se estremece. 
La Madre Tierra rompe en llantos. 
La industria se cuelga. 
Lento, lento. 
Apretando el nudo. 
Asfixiando su vida,
y toda vida,
y los déspotas sonríen.  
​SLOW

The nights go by.
The trees wilt.
Life shudders.
Mother Earth breaks into tears.
Industry hangs itself.
Slow, slow.
Tightening the noose.
Asphyxiating its life,
and all life,
and the despots smile. 
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​​CASCABELES
(AYOYOTL)


Feathers,
sonidos de cascabeles
& voices of protest. 
Words for a better tomorrow,
and chatting about Pepe
y la Goya, and tonight’s pachanga. 
 
Mistress of my soul,
cultura Chicana,
Mestiza,
Mexicana,
Abuelo y Abuela,
Nana y la Nena. 
 
Vertical, sobre pies,
marchando,
ergidos. 
Marcha de acuerdo,
unidad,
en manifestación
y lucha. 
 
“What do we want
JUSTICE!!!
When do we want it
NOW!!!”
 
Drumming & danza
and calls to action. 
Pre Columbian art & musings
at Southside Park, 
in Cesar Chavez’ energy,
in RCAF’s spirit, 
in the shade of past battles fought. 
 
“Los pueblos, unidos, ¡jamás serán vencidos!”,
y los cascabeles suenan 
como lluvia fuerte
que no para. 
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Lucha Corpi, born in México, came to Berkeley as a student wife in 1964. She is the author of two collections of poetry, two bilingual children’s books, six novels, four of which feature Chicana detective Gloria Damasco, and her latest, Confessions of a Book Burner: Personal Essays and Stories issued in 2014. She has been the recipient of numerous awards, including a National Endowment for the Arts, an Oakland Cultural Arts fellowship, and the PEN-Oakland Josephine Miles and Multicultural Publishers Exchange Literary Award. A retired teacher, she resides in Oakland, California.

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Paul Aponte is a Chicano Poet from Sacramento. He is a member of the writers groups Círculo and Escritores Del Nuevo Sol (Writers Of The New Sun). He has been published in the El Tecolote Press Anthology Poetry in flight, Un Canto De Amor A Gabriel Garcia Márquez, a publication from the country of Chile, in the anthology Soñadores - We Came To Dream; La Bloga, "Los Angeles Review Volume 20 - Fall 2016," and in Escritores del Nuevo Sol / Writers of the New Sun: Anthology. Much of his poetry can also be found in Facebook. ​

While you're here, check out a review of our first publication, Insurgent Aztlán

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Preserving the Memory of a Dead Chicana Poet

7/6/2019

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Sketch of Cecilia Vindiola's abuelita, 1967

​Linda Coronado: 
Una mujer verdadera 
del renacimiento

Linda Coronado, poet, musician, artist, and community activist born in Tucson, Arizona in 1947, fought for gay rights, feminist rights, and Chicanismo until her death from cancer in 1993. We have learned of her works from friends and one cassette recording of a reading she performed of seven of her poems on October 21, 1993, as she lay in a hospice bed. Coronado died a week later.

The recording may be the only physical evidence we have of her writing, the sound of her vibrant voice, her deeply human nature, and the friendships she amassed over her years of activism in Tucson. We print those seven obras here to memorialize the rich potential she possessed for greater works of poetry and perhaps fiction, memoir, who knows.

My thanks to two women who knew Coronado and made these materials available to Somos en escrito, Cecilia Vindiola and Alison Hughes, both of Tucson.  Alison made a cassette recording as Linda recited some of her favorite poems while surrounded by friends. Cecilia shared a drawing of her grandmother, shown here, which had been drawn by Linda.  Together these two friends shared the information about Linda with Somos en escrito in order that her amazing talents would not be lost to history.  

We believe that someone in the academic world will recognize Coronado as a singular personality worth investigating for more insights about her life and struggle. Perhaps somewhere more of her  poetry and artworks will be found to inspire us even these several decades since she died.

                                                      --Armando Rendón
                                                                           Editor

The following biographical information is taken from the program text of a ceremony honoring  Linda Coronado’s achievements as a community activist, in the arts (painting and music), education, and social service by the dedication of a tile in the University of Arizona Women’s Plaza of Honor. The text was read by Josefina Ahumada, retired social worker, activist, and member of the Tucson YWCA Board. 
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​“Born in Tucson in 1947, Linda never knew her real mother as she was adopted by a Tucson family as a baby. It became obvious when she was quite young that her talents in the music field knew no boundaries. At Tucson High School her teacher encouraged her natural abilities. She played at least nine musical instruments, but guitar was her favorite. After obtaining a bachelor's degree from the University of Arizona, she taught  in Tucson Unified School District, while at the same time she pursued her passion for art and music. 

“She wrote the music score for a ballet, she played guitar and sang songs she composed, as well as classical Latin American songs during events and special occasions in Tucson. In the 1980's her drawing and painting talents were scooped up by a local clothing producer that hired her to draw their advertisements. She was also active in theatre and quickly developed a strong reputation as a creative stage manager at Tucson’s Invisible Theater. She also worked regularly with Borderlands Theatre, and was devoted to the theatre arts.

“As a Commissioner on the Tucson Women's Commission during its formative years, Linda helped to organize Tucson's first celebration of women in the arts -- an event that drew scores of performing groups, music artists, and visual artists together to bring visibility and recognition to the talents and achievements of women in the arts.

“While in her 30's, Linda was diagnosed with Type II Diabetes, a disease that disabled her at a rapid rate. As she struggled to manage this unexpected health challenge, she continued to pursue her artistic endeavors, by writing poems, songs, and essays.

“In her final days, confined to hospice care, Linda gathered her close friends together to give her final performance. Propped up in her bed, she delivered a powerful, unforgettable reading of her poems. Linda Coronado was truly a renaissance woman. The poems that follow are  a testament to her values, humor, and sense of self.

“In the 1970s, the Chicano movement was well on its way. In Tucson there were social activists from the barrios who raised their voices speaking to issues of the day. Linda Coronado was one of those voices. Whether it was playing her guitar and singing at a farmworkers' rights rally in Tucson and at  the border between Douglas and Agua Prieta, or performing with a local theater troupe, Linda was out front advocating for equality and women's rights. Linda was active with the Teatro Libertad and Ododo Theater, two of Tucson’s first street activist theater groups.

“Linda is honored for her creative and activist contributions on behalf of women.

                                                                                        
“May she rest in peace, and may her legacy live in the hearts of future generations.”                                         
                                                      –Josefina Ahumad

SEVEN POEMS OF LINDA CORONADO PUBLISHED POSTHUMOUSLY (1947-1993)
​

The quotes after each poem title are taken from Coronado’s recorded words as she introduced each writing.

Brindis

is about “having the opportunity to participate in an artist’s life.”
​

Brindo por la vida

Magnifica jornada

Caminos fragosos

Agobiados con anhelos ilusiones.



Brindo por la riqueza

De nuestro pasado

Historia tupida de cuentos y mitos

Tejido en un tapiz sorprendente.



Brindo por el legado del espiritú

La concepción única de nuestro arte

La vida y sangre de la existencia.



Por nuestros sueños,

Las semillas del alma,

Que con ellos brotan

Nuestra cultural más rara.





Tierra Indiana                                           Este poema trata de conectarnos con                                                    


nuestra cultura anciana          

           

Por Linda Coronado   

                                                                              
Tierra Indiana, La Madre de mi Raza                          

Tú sangre corre por mis venas                                      

Tú eres mi pasado, mi presente                                    Y mi futuro.  



De tu vientre nació mi gente                                        

Fuerte, llena de orgullo                                                

Por la historia de esta familia.                                    

Tus llantos son mis cantos.                                                                                     

El cantar de tu corazón Azteca                                   

Inspira el himno de este cuento.                                    

Tu carne es la mía                                                        Tu alma el mismo poder                 

Que hace florecer mi vida                                                                                 

En un sueño de mi herencia 

Madre India, entre tus brazos soñe con mi futuro        

Cantaste tu canción de cuna                                          Que fue después el grito de Aztlan!                           

                                                                                   

Amasaste con tus fuertes manos llanos salvajes          

Con tu voluntad indominable                                        

Criaste la cosecha inspirada                                          

Y la llamaste India!                                                                             

Celadora de leyendas                                                    

Contabas de Dioses dorados                                        

Imágenes del oscuro pasado                                          

Forjando en mí, el gran destino                          

llamado, Indígena!                                             



Tierra indígena                                                              

La madre de mi raza                                                      

Mujer imperial                                                              

Tus sueños en mi se hacen real.






Mother Earth

Tierra Indiana is about getting in touch with our earth mother



By Linda Coronado



Indian earth, mother of my people

Your blood courses through my veins

Your are my past, my present

And my future.



From your womb we came forth

Strong, filled with pride

of the history of our family. 

Your laments are my songs.



To sing of your Azteca heart

Inspires this Story into hymn.

Your flesh is mine

Your soul the very force

That burst my life in flower.



Madre India, swaddled in your arms

I dreamt of my future.

The lullaby you sang at my crib

Became in time the Cry of Aztlan!



Guardian of our legends,

You sang of gilded Creators,

Shadowy images of the past,

Forging in me, that grand destiny

We call, Indigena!



Native land,

Mother of my people, 

Woman of empire

In me, your dreams came to be.



This poem, “Tierra Indiana,” was translated into English by the joint efforts of Cecilia and Alison, who read the piece in memory of her friend, Linda Coronado, at a meeting of the Tucson Women’s Commission in 2004. 





Canción de cuna

Coronado spoke about how her poetry was inspired by Chilean poet, Gabriela Mistral, Nobelist in literature.



Madre de Aztlan

Canta su canción de cuna.

La luna llena te lava

En su luz cristalina.



A roo roo roo

Duerme, mi niña

Duerme, duerme con tus fantasías.



A roo roo roo

Duerme, mi niña, duerme y sueñé

En el mundo dulce tuyo.



En el campo lejano

El mar de grano te acompaña

Con tu tierna voz

De brisas nocturnas.



En mis brazos

duerme,

callada,

mi niña,

mi corazon,

el futuro.





Reflección

Written in hospice after being diagnosed with terminal cancer.

“The presence of death was with me a lot, but it didn’t scare me.”



A veces a medias de la noche

Me despierto con su presencia a mi lado,

Silenciosa, dulcemente cuidadosa.



Conozco tu aliento fragrante.

He tocado tu piel y sentido

el calor de tu mirada.



Nos estamos tranquilamente en el oscuro.

Acepto la unión inevitable

dentro de nos dos.

Me contarás esta noche de fantasías perfectas.

Me llevarás a nuevos paisajes.



¿Sera este el momento en que veo tu cara

Cuando tiernamente nos abrazamos,

Dulce muerte?





El Baile Diario

“People have to fight to stay alive, to continue culture.” This poem is about “the dizziness of the fight to keep a balance.”



Es éste, el baile diario

Una sonata picante y viva

El resplendor de ritmos ondulantes

El latido del corazon y carne



Jota de llanto y grito

Emociones que dan vuelta

Como faldas de ilusiones.



Atrás y para delante

Cada paso de este tango

Un segundo delirante

Siempre una lucha  a cada nota

De guardar frágil balance

Dentro luz y oscuridad.



Los danzantes forman fila

Respondiendo al nuevo compás

Otro cuadro, otra obra

Cada quien el escritor

Escenas imprevistas

Como huellas en el alma

Como marcas en el alma.



Sobre la eternidad

Y asi es éste, el baile diario,

Cada vida tomando parte

En este drama sin final.





Rezo

Is about when cultures meet, “they tear each other apart or they form unions.”



Llanura callada,

Llanura solitaria,

Viento de voz tierna y pura.

Es tu aliento que acaricia los valles.



Es tu aliento que da suave fragancia a la noche.

Olas doradas que murmurran su canto,

Murmurran su llanto como rezos

Invocadas a dioses lejanos.



Dioses inmortales, dioses de cielo y tierra.

Guardias del tiempo sin fin,

Celadores de leyendas, de mitos, de cuentos.



[A section here was written in Nahuatl, or Aztec, spoken by some 2 million people mostly in central Mexico and by some in the U.S.]



Arraigados en sus misterios,

Somos la mezcla única, sangre y sol

Infantes de carne y cruz,

Mortales creados de sueños inmortales

Como rezos implacables

Como fuegos en un mar infinito sin luz

Perdidos en busca, en busca de un anhelo,

de nuestro derecho, de nuestro ser.





Soy Latina

“How Latinos are so varied. There’s so many ways that you can see that, so I started to think, What does that mean, and this is what came out.”



Soy Latina.

Me dicen Chicana, Colombiana, Mexicana,

Peruana, Brasileña, Borincana,

Panameña, Española, Boliviana.



Mi abuelita se llamaba Cultura.

Mi madre, Arte.

My roots sink deep into the soil of four continents.

I have been queen and high  priestess.

I was servant and slave.

I have born civilizations

And taught my children to dream.

I am the quardian of my history,

The storyteller, cantante, actríz.

I am la pintora de mi raza.



Mi figura es diversa y bella

Mi color, un arco iris.

Cuando camino es a un ritmo primitivio.

Soy fuerte y decidida, tierna y apasionada.



Mi vista es ancha y llena de esperanza.

Es asi me reconocerán, orgullosamente,

Les he dicho, soy Latina.



                                    FIN



The poems contained here were transcribed and edited for publication by the Editor from the audio cassette taped by Alison Hughes. The poems are copyrighted in the name of Linda Coronado.
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Cultivar nuestras propias flores -- grow our own flowers

6/2/2019

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​Dentro llevamos voces mixtas -- nuestro legado

​Flor y canto para nuestros tiempos
(al modo nahua)

By Rafael Jesús González

La flor y canto que nos llega
es desarraigado --
         se marchitan las flores,
                  se desgarran las plumas,
                          se desmorona el oro,
                                    se quiebra el jade.
No importa que tan denso el humo de copal,
         cuantos los corazones ofrendados,
se desarraigan los mitos,
         mueren los dioses.
Tratamos de salvarlos
de las aguas oscuras del pasado
con anzuelos frágiles
forjados de imaginación y anhelo.
Dentro llevamos voces mixtas --
abuelas, abuelos
conquistados y conquistadores
         — nuestro legado.
De él tenemos que escoger lo preciso,
         lo negro, lo rojo,
cultivar nuestras propias flores,
cantar nuestros propios cantos,
recoger plumas nuevas para adornarnos,
oro para formarnos el rostro,
buscar jade para labrarnos el corazón --
sólo así crearemos el nuevo mundo.

​Within we carry mixed voices 
— our legacy

​Flower & Song for Our Times
            (in the Nahua mode)
  
The flower & Song that come to us
is uprooted --
          flowers wither,
                    feathers tear,
                             gold crumbles,
                                       jade breaks.
It matters not how thick the incense smoke,
           how many the hearts offered,
myths are uprooted,
           the gods die.
We try to save them
from the dark waters of the past
with fragile hooks
forged of imagination & longing.
Within we carry mixed voices --
grandmothers, grandfathers
conquered & conquerors
          — our legacy.
From it we have to choose the necessary,
          the black & the red,
grow our own flowers,
sing our own songs,
gather new feathers to adorn ourselves,
discover new gold to form our face,
seek jade to carve our hearts --
only thus can we create the new world.
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​Rafael Jesús González es Poeta Laureado de la Ciudad de Berkeley, California/is Poet Laureate of Berkeley, California. Por décadas, ha sido un activista pro la paz y justicia usando la palabra como una espada de la verdad. For decades, he has been an activist for peace and justice, wielding the word like a sword of truth. 
© Rafael Jesús González 2019.
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“…when our troops were separated by color, like when you do the laundry”

5/27/2019

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César Chavez, age 16 in U.S. Navy ca 1946

Believing in equality for all

A tribute on Memorial Day 2019

​Patriotismo – Que Es?
By San Juana Guillermo

​Do we have to go to war in an unknown land
            and fight for our country in order to prove our patriotismo?
Do we have to risk our lives against soldados we know nothing about,
            except that they, too, are fighting to defend their country?
Will this war change the world? We ask of all the wars.
Nuestros padres, nuestras parejas, los hijos, los hermanos. Tienen que
            sufrir our absence while we prove our patriotismo?
El patriotismo no nomas se demuestra en la Guerra, en una tierra extraña,
            contra soldados que no conocemos, or that we personally have
            nothing against.
Patriotismo se demuestra when we served in the military
            even in the face of discrimination.
When we are only allowed to scrub the deck or paint the ship.
O, trabajar en la cocina peeling the potatoes y lavando los trastes.
We went and defended our country, in spite of this.
            when our troops were separated by color, like when you do the laundry.

One war receiving 45 sons from Hero Street, Illinois,
            sending them to the Philippines because of their Spanish tongues
            only to be silenced when they returned to their homes.
Patriotismo is watching your child going off to war
            and your heart is heavy and your spirit cries because
            it does not know if there will be a reunion embrace.
The neighborhood of Edgewood in San Antonio losing 54 to another war,
            with 2 of them still M.I.A., 10 of them graduating in the same year from
            the same high school.
Yet, “We’re a very patriotic family,” said Gloria Carson, sister to one of the 54.
Many of our returning soldados never honored until after death
Or, the families of those we lost in the battles, esperando años para recibir
            el Honor to be bestowed on their loved ones.

Patriotismo is knowing you have to drink from a different water fountain
            and enter through the back door.
Yet, we do not hesitate to take up arms to defend la poquita libertad
            que los permiten.
“Foreigners in our land” quizas, but it is our land.
Y a pesar de todo, we are orgullosos of our Patriotismo.
Patriotismo is not just defending and sacrificing in times of war.
Patriotismo is forming The American GI Forum, to serve and assist
            the needs of our veterans and their families.
And fighting for our veterans’ rights, who are American after all.

Patriotismo is leaders like Cesar Chavez,
            who fought at home and sacrificed for the dignity deserved to all.
Patriotismo is fighting in our own land upon returning home,
            not with weapons of mass destruction
            but with weapons of words and fearless leadership.
Patriotismo is encouraging people to vote,
            organizing them as a community, empowered with the knowledge
            that they are all capable of accomplishing the impossible
            regardless of circumstances.

Patriotismo is Believing in equality for all and achieving
            civil and labor rights with nonviolence.
Marching so that men, women and children have access to decent wages,
            education, decent housing and food to eat.
Patriotism is holding the country you sacrificed for, accountable to fulfill
            its promise of equality and freedom for all people.

Patriotism is collectively believing what Cesar Chavez once said:
            Once social change begins, it cannot be reversed.
            You cannot uneducate the person who has learned to read.
            You cannot humiliate the person who feels pride.
            You cannot oppress the people who are not afraid anymore.”

Patriotism cannot be taken away because we ARE this Tierra and Patriotismo is US.
​San Juana Guillermo, Texas-born, but raised in Chicago Heights, Illinois, where her migrant family had settled out to raise a family, arrived in San Antonio in 2015 from Grand Rapids, Michigan, where she had moved and raised her own family. Grandmother to 14 grandchildren and 3 great-grandchildren, she wrote her first poem at age 60 and has been published in several San Antonio-based zines and chapbooks by Jazz Poets of San Antonio and Voces Cósmicas. San Juana is active with local writers’ groups and at public readings. She may be contacted at sanjuanaguillermo1005@gmail.com.
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Rinconcito: ...our word goes out of date

4/30/2019

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R  i  n  c  o  n  c  i  t  o    es un
​i “rincón pequeño” especial  para escritos cortos: 
    

n   un poema, un cuento, una memoria, ficción de repente, y otros.
c
o    Un par de poemas / A pair of poems
n
c    By José Clemente Carreño Medina
i    ​English translations by Toshiya Kamei
t
o

​Delirio

​Un placer que se saborea solo no es placer.
–Erasmo de Rotterdan, Elogio de la locura
​aquí está nuestro pan y vino
tinto
nuestra palabra caduca de
tiempo
nuestro presente
conjugado
nuestro trozo de
eternidad…

Delirium

​A pleasure savored alone is not a pleasure.
–Erasmus of Rotterdam, The Praise of Folly
​here are our bread and red
wine
our word goes out of
date
our conjugated
present
our piece of
eternity...

​Muerte nocturna

​Camino caminando los
pasos de tus huellas
Toco el viento con el
tacto de tu boca
Respiro a muerte en
cada palabra escrita
Bebo el vaso pleno
de tu ausencia
Vivo día a día una
muerte nueva
Muero noche a noche en
cada verso recién nacido...

​Nocturnal Death

​I walk keeping
track of your footsteps
I feel the wind with the
touch of your lips
I breathe death in
every written word
I drink a glass full
of your absence
Every day I live a
new death
every day
Every night I die in
every newborn verse...
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​José Clemente Carreño Medina, of Matías Romero, Oaxaca, México, grew up in Cuernavaca, Morelos, and now lives in Kirksville, Missouri, where he is an Assistant Professor of Spanish at Truman State University. He has authored four collections of poems,Vigilias (2014), Serpientes y escaleras (2015), Guerra de palabras (2016), and Como si fuese a dejar la tierra (2017).

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Hay un país que muere atado por las manos / There is a country that dies with its hands bound

3/10/2019

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Rinconcito es un rincón pequeño especial en Somos en escrito para escritos cortos: un poema, un cuento, una memoria, ficción de repente, y otros.

“Y así vi que los otros le lloraban,
así los otros vieron como llegué a ser llama”

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“And so I saw that the others were crying, so they saw how I became a flame”

​Poemas por Estrella del Valle / Traducidos por Toshiya Kamei
Poems by Estrella del Valle / Translated by Toshiya Kamei
​Canto de la hermana Gorgona
Un líquido de sueños, un abismo,
un caminar desnuda en tu conciencia
una luz que poseo en las tinieblas,
un pabilo de amores como espuma,
se tuercen, se entremezclan, son de redes,
de un tósigo perdido en la memoria,
la oquedad onanista perturbada,
el despertar sintiendo que envejezco,
nos flagela, lastima la tristeza.
Descubre que yo soy su antagonista.
En el templo de Apolo me persigue
porque arrojo las culpas al espejo,
porque multiplicando la tortura
no hay nada más oculto que el espanto,
la densa visión que reconozco
son bestias más veladas que Teseo.

Canto of Sister Gorgona

A liquid of dreams, an abyss,
a naked walk in your conscience,
a light I possess in the dark,
a foam-like wick of loves,
twist, mix, are of nets,
of a venom lost in my memory,
the disturbed onanistic hollow,
as I wake up feeling my age
whips us, hurts our sadness.
She finds out I'm her antagonist.
In Apollo's temple she chases me
because I throw sins at the mirror,
because multiplying the torture
there's nothing more hidden than horror,
the thick vision I recognize
are beasts more veiled than Theseus.



Cuando murió Susana

Cuando todos lloraron su muerte enfrente de las cámaras,
Sólo mi corazón quedó tan solo que no tuve palabras
para expresar mi pena
y así me fui secando.
Así se fue Susana desmembrada.
Y así vi que los otros le lloraban,
así los otros vieron como llegué a ser llama
y cómo la tristeza llegó de madrugada y se instaló en la sala
y todo ardió.
Y todas las palabras de Susana envueltas en las flamas
disiparon los vientos.
Porque Susana, ella no murió,
ella fue asesinada.


When Susana Died

When everyone grieved her death in front of the cameras,
only my heart was so lonely that I had no words
to express my sadness,
so I gradually dried up.
That's how Susana was dismembered.
And so I saw that the others were crying,
so they saw how I became a flame
and how sadness came at dawn and settled in the room
and everything burned.
And all the words of Susana wrapped in the flames
dissipated the winds.
Because Susana, she did not die.
She was murdered.


Soy un hombre feliz, lo tengo todo

Tengo un auto del año,
tengo un trabajo de diez a cinco de la tarde;
Compro zapatos y trajes y corbatas.
Todos me llaman "señor",
me dicen "¿Buenas tardes, necesita algo más?"
“¿En qué puedo ayudarle?"
"Licenciado, tiene una llamada por la cinco".
Ustedes lo ven, soy un hombre importante.
Yo soy un triunfador. Lo tengo todo.
Una esposa, tres hijos, una casa.
Dos sirvientas, chofer, cuatro empleados.
Una hipoteca, dos préstamos,
un pacto por el que vendí mi alma.
Soy un hombre feliz.
No dejen de sintonizarme.


I'm a Happy Man, I've Got Everything

I drive a brand-new car.
I work a ten-to-five job.
I buy shoes, suits, and ties.
Everybody calls me "sir"
and tells me, "Good afternoon, do you need anything else?"
"How I can help you?"
"Sir, you have a call on line five."
You see, I'm a big shot.
I'm a winner. I've got everything.
A wife, three kids, a house.
Two maids, a chauffeur, four gofers.
A mortgage, two loans.
I made a pact and sold my soul.
I'm a happy man.
Stay tuned, folks.
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Yo, El Presidente

Yo el Presidente de este país en la derrota,
he tomado el poder absoluto sobre esta tierra árida
de hombres y mujeres capaces de alzar su voz azul
hacia los cielos.
La voz de un rojo incontenible que se perdió en las calles.
Mujeres que se quedaron durmiendo en una zanja,
un desierto, un metro bajo tierra o varios de ellos.
Hombres azules que se quedaron durmiendo
también en sus pedazos de carne amoratada.
Nombres atados a la tierra. Nombres sólo,
nombres solos que pidieron resguardo a la persona equivocada.
Aquí ya no hay demonios, no hay ángeles caídos,
aquí sólo la soledad, la carne seca, el fastidio.
Aquí los ángeles se agrupan en una gran unión de asalariados.
Aquí no hay sindicatos.
Aquí todo lo que respira lo he hecho mío.
He llegado a esta tierra como el fuego de estrellas.
He llegado a esta tierra como el relámpago entrando por la espalda,
el fuego azul, la inmensa llama.
Algunos, los más osados, seguro me llamarán el Anticristo
pero yo prefiero nombrarme así de simple, El Presidente.
A sus órdenes, para servir a usted, a mi Dios y al resto de mis huestes.

I, President

I'm the President of this defeated country,
I have gained absolute power over this arid land
of men and women capable of raising their blue voice
toward the heavens.
The voice of an unstoppable red that got lost in the streets.
Women who stayed asleep in a ditch,
a desert, an underground subway, or several of them.
Blue men who stayed asleep
also in their pieces of bruised flesh.
Names tied to the earth. Names only,
single names that asked the wrong person for shelter.
Here there are no demons, no fallen angels,
only loneliness, dry meat, and nuisance.
Here angels are grouped into a great cluster of employees.
There are no unions here.
Here I have made everything that breathes mine.
I have come to this earth like the fire of stars.
I have come to this earth like lightning entering from behind,
the blue fire, the immense flame.
Some, the most daring ones, will surely call me Antichrist,
but I prefer to call myself, simply, President.
I'm at your service, happy to serve you, my God, and the rest of my hosts.


Noticias Internacionales

El mundo yace en manos de grupos extremistas
y no hay quién pueda detenerlos. 
¡Sálvese quien pueda!, exclaman.
Más allá dos mujeres se desmayan.
Un hombre grita.
Una joven mujer escribe en las paredes:
Fue un Feminicidio.
Afuera se escucharon los balazos, reportan.
Han matado al hombre que la ama.
Un grupo de soldados pecho tierra
y dos grupos de rebeldes.
El mundo muere a manos de unos cuantos.
La esperanza es lo último que desaparece.
Doscientas niñas encuentran su calvario.
Hay un virus mortal que se trasmite al contacto
y unas madres que esperan todavía en la Plaza de Mayo.
Hay un país de crímenes perfectos.
Hay un país de crimen perfectamente organizado.
Yo no creo en islamistas.
Ya no creo en comunistas.
Yo no creo en políticos que mienten
cuando todos sabemos que hay un crimen de Estado.

Hay un país que muere atado por las manos.

International News

The whole world lies in the hands of extremist groups
and no one can stop them.
Save yourself if you can! they exclaim.
Two women over there faint.
A man screams.
A young woman writes on the walls:
It was femicide.
Shots were heard outside, they report.
The man who loves her has been killed.
A group of soldiers
and two groups of rebels hit the ground.
The world dies at the hands of a few.
Hope is the last thing that disappears.
Two hundred girls find their ordeal.
There is a deadly virus transmitted through contact
and some mothers still wait in the Plaza de Mayo.
There is a country of perfect crimes.
There is a perfectly organized crime country.
I don't believe in Islamists.
I no longer believe in communists.
I don't believe in politicians who lie
when we all know that there is a state crime.

There is a country that dies with its hands bound.
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​Estrella del Valle was born in Córdoba, Veracruz and now lives in El Paso, Texas. Her most recent poetry collection,Calima: CAution LIve aniMAls, was published in 2018. Translations of her poems have appeared in various journals, including Burnside Review, International Poetry Review, and Pembroke Magazine.


Toshiya Kamei holds an MFA in Literary Translation from the University of Arkansas. His translations of Latin American literature include books by Claudia Apablaza, Liliana Blum, Carlos Bortoni, Selfa Chew, and Leticia Luna. His translations, along with more poetry by Estrella del Valle, can also be found in La Canasta:  An Anthology of Latin American Women Poets, edited and translated by Toshiya Kamei, Floricanto Press, 2019. Support Floricanto Press, and get a copy here: La Canasta: An Anthology of Latin American Women Poets.
Se pueden encontrar los poemas “Cuando murió Susana”, “Soy un hombre feliz, lo tengo todo”, “Yo, El Presidente”, y “Noticias Internacionales” en la colección Calima: CAution LIve aniMAls, Rojas Producciones, 2018. 

“Cuando murió Susana,” “Soy un hombre feliz, lo tengo todo,” “Yo, El Presidente,” and “Noticias Internacionales” can be found in Calima: CAution LIve aniMAls, Rojas Producciones, 2018.
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Violeta es la mañana sin preámbulos

11/20/2018

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​For Caraza, poetry, like the Greek and Roman gods of antiquity, is half-deity and half-force of nature. She communes with it—or, rather, it chooses to commune with her, and she wholeheartedly surrenders to its voice.
—Hector Luis Alamo


Un extracto de / An excerpt from Sin preámbulos / Without Preamble
Por / By Xánath Caraza
Traducido al inglés por Sandra Kingery / Translated into English by Sandra Kingery
​
Sin preámbulos

​Violeta es la mañana
sin preámbulos

se filtra la luz
en las grietas

se escurre el delirio
en los pétalos

saetas de color rompen
la superficie que tocan

tiñe aurora los recuerdos
polícroma melodía

violeta fue la luz
se desvanece

con la brisa
ráfaga de fuego

tiempo violeta
delinea la partida

tic-tac, tic-tac
tic-tac, tic-tac
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​Without Preamble

Violet is the morning
without preamble

light filtering
through crevasses

delirium sliding
down petals

colored arrows broaching
the surfaces they touch

polychrome melody
tinting memories dawn

violet was the light
it dissipates

with the breeze
bursts of flame

violet time
delineates the departure

tick-tock, tick-tock
tick-tock, tick-tock


Refulgente oleaje

Nacarada luz 
golpeas la intimidad
perforas la soledad.

Se arrastran luminosos rayos
en los pisos de piedra
canto lunar.

Inhalo el opalescente aroma
y descubro las manos
que fijan las letras.

Las sílabas intersecan
con los recuerdos
refulgente oleaje.

En el horizonte
la rutina invade
las páginas.

Las cadenas se abren.
Una lluvia de tinta
inunda el papel.

Glistening Waves

Pearly light
you strike privacy
puncture solitude.

Luminous rays crawl
across stone floors
lunar chorus.

I inhale opalescent aromas
and discover the hands
that deploy the alphabet.

Syllables intersect
with memories
glistening waves.

On the horizon
routine invades
the pages.

Chains open.
A shower of ink
inundates the paper.


Es la lluvia saturada de perlas

Sólo es la lluvia 
que perfora el mar.

Voz de fuego.

Llevo enredado
un collar de perlas

traídas de donde
nace el trueno.

Voz de agua.

Los tatuajes engañan
seducen las páginas.

Iguanas de oscura tinta
zurcidas en el papel.

Voz dolorosa.

El viento ulula llanto
es la lluvia saturada de perlas.
Picture
​It is Rain Saturated with Pearls

Only the rain
pierces the sea.

Voice of fire.

I wear twisted
a necklace of pearls

obtained from where
the thunder is born.

Voice of water.

Tattoos deceive
pages seduce.

Iguanas of dark ink
mended on the page.

Dolorous voice.

The wind howls sobs
it is rain saturated with pearls.


Cenizas

Entierro las manos en el barro.
Guarda mi esencia.
El agua me rodea.

Isla de palabras sembrada de luz
donde las sílabas brotan.
Dadora de versos.

Ritmos luminosos en la montaña
sombras lunares dan vida
a mi silueta en esta isla.

Aquí enterré mi corazón.
Ulula, viento, espárceme.
Cenizas lunares renacen.

Ashes

I bury my hands in mud.
It preserves my essence.
Water surrounds me.

Island of words sown with light
where syllables sprout.
Giver of verses.

Luminous rhythms on the mountain
lunar shadows give life
to my silhouette on this island.

Here I buried my heart.
Howl, wind, scatter me.
Lunar ashes are reborn.
Picture
​Xánath Caraza es viajera, educadora, poeta y narradora. Enseña en la Universidad de Missouri-Kansas City. Escribe para Seattle Escribe, La Bloga, Smithsonian Latino Center y Revista Literaria Monolito. Es Writer-in-Residence en Westchester Community College, Nueva York desde 2016. En 2018 recibió de los International Latino Book Awards primer lugar: “Mejor libro de poesía—un autor—español” por su poemario Lágrima roja y primer lugar: “Mejor libro de poesía—un autor—bilingüe” por su poemario Sin preámbulos. Su poemario Sílabas de viento recibió el2015 International Book Award de poesía. También recibió mención de honor como mejor libro de poesía en español por los International Latino Book Awards de 2015. En 2014 recibió la Beca Nebrija para Creadores del Instituto Franklin, Universidad de Alcalá de Henares en España. En 2013 fue nombrada número uno de los diez mejores autores latinos para leer por LatinoStories.com. Sus poemarios Donde la luz es violeta, Tinta negra, Ocelocíhuatl, Conjuro y su colección de relatos Lo que trae la marea han recibido reconocimientos nacionales e internacionales. Sus otros poemarios son Hudson, Le sillabe del vento, Noche de colibríes, Corazón pintado y su segunda colección de relatos,Metztli. Ha sido traducida al inglés, italiano y griego; y parcialmente traducida al náhuatl, portugués, hindi, turco y rumano.

Xánath Caraza is a traveler, educator, poet, and short story writer. She teaches at the University of Missouri-Kansas City. She writes for Seattle Escribe, La Bloga, The Smithsonian Latino Center, and Revista Literaria Monolito. She is Writer-in-Residence at Westchester Community College, New York since 2016. In 2018 for the International Latino Book Awards she received First Place for Lágrimaroja for “Best Book of Poetry in Spanish by One Author” and First Place for Sin preámbulos / Without Preamble for “Best Book of Bilingual Poetry by One Author.”  Her book of poetry Syllables of Wind/ Sílabas de viento received the 2015 International Book Award for Poetry. It also received Honorable Mention for best book of Poetry in Spanish in the 2015 International Latino Book Awards. Caraza was the recipient of the 2014 Beca Nebrija para Creadores, Universidad de Alcalá de Henares in Spain. She was named number one of the 2013 Top Ten Latino Authors by LatinoStories.com. Her books of verseWhere the Light is Violet, Black Ink, Ocelocíhuatl, Conjuro and her book of short fiction What the Tide Brings have won national and international recognition. Her other books of poetry are Hudson, Le sillabe del vento, Noche de colibríes, Corazón pintado, and her second short story collection, Metztli. Caraza has been translated into English, Italian, and Greek; and partially translated into Nahuatl, Portuguese, Hindi, Turkish, and Rumanian.

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To the new season/A la nueva temporada

9/21/2018

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Picture

Poema/Poem

by/por Rafael Jesús González

Consejo para el Equinoccio Otoñal

​Andar en equilibrio no es fácil --
         pisar tan ligeramente
         que la hierba no se doble,
         pisar tan firmemente
         que nuestra huella señale
         el camino por la maleza.

En verdad nuestra naturaleza parece
ser sin balance,
         un pie pisando tan ligeramente
         el otro tan firme
                  que perdidos en el desierto
                  siempre caminamos en círculo.

Hay peores destinos; entonces
aprendamos a caminar el círculo en gozo.
Las estaciones voltean y vuelven
y no hay a donde ir;
         la Tierra es hogar suficiente;
         el camino, demasiado breve,
         a nada nos lleva.

         Para aprender a andar en balance
                  practica el baile.

                          
Advice for the Fall Equinox

Walking in balance is not easy --
         to step so lightly
         the grasses are not bent,
         to step so firmly
         one’s track points
         a way through the thicket.

Indeed it seems our nature to be
off balance,
         one foot stepping so lightly
         one so firmly
                  that lost in the desert
                  we always walk in a circle.

There are worse fates; let us then
learn to walk the circle in joy.
The seasons turn & return
one upon the other
& there is nowhere to go;
         the Earth is Home enough;
         the walk, all too brief,
         leads Nowhere.

         To learn to walk in balance
                  practice the dance.
Rafael Jesús González, named in 2018 the first poet laureate of Berkeley, California, where he resides, is an internationally known poet and social justice activist. (© Rafael Jesús González 2018. First printed /publicado primeramente in/en: Raven Chronicles, Vol. 25, 2017; author's copyrights/derechos reservados del autor.)
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Where are the heroes of the water?

8/12/2018

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Picture

Un extracto de Hudson / An extract from Hudson

Por / By Xánath Caraza

Commentary/comentario por/by Lucha Corpi
  
9.

Es el dolor de un pueblo
el que se desliza en
la sangre de la tierra.

Acantilados bermejos
contienen la angustia
y las rítmicas palpitaciones.

La gente murmura en las
doradas esquinas de la ciudad,
se desliza la esperanza
con sutileza acuática.

¿dónde están los héroes del agua?
¿dónde las mujeres pez que cantan en la aurora?
¿dónde las ilusiones del nuevo amanecer?

Todo se inunda.

Escurre la lluvia
en los cristales,
de los acantilados
brota el agua densa.

Canta, mujer pez, canta.
​
Picture
​9.

It is the people’s pain
sneaking into
the blood of the land.

Crimson cliffs
contain the anguish
and rhythmic palpitations.

People murmur in the
golden corners of the city,
hope slips away
with aquatic subtlety.

where are the heroes of the water?
where the fish women and their song of first light?
where the illusions of the new dawn?

Everything becomes flooded.

Rain drips
down window panes,
dense water sprouts
from cliffs.

Sing, fish woman, sing.


12.

Hay corrientes
que llevan el silencio
entre sus densas aguas.

Hudson de caudales de azogue.

Afuera el ruido que dejan
las aves transitorias.

La luz rompe las nubes,
relámpago que se entierra
en las frondas.

Trueno apasionado,
el agua y el viento
escarifican la piel de la tierra.

Sangra el silencio,
el agua corre y la tierra
pulsa contenidos deseos.
Picture
​12.


There are currents
that transport silence
amid their dense waters.

Hudson of quicksilver fluidity.

Outside the noise left by
transitory birds.

Light shatters the clouds,
lightning bolt buried
in the foliage.

Impassioned thunder,
water and wind
lacerate the flesh of the land.

Silence bleeds,
water flows and the land
pulsates restrained desires.


34.

Medita en este navegar mecánico.

No queda nada,
solo el angustiante ulular
del viento antes
de llegar al agua. 

Tiemblan las suaves manos
al escribir, son las dueñas de
los pensamientos salvajes,
de la ira de los oprimidos.

Agua del Hudson:
despierta y desenraiza
el dolor: las pesadillas
de niñez que se hacen realidad.



34.

Meditate in this mechanical navigation.

Nothing remains,
only the agonized keening
of the wind before
it reaches the water. 

Soft hands tremble
as they write, they possess
fierce thoughts,
the fury of the oppressed.

Water of the Hudson:
awake and uproot
the pain: the nightmares
of childhood that become reality.
Picture
Xánath Caraza es viajera, educadora, poeta y narradora. Enseña en la Universidad de Missouri-Kansas City. Escribe para Seattle Escribe, La Bloga,Smithsonian Latino Center yRevista Literaria Monolito. Es laWriter-in-Residence en Westchester Community College, Nueva York desde 2016.  En 2014 recibió la Beca Nebrija para Creadores del Instituto Franklin, Universidad de Alcalá de Henares en España.  En 2013 fue nombrada número uno de los diez mejores autores latinos para leer por LatinoStories.com. Su poemarioSílabas de viento recibió el 2015 International Book Award de poesía. Sus poemarios Lágrima roja, Sin preámbulos, Donde la luz es violeta, Tinta negra, Ocelocíhuatl, Conjuro y su colección de relatos Lo que trae la marea han recibido reconocimientos nacionales e internacionales.  Sus otros poemarios son Hudson, Le sillabe del vento, Noche de colibríes, Corazón pintado y su segunda colección de relatos, Metztli.  Ha sido traducida al inglés, italiano y griego; y parcialmente traducida al portugués, hindi, turco, rumano y náhuatl.

​Xánath Caraza is a traveler, educator, poet, and short story writer. She teaches at the University of Missouri-Kansas City.  She writes for Seattle Ecribe, La Bloga, The Smithsonian Latino Center, and Revista Literaria Monolito.  She is the Writer-in-Residence at Westchester Community College, New York since 2016.  Caraza was the recipient of the 2014 Beca Nebrija para Creadores, Universidad de Alcalá de Henares in Spain.  She was named number one of the 2013 Top Ten Latino Authors by LatinoStories.com. Her book of poetry Syllables of Wind / Sílabas de viento received the 2015 International Book Award for Poetry.  It also received Honorable Mention for best book of Poetry in Spanish in the 2015 International Latino Book Awards.  Her books of verse Lágrima roja, Without Preamble, Where the Light is Violet, Black Ink,Ocelocíhuatl, Conjuro and her book of short fiction What the Tide Brings have won national and international recognition.  Her other books of poetry are Hudson, Le sillabe del vento, Noche de colibríes,Corazón pintado, and her second short story collection, Metztli. Caraza has been translated into English, Italian, and Greek; and partially translated into Portuguese, Hindi, Turkish, Rumanian and Nahuatl. 

Hudson (Editorial Nazarí, 2018) por/by Xánath Caraza, traducido por/translated by Sandra Kingery

Comentario/Commentary
por/by  Lucha Corpi 


Xánath Caraza es y continuará siendo, sin duda, una de las voces poéticas más innovadoras en el idioma español.  Hudson, su nueva colección de poesía, es más que un viaje por un río que fluye e inevitablemente vierte sus aguas en el mar.  El río Hudson no es un río ordinario ya que sigue un curso doble.  Por lo tanto nuestro viaje comienza en el punto de su origen, un estuario—un habitante en flujo constante—donde nace y también se vacía en el mar, donde cohabitan las faunas de agua fresca y salada.  También fluye tierra adentro, provee rutas y caminos para la gente en las ciudades a lo largo de su cauce para también hacerlas prosperar.  Le da vida a otro río en el camino.  En el lecho del río Caraza escribe su “texto”—la historia del río, que es también la historia de la poeta.  Las tumultuosas corrientes-salinas-frescas de agua se convierten en el tempo de su torrente sanguíneo.  Guiados por los versos en negritas, incrustados en el texto, la poeta nos reta a buscar el espíritu del río—la belleza lírica.  Una tercera lectura de los versos en itálicas nos lleva a un nivel más profundo, a los cuestionamientos filosóficos y búsqueda de vida que Caraza se hace y que todos nosotros cuestionamos en algún momento.  He encontrado mucha riqueza en Hudson.  Todo accesible, para lectores angloparlantes, a través de la bella traducción hecha por Sandra Kingery.  Hudson es un libro que debe ser leído por poetas y amantes de la poesía—¡definitivamente por amantes de los ríos también!  Bravo.

Xánath Caraza is and will no doubt continue to be one of the most innovative poetic voices in the Spanish language. Hudson, her new poetry collection, is much more than a journey down any river that flows onward and inevitably empties its waters into a sea. TheHudson River is no ordinary river as it follows a dual course. So, our journey begins at the point of its origin, a tidal estuary—a habitat in constant flux—where the river begins and also empties into the sea, where salty and fresh water fauna cohabit. It also flows inland, providing routes and ways for people in cities along its course to prosper as well. It gives birth to another river along the way. On its riverbed, Caraza writes her “text”—the river’s story, which is also her story. The saline-fresh-water, restless currents become the tempo of her bloodstream.  Guided by the verses in bold lettering embedded in the text, the poet challenges us to seek the spirit of the river—the lyrical beauty. A third reading of verses in italics takes us deeper into the poet’s mind, into Caraza’s lifelong quest for answers to philosophical questions all of us ponder from time to time. So much more richness I have found in Hudson. All made accessible to an English-speaking readership by the beautifully crafted translations of Sandra Kingery.  Hudson is a must-read for poets and lovers of poetry—most definitely for lovers of rivers, too! Bravo.

Lucha Corpi, poeta y narradora/poet and writer
Oakland, CA, July/Julio de 2018
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