|
|
“Por escrito” Lucha Corpi (LC) entrevista a Graciela Brauer Ramírez (GBR), Catedrática jubilada de la Universidad Estatal de California en Sacramento. Poeta y narradora chicana, y trabajadora cultural incansable. Miembro de “Escritores del Nuevo Sol” en el Valle de Sacramento y de “Círculo de poetas & Writers” en la Bahía de San Francisco, con sede en Oakland.  Invocación a las cuatro direcciones, Graciela Brauer Ramírez AZTLÁN – El lugar de las garzas LC: Querida Graciela, cómo se ve claramente, en la portada de tu libro están estampadas las garzas, aves que normalmente habitan a orillas de los ríos en California y en México: Algunos de los ríos más caudalosos se encuentran en el sur de México y precisamente en el estado de Veracruz, del que eres originaria. Me fascinó ver que tu obra comienza con una descripción del Río Americano (the American River) que atraviesa de lado a lado la Cd. de Sacramento, capital del estado de California. Según la leyenda indígena mexicana, AZTLÁN era el lugar de origen de las varias tribus pre-colombinas, las que poblaban el continente de América, desde Alaska y Canadá hasta Tierra del Fuego en Sudamérica.  Foto por Janice Mccafferty A primera vista se podría también decir que EDUCACIÓN: Una Épica Chicana de la catedrática, poeta y narradora, Graciela Brauer Ramírez, es un libro de texto histórico. Ofrece una visión y cronología histórico-política de acontecimientos que se suscitaron en la Cd. de Sacramento, capital del estado de California, durante las décadas de 1960 a 1980. Al mismo tiempo, ofrece una vista panorámica del movimiento socio-político y pro-derechos civiles del pueblo México-americano en EE.UU., es decir de la población que se autodefine políticamente como chicanos. De una manera más general, bosqueja también el impacto de los logros de esta población, desde entonces hasta la fecha. Desde el punto de vista literario sigue las reglas de una epopeya clásica, es decir como lo fueran la Odisea o Ilíada en la antigüedad. Es un relato en verso y trata de las hazañas de héroes en tiempos de guerra y en defensa de su pueblo, su historia y cultura. Más aún, es la infra-historia de una familia californiana, con fuertes lazos culturales, literarios e históricos, con México y el sudoeste de Estados Unidos. Gracias. Graciela. Lucha Corpi Entrevista y plática: Lucha Corpi (LC) y Graciela Brauer Ramírez (GBR) en conversación. Influencias: En familia o comunitarias: LC: Tu obra culturalmente es parte de una tradición oral, pero lo es también de la literaria. Es en verdad, Una Épica Chicana, y una obra monumental. ¡Enhorabuena, Graciela! Ahora, cuéntanos un poco sobre tu niñez y adolescencia en familia. Sabemos que tu padre fue de gran influencia en ti, quien estimuló tu sed intelectual por el conocimiento y la lectura. Aprendiste a leer a los cuatro años. Entiendo que tu convivencia con otros parientes, en ambos lados, también fue muy importante. En familia, aparte de tu papá y mamá, ¿Quiénes más fueron de gran influencia en ti durante tu niñez? GBR: Como digo en mi libro, Una épica chicana, por las noches, en familia, nos juntábamos en el patio y cada uno decía poesías o contaba historias. Por ejemplo, a mi tío Homero le gustaban las historias del mar y de barcos. Después fue marinero. Mi tío Sergio siempre nos contaba la misma historia sólo le cambiaba los nombres de los personajes. A mí me subían en una silla y recitaba: “Mamá, soy Paquito, no haré travesuras…” Y también una que dice: “Guadalupe la Chinaca va en busca de Pantaleón su marido…” Dado que a los cuatro años yo no podía todavía hablar bien, recitaba este verso a mi manera: “aupe anaca busca a neon maido…” Mi tía Elena, aun cuando ya estaba yo grande, se burlaba de mí imitándome, pues a esa edad temprana no podía yo hablar claro, pero, según yo, ya recitaba. También mi tía me decía que cuando terminaba yo les pedía aplausos al “púbico” (el público).
 LC: Me haces reír. Muy divertido. Ya entrando a la secundaria, ¿seguiste recitando poemas en público? GBR: Claro que sí. Ya de estudiante, en la secundaria, recitaba en concursos y en uno de ellos gané el primer premio al recitar de memoria el poema “Los Motivos del Lobo” de Rubén Darío el gran poeta de Nicaragua. Hasta la fecha, ya en mi vejez, aún recuerdo todo este poema tan largo. LC: Entonces, en cuanto a los lugares que fueron importantes en tu desarrollo durante tus años tempranos, sabemos que viviste en la Cd. de México y que sufriste los calores y el bochorno del trópico en el puerto de Veracruz. En el prólogo de Educación: Una Épica Chicana, JoAnn Anglin, gran poeta y narradora, a quien también tengo el gusto y la honra de conocer, nos da algunos datos personales tuyos, pero bastante esquemáticos. LC: Si te es posible, cuéntanos un poco de ti, de tu vida personal antes de unirte al cuerpo docente de la Universidad Estatal de California (California State University at Sacramento-CSUS). GBR: Las gentes que tuvieron más influencia en mi infancia fueron mi papá y mi tía abuela Juanita. El me introdujo a la lectura, al grado de que cuando fui al kínder ya había leído varios libros de cuentos que él siempre me compraba. Mi tía abuela Juanita tenía una tienda de abarrotes a media cuadra de nuestro apartamento. Ella tenía su recámara arriba de la tienda. A veces ella me cuidaba o cuando iba a la tienda inmediatamente subía a su recámara pues ahí tenía muchos libros. Ahí leí: Corazón Diario de un Niño, Las Mil y Una Noches y muchas otras obras que aún viven en mi mente y que me han ayudado a sobrevivir. Un día mi tía me sorprendió mucho cuando me regaló estos dos libros y algunos más. También mi papá. Él era militar, y por algunas horas, también valuador en la mayor casa de empeño controlada por el gobierno. A veces tenían subastas y la mercancía que quedaba la repartían entre los trabajadores. Esta era generalmente de libros, los cuales él traía al apartamento. Entre esos libros leí, con ayuda de adultos, La Vuelta al Mundo en Ochenta Días, El Jorobado de Nuestra Señora de París y muchos más. Fui muy afortunada. LC: Nos has contado que debido al trabajo de tu papá, quién era militar, viviste en diferentes lugares. ¿Cómo afectó el pasar tu infancia y adolescencia en comunidades tan diferentes una de la otra? GBR: Primero, era una bebé y mientras que las mismas personas me cuidaran, no había problema. Después, cuando contaba con cuatro años, mi papá me ponía en el tren los viernes por la noche y mi abuelito me recogía en el puerto de Veracruz en la mañana del sábado. El regreso era viaje opuesto, por supuesto, de domingo en la noche a lunes por la mañana. También pasaba todas las vacaciones en la costa del Golfo de México, que era la costa veracruzana. Vivir en el puerto de Veracruz fue para mí una experiencia muy afortunada pues mi abuelito era una persona muy educada al haber estudiado en el seminario; había leído mucho. Con él aprendí bastante. También en Veracruz vivían mis tíos quienes eran muy adeptos a las poesías. Mi tío Carlos, por ejemplo, sabía muchas de ellas de memoria. En las noches nos recitaba versos de sus autores favoritos como Díaz Mirón, poeta veracruzano. Mi tía Estela recitaba en las escuelas. Aún recuerdo una de sus poesías favoritas que dice: “…espera la caída de las hojas.” Mi abuelito y su hijo mayor trabajaban en el ferrocarril me conocían y me querían bastante. A menudo, ellos me llevaban de viaje. Durante mis viajes la tripulación del ferrocarril me cuidaba. LC: Cuéntanos también de tu familia materna y de tu educación formal y adolescencia GBR: Cursé la primaria en El Colegio de San Ignacio de Loyola comúnmente conocido como Colegio de las Vizcaínas, una escuela católica en la Ciudad de México. Mis padres se divorciaron cuando yo tenía menos de un año. Mi papá tomó la responsabilidad de criarme. Él era militar así es que yo crecí regimentada, cosa que siempre le he agradecido pues aprendí disciplina, algo que me ha servido toda mi vida, y que él hizo con mucho amor. A los 15 años me fui a vivir con mi mamá. Ella era una famosa cantante de música ranchera. Mi vida con ella era excitante pues me llevaba a los teatros y estaciones de radio en donde conocí artistas famosos de aquella época. Por otro lado, ella era una persona muy extrovertida y se impacientaba mucho conmigo por ser yo sumamente introvertida. Con ella viajé en sus giras por muchos estados de México y lugares en los Estados Unidos como las ciudades fronterizas de El Paso, Texas y San Diego, California, además de Los Ángeles en California, entre otras. Desgraciadamente mi mamá y yo éramos demasiado diferentes. Ella era una feminista que a los 40 años se hizo torera aficionada; yo vivía dentro de los libros. Con mis padres crecí en dos mundos completamente opuestos. Sin embargo, en ambos mundos, todas mis experiencias fueron muy buenas. LC: En esta entrevista quiero hacer resaltar no sólo tu trayectoria poética-literaria sino también tu participación en el movimiento pro-derechos civiles y humanos del pueblo chicano en Estados Unidos. Al leer tu obra, me doy cuenta que tú fuiste testigo y participante en muchos de los acontecimientos que describes en tu libro durante “el movimiento chicano”. Cuéntanos sobre esta importante época de tu vida. GBR: Mi participación en los primeros años de pertenecer al movimiento chicano, fue la siguiente: ayudaba en lo que podía como organizar eventos poéticos, así como los Simposios de Pensadores del Tercer Mundo y otros más. También ayudaba en sus funciones para recaudar fondos como ventas de pan dulce, tacos etc. Me daba de voluntaria para ayudar a organizaciones como CAMP (College Assistance Migrant Program) entre otras. También tuve en el barrio, en el Washington Neighborhood Center, un programa tutorial en el que llevaba estudiantes de la universidad a enseñar a los niños. Lo óptimo de mi participación fue cuando formulé y comencé a enseñar el curso “La Mujer Chicana” en el Departamento de Estudios Étnicos, de la Universidad Estatal de California en su campus de Sacramento-CSUS. El gran poeta y activista chicano, José Montoya, era catedrático en este mismo departamento. Después de haber recibido algunos reconocimientos por mi participación en el movimiento chicano, mi mayor orgullo llegó un día cuando José Montoya me llamó y me dijo: “Gracias, Graciela, porque nunca nos has dejado”. Este ha sido el mejor reconocimiento que he recibido en mi vida. José tenía razón. He creído siempre que es un derecho de todo ser humano tener acceso a la educación formal. Me uní al Movimiento Chicano Pro-derechos humanos y civiles. Para los chicanos, acceso a una buena educación era lo que más deseaban. Sentí como si un imán me atraía hacia ellos. También a José Montoya siempre le viviré agradecida. El organizaba programas y recitales de poesía en la universidad. Fue él quien me apoyó é invitó a leer mi obra poética en público, por primera vez en mi vida. Cómo recuerdo cuanto sufrí, y las ansias que me causó, pues tenía demasiado miedo de leer en público. Yo había leído en programas escolares pero nunca en programas en público en general. José lo notó y con sus palabras me animó mucho. Al fin, temblaba pero lo hice. La publiqué.  Graciela lee sus poemas al público La Poesía de Graciela B. Ramírez REBOZO Rebozo que humillado te escondías, mas con la revolución volviste altivo en los hombros de Frida** quien sin miedo te sacó de penumbras ensalzando los colores brillantes de tus hilos. Así volviste a colorear las fiestas adornando con gracia a las mujeres quienes ahora en cuerpos te lucían o zapateando en moños te enredaban. Rebozo que en los campos de batalla de la intemperie protegías a guerrilleras y en las noches cubriendo a los amantes creabas mundo privado en que chasquidos de besos resonaban en el aire y después el amor bajo de ti hacían porque quizá la luz del sol Ya no verían Rebozo, con tus hebras acaricias de las futuras madres sus vientres esponjados, entibiando matrices, dando calor a fetos, enlazando dos seres en comunión sagrada Cordón umbilical de madre y niño porque cuando ellas cargan, cual marsupias, a sus tiernos infantes, ellos saben que no hay peligro alguno porque tú con firmeza los sostienes. Y también con amor cubres los senos cuando el pequeño cual gatito tierno mama la tibia leche de su madre y arrullado con ritmos de latidos sueña envuelto en respiros melodiosos y despierta al sentir hondo suspiro y se ve reflejado en dulces ojos. **Nota Bene: Frida Kahlo volvió a hacer famoso el rebozo de seda mexicano. A este rebozo también se le conoce como Rebozo de seda de Santa María, el pequeño pueblo en el estado de San Luis Potosí, en donde se encuentran los telares de rebozos. Ahí mismo también se pueden ver los sembradíos de las plantas de las que se alimentan las orugas que el público en general conoce como “los gusanos de seda”. Frida también mostró el modo, arte y orgullo de portarlo el rebozo. Fue precisamente durante las décadas de los años sesenta y setenta que las mujeres chicanas, México-americanas y latinas volvieron una vez más a hacer legítimo el uso del rebozo, tanto el de algodón como el de seda. -LC  Dios de la lluvia Tlaloc There came a day when your gigantic statue was moved from its birth place to Chapultepec’s sacred emerald forest where hundreds of crickets sing for you the eternal welcoming song Slowly, so slowly 168 tons of stone moved through Tenochtitlan’s streets cradled in the specially-built trailer going slowly, So slowly. During the night, work crews disconnected and reconnected electrical wires needed because of your 23-foot height. Perhaps you laughed At all the attention From the multitudes After the 30-mile journey, came the huge explosion, like a Big Bang, embedding our memories back in our city recalling years of invasions, centuries of deep pain. But finally, the gift of spiritual Renaissance as you passed through the Zócalo, The Great Temple, El Templo Mayor. At that precise instant came the deluge, your fertility water, your life-giving water, your survival water, your baptismal water, your melting jade rain that poured over us running in force through our city washing us in blessings and forgiving waters through archeological sites, the burial homes of your ancestors the burial homes of our ancestors. Tláloc, the Great Tláloc: The eagle and the serpent Acknowledged you As the Lord of the Third Sun, As God of all Water. PINCELADAS Instantly becoming one With the new born moon And the eastern star All of a sudden Autumn smiles Reddish leaves Cosumnes River Witness in silence Courtship of cranes The broom Escapes from my hands Dishes Look at me with anger Magic of Jazz Is for me Sensuality and Spirituality Interwoven Only the pencil Calls me by my name Rain, flamenco woman Dancer Stamping On the roof of my house. **CHICANOS Y LA LENGUA Esta es la historia de la gente… que nace o emigra en retroceso, a esas tierras que ancestros disfrutaron, a lugares viniendo de regreso, que ejércitos extraños conquistaron, sitio donde las grullas con su beso y su baile, colonias iniciaron. Esta es la gente que con ansia busca, un lugar en el sol, cosa muy justa. ... **EPIFANÍA CHICANA Aztlán renace, del chicano cuna su núcleo de las cuatro direcciones aurículas en Utah y Colorado ventrícula del sur en Arizona y otra en Nuevo México hechicero, Aztlán cuyas arterias cristalinas de estrellas salpicadas son Ríos Grande, Colorado y también el Sacramento. ... **LC: Estrofas de Educación: Una Epica Chicana, p. 3 y 24  Invocations on the Four Directions  GBR: Aquí estamos José Montoya y yo esperando una de las cuatro ceremonias pre-Colombinas en Sacramento (la de los niños, la de las jóvenes o Xilonen, la de los jóvenes y el Día de los Muertos). En los setenta José fue uno de los iniciadores de ellas y tuvo a su cargo el altar del norte o el de los viejitos. Yo empecé en el sagrado círculo como a principio de los ochenta y duré en la dirección del norte con José como 25 años o más que fueron inolvidables pues pasar más de 9 horas en compañía de José preparando el altar, marcar el círculo con polvo de maíz, mantener el fuego en el salmador, esperar al grupo que iba a recibir consejos y dárselos fue una de mis mejores experiencias. Con él y los Chicanos aprendí muchísimo. Generalmente leo con mi grupo “Escritores del Nuevo Sol”. Yo soy la que organizo los recitales poéticos en Sacramento. Nuestros programas son en lugares como “Sol Collective”, “Luna’s Café”, y “The Poetry Center”. Hace tiempo iba con mi grupo de escritores a leer en las ciudades de San Francisco, Stockton, Yuba City y otros lugares en California. También en ocasiones leo como parte del grupo al que también pertenezco “Círculo de Poetas & Writers” con base en Oakland, California y miembros en varias ciudades del norte de California.  Miembros de “Escritores del Nuevo Sol” y del “Círculo de poetas & Writers”. Graciela B. Ramírez – toda de blanco, sentada, tercera de derecha a izquierda, Oakland, CA LC: ¿Cómo y dónde pueden los interesados conseguir el libro Educación: Una Épica Chicana?
1) De la autora: email: 24bucareli@gmail.com 2) I Street Press, A Community Writing and Publishing Center, Sacramento Public Library 3) Sacramento Poetry Center LC: No hay duda, apreciada Graciela, que has tenido una larga y fascinante carrera como catedrática y poeta. Me encanta tu actitud ante la vida: siempre optimista. Eres de gran inspiración a todos nosotros, tanto a los “Escritores del Nuevo Sol” como los miembros del “Círculo de poetas & Writers”. Mil gracias por tu participación en esta serie de entrevistas, patrocinadas por el periódico bilingüe Somos en escrito y por “Círculo de poetas & Writers” en la bahía de San Francisco. **En especial, mis más sinceras gracias a Jenny Irizary of Somos en escrito, por su paciencia y asistencia técnica en esta serie de entrevistas mes tras mes. Abrazos, Jenny. **Igualmente, gracias a Paul Aponte y Betty Sánchez de “Círculo de poetas & Writers” (SFBA) y “Escritores del Nuevo Sol”, Sacramento por su ayuda con las fotos que aquí se incluyen. © Poetry, Graciela Brauer Ramírez, de su libro: Educación: Una Épica Chicana
0 Comments
 Robert René Galván's Tía Luz Ruiz, center Undesirable – Race and Remembrance is a collection of poems by Robert René Galván, inspired by a boyhood raised in the heart of Texas, days spent between his folks’ home in San Marcos and family in San Antonio. René has a way not only of shaping the meaning of words but how he wants us to see and feel what he has seen and felt: in this book, his memories become ours. Born in San Antonio, he now lives in New York City, a noted Chicano poet and multi-talented musician. He is the product of a legacy fashioned by Galván’s antepasados who survived the Great Depression, the WWII years, the decades of discrimination and deprivation–a communal memory that he treasures and preserves in this book.
antepasados who survived the Great Depression, the WWII years, the decades of discrimination and deprivation–a communal memory that he treasures and preserves in this book. Galván tells of his elders riding on aging trucks to harvest a few dollars from the fields in the ’30s and ’40s, of his writer father filling his ink pen, its “barrel, incandescent as opal,” of the childhood home bought through a white friend so his family could buy it, even of the relentless reach of racism when recently a white man cursed him for being brown in a NYC supermarket. The subtitle, Race and Remembrance, speaks to the dark undertones of the obras in his book; the cover hints at the seemingly fun trips his elders made from Texas to California to harvest the grapes, pick clean the beet fields, and whatever other crop farmers were hiring workers to pick. The cover photo shows his mother, Eva Mireles Ruiz, third from the left, with some of her siblings and cousins, seated, legs dangling, on the bed of Abuelito Toño's truck, which carried the family to California and back as migrant workers. His Aunt Belia is far left and his Uncle Reyes (of the poem, “Hero”) is on the far right. An earlier collection of poems titled, Meteors, was published by Lux Nova Press (1997). He is also featured in Puro ChicanX Writers of the 21st Century (2020). Another book of poems, The Shadow of Time, is forthcoming from Adelaide Books in 2021. Other poems are found in Adelaide Literary Magazine, Azahares Literary Magazine, Gyroscope, Hawaii Review, Hispanic Culture Review, Newtown Review, Panoply, Somos en Escrito Magazine, Stillwater Review, West Texas Literary Review, the Winter 2018 issue of UU World, and Yellow Medicine Review: A Journal of Indigenous Literature, Art and Thought. Copies are available in print and e-book formats from online booksellers (including Amazon and Barnes & Noble), but we ask that you support your local bookstores.
 YOU ARE MY SUNSHINE by Ivan Argüelles so folds the old year its broken diseased leaves its tripartite reconfigurations of an exiled sky its functionless attributes of lungs and bellows days like felled beasts hamstrings cut ears lopped days immersed in prussic acid and forged moon-dust atavistic months trapped in their own circularity unable to mouth their own unpronounceable names nor to rectify the phonetic damage done to their shapes seasons withered by oppositions of gas and distance like mountains collapsing into invisible lakes hemorrhaging light from their invariable wounds speaking like statues in a void no sleep can enter the enormous effigies of history shadowing copies of heroes and nameless saints down corridors and embankments where stricken cities grieve how much was lost in the fiction of calendar time the manipulations of politicians and bankers homophones of the great solar disk turned black ! like the serpent tail in mouth devouring its own being spirit without clouds animus of destroyed wharfs scripts of tattered glyph and cuneiform high and loud in atmospheres poisoned by future shareholders planets and asterisks commas and circumflex accents dizzying spirals hermetic consonants sung on one note vowels redder than the voice of no-beginnings impossibility of medical science to redefine the sound issuing from the late cycle’s numinous accident of birth and now !? and now the inarticulate diapason of darkness the lengthening afternoon without windows or hills the absolute innocence of door-posts and gate-swings paths that lead inward eradicated by technology everyone spying on everyone else using progress to justify the abyss into which uncountable beings fall never to be recovered and memory itself the bereaved ear and eye without meaning in the blank effusion when rock fragment and cliff reassert their primacy how many are the distances denied by this passing minutes and hours thumbs and echelons of ink dissolution of the orient—why move on into the plunge this is not next year but the single and only music to be recorded before electricity fails and doomed spacecraft earth turns to enigmatic azure powders you are my sunshine my only sunshine 12-31-20!  Ivan Argüelles is an American innovative poet whose work moves from early Beat and surrealist-influenced forms to later epic-length poems. He received the Poetry Society of America’s William Carlos Williams Award in 1989 as well as the Before Columbus Foundation’s American Book Award in 2010. In 2013, Argüelles received the Before Columbus Foundation’s Lifetime Achievement Award. For Argüelles the turning point came with his discovery of the poetry of Philip Lamantia. Argüelles writes, “Lamantia’s mad, Beat-tinged American idiom surrealism had a very strong impact on me. Both intellectual and uninhibited, this was the dose for me.” While Argüelles’s early writings were rooted in neo-Beat bohemianism, surrealism, and Chicano culture, in the nineties he developed longer, epic-length forms rooted in Pound’s Cantos and Joyce’s Finnegans Wake. He eventually returned, after the first decade of the new millennium, to shorter, often elegiac works exemplary of Romantic Modernism. Ars Poetica is a sequence of exquisitely-honed short poems that range widely, though many mourn the death of the poet’s celebrated brother, José.
 Iconic image by Robert Lentz Rezo a TonantzinBy 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 TonantzinBy 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.  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.
 Català: Hernan Cortés lluita amb dos indis by Antoni Gómez i Cros (1809–1863) Two new poems by Ivan Argüelles Historia Verdadera de la Conquista great cadavers of heat circulating like unspoken romance dialects in the ivy & to sleep in summer’s ornate diphthong yielding to the profound ampersand woven into the nexus of eyelid and sight – why go on piercing darkness with Toltec lightning riding cordilleras that differ from Spanish or Sanskrit as much as distance diverges from the porphyry of longing ? inversions of the horse and swart perspiration armor soldered to glistening herculean frames and the flotilla of imported hills charging surf the whiteness of the outer rim the deep indigo that is fatal to the eye the immensities of cobalt even as its avenues sprawl into nopal underbrush flowers fired from archaic muskets like troops of cloud-elephants prepared to seize the continent blinding whatever passes for light in the gloaming boomerang and volcano and ninety-degree alcohol when skies did battle with skies ! the ungovernable envelope of siglo de oro with its plethora of misdirected synonyms shepherds and avatars of lazar-house gods the unique digit that transforms sound into space echo after echo of an unheard Basque consonant ready to detonate the lacerated backside of Cuba the life of the ear and its golden assonance in the rushing welter of oceans on the other side of the perforated and pearly Lobe ringing syllabic disunities in rock and moss mufti and corduroy of the managerial knees sequences of traffic racing the invisible storms of Tampico where gun-runners and affidavits of bright toxicity lounge half-drunk in the ravaged tropical greenery saliva and boredom of the new ruling class borrowed gypsum thoughts heaving mountain-peaks dialects of Chapultepec childhoods the works hobbling with Franciscan mountebanks from the Old Country gringo hospice dereliction of the Carretera Panamericana where it is always the summer of 1953 BCE when the twins besieged the Popol Vuh motel ransacking dust and brick the bath of fame inches within the insect who bears History on its carapace and corn fields planted with munitions and the unending Communist Revolution of Cuauhtémoc the motor buried deep in Xochimilco floral beds water follows water into the reverse of the leaf whose exhausting idiom divides night into the multiple hemispheres of Oblivion 10-14-20 LAS AZOTEAS DE TENOCHTITLÁN half way through time in the center of space all directions go from the meridian straight north avoiding south where the dead thrive on monosyllables and the third hemisphere of time is shortened by the inch of light it takes to cross sleep’s boundaries mortals puzzle over birth and etymologies the eye’s memories are a confused reticulation a brief phase in eternity’s unfinished ant-hill dark labyrinth of coagulated stars and waters spectral resonance of the unfinished noon of marble when nothing moves but an incremental shimmer glare and intimation of a sun too soon blackened by coruscating elements of an aggravated city traffic of bacchants and hieroglyphs totem Spaniards who have left behind Galatea and her phantom shepherds for the colossal gold bricks and unstemmed tide of silver for the canals of sacred sewage Aztec immolated stone the top and pinnacle of a single multicolored plume signaling the end to the first day of a tropical infinity bulwark of crescent shaped frogs hidden in San Ángel the possibility that a new year might begin at last frame of water shivering Toltec vowels embossed in a mental armor the blaze and rutilation of horses climbing bone masses and the bruited nonsense of cadavers by the thousands left to be counted by augurs who imitate almanacs and friezes depicting enormous Revolutionary symphonies memory of children left to dry on rooftops with bleached linens sacrosanct rags panoply of rust and sugar skulls deaths by the hundreds with tiny horns blowing hats and wings terrific parades of cinematic automobiles Dolores del Rio the saint who ate the pyramids the offal of transgression mimics and sinners liars at the wheel Porfirio Díaz fading in the photograph of the Volcano and its slattern wives gesture of a phonetic pistolero to gain his daily share bread divided into fractions of oxygen and kneeless penitents of Guanajuato looking for the Surgeon of Nayarit who will soon be knocking at the door flummoxed and insensate with pulque the famous red margin of the Hours draping the pharmacy windows and the blow-out of night furious and intellectual the dialectic of darkness smoke and unending neologisms about the Life eternal to be sought somewhere in El Norte fiction of Hollywood countless abandoned motors and skins the frontera where the scales of justice tilt gagging on days-old urine cycles of pathos and iceberg lettuce spine chilling dreams recollecting the azoteas de Tenochtitlán Chabela and her amazing ink-spent hair the wind that takes its ropes and ties them around the Cathedral lifting from earth the archaic architecture of oblivion while worms with the mistaken eyes of devastated gods who live on cigarettes and cerveza in cantinas of peeling wallpaper and fly-swatters create words circular and soundless echoes tinny subtractions discarded illegible typescript on onion skin History 10-19-20  Ivan Argüelles is an American innovative poet whose work moves from early Beat and surrealist-influenced forms to later epic-length poems. He received the Poetry Society of America’s William Carlos Williams Award in 1989 as well as the Before Columbus Foundation’s American Book Award in 2010. In 2013, Argüelles received the Before Columbus Foundation’s Lifetime Achievement Award. For Argüelles the turning point came with his discovery of the poetry of Philip Lamantia. Argüelles writes, “Lamantia’s mad, Beat-tinged American idiom surrealism had a very strong impact on me. Both intellectual and uninhibited, this was the dose for me.” While Argüelles’s early writings were rooted in neo-Beat bohemianism, surrealism, and Chicano culture, in the nineties he developed longer, epic-length forms rooted in Pound’s Cantos and Joyce’s Finnegans Wake. He eventually returned, after the first decade of the new millennium, to shorter, often elegiac works exemplary of Romantic Modernism. Ars Poetica is a sequence of exquisitely-honed short poems that range widely, though many mourn the death of the poet’s celebrated brother, José.
Thank you to Ivan Argüelles for dedicating “POEM IN THE SHAPE OF AN INVISIBLE VOLCANO” to Somos en escrito! This poem encapsulates our conversation at LitCrawl 2020. It's an honor to present poets of this caliber. Two new poems by Ivan ArgüellesPOEM IN THE SHAPE OF AN INVISIBLE VOLCANO para mis amigos de Somos en Escrito lava flowers colored like evening’s red and gold cities crescent-shaped and buried in a trance of cinders elevated ruins of the only remaining statue of Persephone elegance of hands cut from their pulse and shadowless Moorish architecture of the eyebrows of Vanity symbolism and margin of all phonetic errors power of silent detonations deep within the heart and clamoring for meat of the soul those denied passion stars divided in half at the molten strike of noon rhapsodies of words that have more sound than meaning the shapeless intuition of light to transcend itself in a glorious burst of sunflowers and solar homophones the tryst of lunatic and aphasic in the sewers of Tenochtitlán rain in porphyry torrents pouring from a cloudless sky and mortals like blind birds circling their own destruction with the tiny feet of a lost poetic meter and bewailing the day when thunder and mountain joined forces men who believed the sea was only a hemisphere of sleep and waves always feminine and plural were at the root of the enigma caused by consciousness at birth etymologies of distance and repercussion like drum-rolls in the faint ear of the adolescent afternoon assassin was love ever more futile and gorgeous in its escape ? sentient ovals of the moon in its perpetual fade aspirin and silken ropes that tie the shadow down to a body that has only existed in pharaonic dreams the constant disrepair of language illiteracy of the gramophone and sewing machine the enormous and inexplicable circularities of heat coupled with the mysterious rumors of mummies grief ! legends of the half-formed antiquities of rock tragic association of the sorrowing trigger finger and the dizzying instamatic nature of fire-flies death over and over in small print at the bottom and pages of water and fluid discrepancies of thought rushing in all directions with nowhere to go skies decrepit with the gods of mistaken pronouns oracle and augury and spit-fire demons wayward desires the entire panoply of historic deviation one by one the children and the dead going south volumes of unused scripts the crying at the end the sadness of leaves bereft of their own speech the longing and drift of undetected planets asleep forever between eons of galactic despair 10-25-20 THE SYMPOSIUM “Oímos por espejos” Lorca this afternoon we discuss the state of poetry the archaic oriental ancient unfinished rock formation cliffs of rumor compacted into a few variable sounds the one you left behind in sleep is greater for its absence and the one you keep repeating as you stutter is the divine syllable not meant for human mirrors the ear and its occidental other stilled by a single blade of grass symbol of darkening and grief and as you pause for a moment sitting there discussing the state and condition of the already ruined art of the incomplete you have second thoughts it didn’t come from Ionia it wasn’t even in existence when they came over the Hindu Kush maybe it’s not polite to maintain this symposium and the others ragged hermaphrodites with bodies borrowed from some pre-Christian novel you oppose the direction their loosened vowels are taking projecting solemn auguries about the flight of skies about the inverted afternoons of Hades the Stygian helmsman and his broken oars the overloaded verses of tempest and bird-wing the adorned and adorable dead putti the fringes of sound the mind in its vocabulary of hesitation and phonetic spectra how is one to sleep with a head full of abracadabra and nonsensical whims about the origins of the Muses mountain born and dressed like kites or quicksilver inspirations to song and dance the nodding epithets and glories whatever the discussion is not straightforward drunken tousle-haired young men with skins of antelope or leopard how graceful their presences which just as soon disintegrate and the volume turned way up and cigarette chatter and gods of the sudden entrance appearing and disappearing clatter junk and long draughts of mescal and what can you do your fingers isolated from the rhymes and meters and a host of Latin pejoratives and dialect of rumor and repercussion the sea comes up to your knees and sunsets of Spanish gold and the vitriol of lovers who envy and nothing more what is there to explain and the anthologies spill open flower-fields and names like Eurydice or Beatrice abound and you look over your shoulder at Night secretive and whispering into a bottle that holds the Sybil green and upside-down vatic maniac tongue that none can understand the very bedlam and manicomio that poetry should be you try to assert but for the nymphs holding up drowned Hylas and the rivers rushing to lose identity and name and the Chaos of all human endeavor the critics and circus-masters naysayers and idolaters the fashion-worshippers and finally tiny and redundant in appearance the Rishis naked and dazed smeared with Vedic mantras uttering and stammering with their knees the ultimate truths the One and the Many and the Goddess the shimmer of distance and Echo her manifold faces and hair but for a moment visible before all the smoke and ashes and Memory disappear and left alone in an Empty Room you with the ghosts of Longing and Leaf Silencio ! 10-28-20  Ivan Argüelles is a Mexican-American innovative poet whose work moves from early Beat and surrealist-influenced forms to later epic-length poems. He received the Poetry Society of America’s William Carlos Williams Award in 1989 as well as the Before Columbus Foundation’s American Book Award in 2010. In 2013, Argüelles received the Before Columbus Foundation’s Lifetime Achievement Award. For Argüelles the turning point came with his discovery of the poetry of Philip Lamantia. Argüelles writes, “Lamantia’s mad, Beat-tinged American idiom surrealism had a very strong impact on me. Both intellectual and uninhibited, this was the dose for me.” While Argüelles’s early writings were rooted in neo-Beat bohemianism, surrealism, and Chicano culture, in the nineties he developed longer, epic-length forms rooted in Pound’s Cantos and Joyce’s Finnegans Wake. He eventually returned, after the first decade of the new millennium, to shorter, often elegiac works exemplary of Romantic Modernism. Ars Poetica is a sequence of exquisitely-honed short poems that range widely, though many mourn the death of the poet’s celebrated brother, José.
Rinconcito is a special little corner in Somos en escrito for short writings: a single poem, a short story, a memoir, flash fiction, and the like. For My Not So “American” Mother |
 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. |
NANCY AIDÉ GONZÁLEZ
THE POET: A PERSONAL NARRATIVE
I was born on a hot day on July 3rd at 12:24 PM in the Imperial Valley to my parents, Amelia and Jose Luis González. I am told I came out of my mother's womb crying for life with a full head of black hair that stuck straight up. I was named Nancy because it means “Grace of God.” My mom felt that I was a gift from God because she almost lost me several times during her pregnancy. She was fragile when she was pregnant and skinny. To her, it was a miracle that I was born because she had endured a painful pregnancy. My middle name was chosen to be Aidé because my mom loved a novela that had an actress named Aidé in it who was intelligent and beautiful. Aidé is a variant form of the name Heidi which means “of a noble kind.” When I was born, both sides of my family were at the hospital. I was the first grandchild on both sides of the family. I was greeted with an abundance of love.
THE POET: A PERSONAL NARRATIVE
I was born on a hot day on July 3rd at 12:24 PM in the Imperial Valley to my parents, Amelia and Jose Luis González. I am told I came out of my mother's womb crying for life with a full head of black hair that stuck straight up. I was named Nancy because it means “Grace of God.” My mom felt that I was a gift from God because she almost lost me several times during her pregnancy. She was fragile when she was pregnant and skinny. To her, it was a miracle that I was born because she had endured a painful pregnancy. My middle name was chosen to be Aidé because my mom loved a novela that had an actress named Aidé in it who was intelligent and beautiful. Aidé is a variant form of the name Heidi which means “of a noble kind.” When I was born, both sides of my family were at the hospital. I was the first grandchild on both sides of the family. I was greeted with an abundance of love.
My story is interwoven with the story of my mother and father. My mother, Amelia, was born in El Paso, Texas, and was raised in Mexico by her Tía Cuca. Her father and mother had separated when she was a baby. Neither her father nor mother could raise her, so she was sent to live with her Tía Cuca in a peach-colored adobe house in Delicias, Chihuahua. Tía Cuca took in my mother, her twin sister, Tita, and youngest sister, Armida. She and her sisters worked to earn their keep at their Tía Cuca's who had them clean, cook, and feed the chickens and pigs. There she went to school and attended a very strict Christian church. My mom came to the United States when she was 16 to live with her aunt. She worked in the fields of the Central Valley, picking fruits and vegetables. Then she moved to San Bernardino to live with her Tía Cholita. My mother always felt like an outsider. She encountered racism in high school. She was told to “go back to Mexico” and called a “beaner” by her classmates. My mom learned English in high school.
My father, Jose Luis, was born in El Paso, Texas, and his family moved to San Bernardino, California, when he was a child. He did not know Spanish well. His father worked picking up garbage for the city as a sanitation worker, and his mother was a housewife. My father had four siblings. They were devout Catholics who attended church on Sundays. My father grew up playing baseball, chess, and wrestling. In high school, he was on the wrestling team. My father played saxophone in the school band.
My father, Jose Luis, was born in El Paso, Texas, and his family moved to San Bernardino, California, when he was a child. He did not know Spanish well. His father worked picking up garbage for the city as a sanitation worker, and his mother was a housewife. My father had four siblings. They were devout Catholics who attended church on Sundays. My father grew up playing baseball, chess, and wrestling. In high school, he was on the wrestling team. My father played saxophone in the school band.
My mother and father met at San Bernardino High School. My mother was enamored with him. He was popular and considered handsome by the girls. They went on dates, but my mom's aunt was strict and would only let my mom stay out until seven in the evening. My mother was very religious and conservative while my father went to parties and dated other girls. After they graduated from high school, they continued to date and fell in love. Eventually, they got married in a church in 1976. There are photos of them at the wedding in an album. My mom wore a white dress made of lace and looked radiant. My father had a light blue bow tie and cummerbund. They are smiling in their wedding pictures while they cut the three-tier cake and have their first dance. In the wedding photos, they are full of hope and joy.
They were young when they married. My mother had me a year later when she was 23 years old. She decided to go to junior college. My father worked at a carpet business for a while, laying down carpet in homes. My brother, Michael, was conceived two years later. Then my father started to work for the Santa Fe railroad. He began traveling to lay down tracks and fix the railroad tracks in different cities. My brother was born when my father began working for Santa Fe railroad. Then one day, my father injured his back, laying down the tracks for the railroad. The doctor gave my father prescription drugs for his back pains. The prescription drugs were not enough. My father turned to illegal drugs and alcohol to escape the pain. He began hanging out with people who did illicit drugs and became an addict. I was three years old at the time.
Once someone becomes addicted to drugs, their lives change, and priorities shift. The addiction takes over, the person's personality changes, this is something I learned as a child. My father's addiction affected our family. My mother did not allow drugs in our house. My father was angry, jobless, and in pain. He would leave my mother, brother, and me for weeks, then months. Each time he returned, my mother and father would argue. My father would beat my mother. I would hide in the closet among the softness of clothing in the darkness. My brother would be crying in his crib. After my father beat my mother, he would leave the house as quickly as he arrived. The door would slam and shake the house on F Street. The engine of his yellow Duster would rev then speed away. I would come out of the closet to find my mother on the floor. She usually had a black eye and was bleeding from her nose. I would lay on the floor and hug her. We would cry together. Then my mother would eventually get up off the floor. She would clean her face and put ice on her eye. We would sing Christian hymns until we were tired. A few days later, my father would come home and beg my mother for forgiveness on his knees. He would promise he would change and cry. My mother would forgive him. For a week, there would be peace. We would go to church together. My mom and dad would hold hands while watching TV. Then my father would leave.
The last time he left, I was five years old. He called my mom from a crackling payphone in September 1982. He told my mom that he was going to make a lot of money on a business deal. The money was going to change our lives, and everything was going to improve. A few weeks passed, and my father was found with fifteen bullet holes in his chest. Joggers in the Arrowhead mountains discovered his body in the bushes. The autopsy report indicated the last thing he had eaten was blood oranges. The police did not investigate or look for who killed my father. Due to the condition of my father's body, at his funeral, the casket was closed. I remember people at the funeral whispering while looking at me, “Do you think she knows she won't see her father again?” I remember staring at the black and white tile of the funeral home while a woman from our church sang “Amazing Grace.” I understood that my father was no longer alive, and I would never see him again.
They were young when they married. My mother had me a year later when she was 23 years old. She decided to go to junior college. My father worked at a carpet business for a while, laying down carpet in homes. My brother, Michael, was conceived two years later. Then my father started to work for the Santa Fe railroad. He began traveling to lay down tracks and fix the railroad tracks in different cities. My brother was born when my father began working for Santa Fe railroad. Then one day, my father injured his back, laying down the tracks for the railroad. The doctor gave my father prescription drugs for his back pains. The prescription drugs were not enough. My father turned to illegal drugs and alcohol to escape the pain. He began hanging out with people who did illicit drugs and became an addict. I was three years old at the time.
Once someone becomes addicted to drugs, their lives change, and priorities shift. The addiction takes over, the person's personality changes, this is something I learned as a child. My father's addiction affected our family. My mother did not allow drugs in our house. My father was angry, jobless, and in pain. He would leave my mother, brother, and me for weeks, then months. Each time he returned, my mother and father would argue. My father would beat my mother. I would hide in the closet among the softness of clothing in the darkness. My brother would be crying in his crib. After my father beat my mother, he would leave the house as quickly as he arrived. The door would slam and shake the house on F Street. The engine of his yellow Duster would rev then speed away. I would come out of the closet to find my mother on the floor. She usually had a black eye and was bleeding from her nose. I would lay on the floor and hug her. We would cry together. Then my mother would eventually get up off the floor. She would clean her face and put ice on her eye. We would sing Christian hymns until we were tired. A few days later, my father would come home and beg my mother for forgiveness on his knees. He would promise he would change and cry. My mother would forgive him. For a week, there would be peace. We would go to church together. My mom and dad would hold hands while watching TV. Then my father would leave.
The last time he left, I was five years old. He called my mom from a crackling payphone in September 1982. He told my mom that he was going to make a lot of money on a business deal. The money was going to change our lives, and everything was going to improve. A few weeks passed, and my father was found with fifteen bullet holes in his chest. Joggers in the Arrowhead mountains discovered his body in the bushes. The autopsy report indicated the last thing he had eaten was blood oranges. The police did not investigate or look for who killed my father. Due to the condition of my father's body, at his funeral, the casket was closed. I remember people at the funeral whispering while looking at me, “Do you think she knows she won't see her father again?” I remember staring at the black and white tile of the funeral home while a woman from our church sang “Amazing Grace.” I understood that my father was no longer alive, and I would never see him again.
A recurring nightmare during my childhood was that my mother and brother were in a car accident. In my dream, they were in the yellow Datsun driving by in front of the house on F Street in San Bernardino. Then a semi-truck would come out of nowhere and crash into the Datsun. I would witness the crash in slow motion. In the dream, I would want to move from the porch to run towards them, but I could not move. I would be frozen, and when I screamed, nothing would come out of my mouth. I would wake up in a sweat, unable to move.
I learned early on that words had power. I learned that the words my father yelled at my mother hurt her. I learned that the words of the lullabies my mother sang to me soothed me. I learned that lyrics in music I listened to by the record player could move me to dance. I learned in church that the words of the Bible were important. Words could build up or tear down. They could hurt and create invisible scars.
My mother taught me my letters and numbers when I was four years old. She was in junior college and then attended San Bernardino State University. She wanted to be an elementary school teacher. She worked as a teacher's aide when I was in kindergarten while going to University. My mother would read books to me. I loved when she read me Goodnight Moon, Curious George, Little Red Riding Hood, and Five Little Monkeys Jumping on the Bed. I would ask her to read the books over and over. When she took me to the library, I was overjoyed to pick new stories that ignited my imagination.
I struggled with reading in first grade. It wasn't until mid-first grade that I was taken to the optometrist. I had acute astigmatism and chose glasses with dark purple frames. I was delighted to have my glasses because, for the first time, everything was clear. Then to my dismay, I wore the glasses to school, and children made fun of me. They called me “four eyes,” and a boy told me, “You look ugly.” I sobbed in the bathroom all recess, and when I got back to class, I shoved my glasses to the back of my desk. I didn't wear my glasses at school. However, I needed my glasses to see, so I did not know what was going on in class. I couldn't see the letters on the board; everything was a blur. I disliked school, and I would daydream. I was seated in my chair in the classroom, but my mind was somewhere else. I would imagine being “Wonder Woman” and sliding down rainbows. It wasn't until third grade that I began to wear my glasses at school. I learned to read in third grade because I could actually see the words on the page without squinting. I had a reading anthology that my teacher sent home with me. I would practice reading every night with my mom or stepdad.
One of my favorite teachers was Mrs. Whitfield. I had her for both fifth and sixth grade in El Cajon, California. She had us read Johnny Tremain, which is an historical fiction novel written by Ester Forbes set before the American Revolution. I remember that Johnny hurts his hand as a silversmith and could no longer use it. I felt empathy for his character, who had one hand and had a love interest named Cilla. It was the first young adult novel that I read that moved me. After reading Johnny Tremain, I became an avid reader. I would go home and read until it was time for me to go to sleep. Mrs. Whitfield also had my class memorize a poem a week. I remember we had to recite poetry to her and get graded. I memorized “Eldorado” by Edgar Allen Poe and “The Road Not Taken” by Robert Frost. She also let us pick poetry to read in front of the class. I was timid and I remember I chose to read “Let America Be America Again” by Langston Hughes in front of my class. I was only 12, and I did not fully understand all the concepts the poem addressed. I remember the line, “Let America be the dream the dreamers dreamed-…” I remember shaking while reading the poem, each word was loudly spoken with conviction. The class clapped after I read the poem, and Mrs. Whitfield said, “Nancy is a poet!” Mrs. Whitfield believed in me and pushed me out of my comfort zone. She expected a lot from me as a student, and I excelled in her class. She made me feel seen. She awarded me a student of the year award in six grade.
I don't think there is an exact moment that one becomes a writer. I just know that I liked to write. I remember writing a short story about a grandfather and granddaughter in seventh grade. My English teacher read the story to the class and said I was talented. After class, he took me outside and told me I should consider going to college. I told him I planned on going to college when I grew up. My mom and stepdad had ingrained the idea into my mind that I was going to college when I was six years old.
My mom would take my brother and me to daycare to attend afternoon classes at San Bernardino State University. After class, my mom would let my brother and me run in the grass. My mom met my stepdad, John, in a Mexican history class. They were friends at first then they began dating after my father passed away. I did not trust John when I met him. I would not talk to him and did not make eye contact with him. Then he slowly became an integral part of my life. He would take my mom, brother, and me to pizza. He would babysit my brother and me. My brother and I did things with him that we were not allowed to do when my mom was around, like jump on the bed and dance. He took us to have chili dogs for breakfast. He told us dad jokes, and he still does. My stepdad accepted my brother and me as his own. John and my mom got married when I was nine years old. My brother and I were in the wedding. I was the flower girl, and my brother was the ring bearer. My mom and stepdad have been married for thirty-four years. It is from them that I know how love can change lives.
I learned early on that words had power. I learned that the words my father yelled at my mother hurt her. I learned that the words of the lullabies my mother sang to me soothed me. I learned that lyrics in music I listened to by the record player could move me to dance. I learned in church that the words of the Bible were important. Words could build up or tear down. They could hurt and create invisible scars.
My mother taught me my letters and numbers when I was four years old. She was in junior college and then attended San Bernardino State University. She wanted to be an elementary school teacher. She worked as a teacher's aide when I was in kindergarten while going to University. My mother would read books to me. I loved when she read me Goodnight Moon, Curious George, Little Red Riding Hood, and Five Little Monkeys Jumping on the Bed. I would ask her to read the books over and over. When she took me to the library, I was overjoyed to pick new stories that ignited my imagination.
I struggled with reading in first grade. It wasn't until mid-first grade that I was taken to the optometrist. I had acute astigmatism and chose glasses with dark purple frames. I was delighted to have my glasses because, for the first time, everything was clear. Then to my dismay, I wore the glasses to school, and children made fun of me. They called me “four eyes,” and a boy told me, “You look ugly.” I sobbed in the bathroom all recess, and when I got back to class, I shoved my glasses to the back of my desk. I didn't wear my glasses at school. However, I needed my glasses to see, so I did not know what was going on in class. I couldn't see the letters on the board; everything was a blur. I disliked school, and I would daydream. I was seated in my chair in the classroom, but my mind was somewhere else. I would imagine being “Wonder Woman” and sliding down rainbows. It wasn't until third grade that I began to wear my glasses at school. I learned to read in third grade because I could actually see the words on the page without squinting. I had a reading anthology that my teacher sent home with me. I would practice reading every night with my mom or stepdad.
One of my favorite teachers was Mrs. Whitfield. I had her for both fifth and sixth grade in El Cajon, California. She had us read Johnny Tremain, which is an historical fiction novel written by Ester Forbes set before the American Revolution. I remember that Johnny hurts his hand as a silversmith and could no longer use it. I felt empathy for his character, who had one hand and had a love interest named Cilla. It was the first young adult novel that I read that moved me. After reading Johnny Tremain, I became an avid reader. I would go home and read until it was time for me to go to sleep. Mrs. Whitfield also had my class memorize a poem a week. I remember we had to recite poetry to her and get graded. I memorized “Eldorado” by Edgar Allen Poe and “The Road Not Taken” by Robert Frost. She also let us pick poetry to read in front of the class. I was timid and I remember I chose to read “Let America Be America Again” by Langston Hughes in front of my class. I was only 12, and I did not fully understand all the concepts the poem addressed. I remember the line, “Let America be the dream the dreamers dreamed-…” I remember shaking while reading the poem, each word was loudly spoken with conviction. The class clapped after I read the poem, and Mrs. Whitfield said, “Nancy is a poet!” Mrs. Whitfield believed in me and pushed me out of my comfort zone. She expected a lot from me as a student, and I excelled in her class. She made me feel seen. She awarded me a student of the year award in six grade.
I don't think there is an exact moment that one becomes a writer. I just know that I liked to write. I remember writing a short story about a grandfather and granddaughter in seventh grade. My English teacher read the story to the class and said I was talented. After class, he took me outside and told me I should consider going to college. I told him I planned on going to college when I grew up. My mom and stepdad had ingrained the idea into my mind that I was going to college when I was six years old.
My mom would take my brother and me to daycare to attend afternoon classes at San Bernardino State University. After class, my mom would let my brother and me run in the grass. My mom met my stepdad, John, in a Mexican history class. They were friends at first then they began dating after my father passed away. I did not trust John when I met him. I would not talk to him and did not make eye contact with him. Then he slowly became an integral part of my life. He would take my mom, brother, and me to pizza. He would babysit my brother and me. My brother and I did things with him that we were not allowed to do when my mom was around, like jump on the bed and dance. He took us to have chili dogs for breakfast. He told us dad jokes, and he still does. My stepdad accepted my brother and me as his own. John and my mom got married when I was nine years old. My brother and I were in the wedding. I was the flower girl, and my brother was the ring bearer. My mom and stepdad have been married for thirty-four years. It is from them that I know how love can change lives.
In high school, I would write in a journal about my thoughts and feelings daily. I took Honors American Literature, where we read The Scarlett Letter and The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn. I took Honors World Literature, where we read Things fall Apart by Chinua Achebe and other African literature. I never saw myself in the books and stories that I read until my sophomore year at California State University, Sacramento. I took a Chicana Literature course taught by Professor Graciela B. Ramirez who assigned books by Chicana authors that impacted my life. I read Borderlands/La Frontera: The New Mestiza [1987], a semi-autobiographical work by Gloria E. Anzaldúa. I read Massacre of the Dreamers: Essays on Xicanisma by Ana Castillo. I read This Bridge Called My Back: Writings by Radical Women of Color, the feminist anthology edited by Cherríe Moraga and Gloria E. Anzaldúa. I read The Moths and other Short Stories by Helena Maria Viramontes. I devoured these books because I saw myself in the essays and literature. I found myself and my culture described within the pages on these books, and it was empowering. It was the first time in my life that I thought I could be a writer. I was published in Calaveras Station, the literary journal at Sacramento State. I was overjoyed when I saw my poem in print.
Years went by, and I became an elementary school teacher. I would write poems in journals and napkins, but I never shared my work. It was not until 2011 when I decided I was going to take my writing seriously. I became very depressed because I wanted a child. I had been trying to conceive a child for a year. I have polycystic ovary syndrome, and I was put on metformin by my doctor. It made me ill, but I stayed on the metformin. Then one day, my mother said, “I hate seeing you sad. Perhaps you should accept that you might not ever conceive a child.” I contemplated this idea for a few weeks. Then I decided that if I could not conceive a child that I would give birth to thoughts and words in the form of poetry.
Poetry brought me back to life. I began writing poems and joined Escritores Del Nuevo Sol. At my first meeting, I read a poem about my female ancestors called “The Ones that Live On.” It was my soul that urged me to write the poem. Francisco X. Alarcón was a member of Escritores Del Nuevo Sol; he encouraged me to keep writing. Francisco X. Alarcón had a significant impact on me as a poet. He asked me if he could publish my poem on Poets Responding to SB1070 on Facebook. There, on Poets Responding to SB1070, I met other writers who were activists from across the nation. Joining a community of poets helped me gain confidence and discover my voice. I also joined the Sacramento Poetry Center and began hosting a poetry reading series called Mosaic of Voices for three years. I met brilliant poets while hosting the reading series. The readings were on Sunday afternoons; they became like church. Each poetry reading was spiritually and intellectually moving. I began submitting my work, and my poems were published in several literary journals and anthologies. My poetry friends became like a second family.
Years went by, and I became an elementary school teacher. I would write poems in journals and napkins, but I never shared my work. It was not until 2011 when I decided I was going to take my writing seriously. I became very depressed because I wanted a child. I had been trying to conceive a child for a year. I have polycystic ovary syndrome, and I was put on metformin by my doctor. It made me ill, but I stayed on the metformin. Then one day, my mother said, “I hate seeing you sad. Perhaps you should accept that you might not ever conceive a child.” I contemplated this idea for a few weeks. Then I decided that if I could not conceive a child that I would give birth to thoughts and words in the form of poetry.
Poetry brought me back to life. I began writing poems and joined Escritores Del Nuevo Sol. At my first meeting, I read a poem about my female ancestors called “The Ones that Live On.” It was my soul that urged me to write the poem. Francisco X. Alarcón was a member of Escritores Del Nuevo Sol; he encouraged me to keep writing. Francisco X. Alarcón had a significant impact on me as a poet. He asked me if he could publish my poem on Poets Responding to SB1070 on Facebook. There, on Poets Responding to SB1070, I met other writers who were activists from across the nation. Joining a community of poets helped me gain confidence and discover my voice. I also joined the Sacramento Poetry Center and began hosting a poetry reading series called Mosaic of Voices for three years. I met brilliant poets while hosting the reading series. The readings were on Sunday afternoons; they became like church. Each poetry reading was spiritually and intellectually moving. I began submitting my work, and my poems were published in several literary journals and anthologies. My poetry friends became like a second family.
When I begin writing, I don't know where the poem is going or what will spill out onto the page. Sometimes I write poetry, then take a few lines and write another poem. Other times, a whole poem will come to me in the middle of the night, and I will get up and write it. Poetry that comes to me in the middle of the night rarely needs to be edited. Some poems I revise and re-edit until I feel they are done. I know when a poem is done when I feel it in my heart that there are no words I want to change or images I want to insert. Writing allows me to explore my emotions and communicate ideas about the world around me. Poetry has helped me heal and has forced me to deal with pain. It has helped me understand my life experiences. It has helped me forgive others and myself. I have written poems about my father and my infertility. It has helped me transform into a more introspective individual. Part of being a writer is observing and experiencing each moment. I notice the smallest things, dust in the air, the smell of earth, and sunshine through leaves. Poetry allows me to take my pain and make it into something heartbreakingly raw and beautiful. My soul moves me to put pen to paper and give birth.
 |  |
THE POETRY OF NANCY AIDÉ GONZÁLEZ:
“…something heartbreakingly raw and beautiful”
“…something heartbreakingly raw and beautiful”
La Virgen de Las Calles
for Ester Hernandez
She stands on the
busy street corner
selling delicate red
and white roses
hugged by baby's breath
and luminous cellophane
resting in a
once discarded
plastic bucket.
She understands the innate
beauty of roses,
their fragility
their fragrant hope
as they grow slowly
from bud to emerge
embracing change,
as they flush into
full bloom.
She knows of
piercing thorns
and truth of crossing
barbed wire borders.
She understands
the prickling sting,
the aculeus
of being an outsider.
She wears a large
sweatshirt with USA
emblazoned in block
print across her chest
but she misses Mexico
and the small town
she was raised in.
A red and green
rebozo hangs down
upon her head shielding
her from the fulgent sun,
a gift from her mother,
a reminder of home.
People stride past her
lost in their own thoughts
hustling to work,
on pressing errands,
wandering down the tangle
of the Los Angeles landscape.
She is La Virgen de las Calles,
waiting with a
heavy heart,
full of yearning,
dreaming of
new horizons,
a fountain of
humble tenderness
and abounding love.
La Virgen de las Calles
comprehends the
nature of roses,
their vulnerability
their need for nettle.
for Ester Hernandez
She stands on the
busy street corner
selling delicate red
and white roses
hugged by baby's breath
and luminous cellophane
resting in a
once discarded
plastic bucket.
She understands the innate
beauty of roses,
their fragility
their fragrant hope
as they grow slowly
from bud to emerge
embracing change,
as they flush into
full bloom.
She knows of
piercing thorns
and truth of crossing
barbed wire borders.
She understands
the prickling sting,
the aculeus
of being an outsider.
She wears a large
sweatshirt with USA
emblazoned in block
print across her chest
but she misses Mexico
and the small town
she was raised in.
A red and green
rebozo hangs down
upon her head shielding
her from the fulgent sun,
a gift from her mother,
a reminder of home.
People stride past her
lost in their own thoughts
hustling to work,
on pressing errands,
wandering down the tangle
of the Los Angeles landscape.
She is La Virgen de las Calles,
waiting with a
heavy heart,
full of yearning,
dreaming of
new horizons,
a fountain of
humble tenderness
and abounding love.
La Virgen de las Calles
comprehends the
nature of roses,
their vulnerability
their need for nettle.
Rose Ranfla
Riding in the ’63 Impala
cruis’n el corazón del barrio
passing by
carnalitos y carnalitas running through sprinklers
abuelas y abuelos on the porch talk’n about the old days
cholos playing handball at the high school
women in the beauty shop getting their hair did
rollin’ past
taquerías panaderías heladerías
Bumping
I’m Your Puppet
La La Means I love You
Thin Line Between Love and Hate
Sabor A Mí
through the streets of Califaztlan
Chrome spoke wheels spin
low and slow
variations of pink paint layers glisten
hard top covered in a garden of hand painted gypsy roses
lean back upon velvet pink interior
flip the switch
hit the hydraulics
dip and raise
dip and raise
hop hop hop
off the ground in the intersection
the journey has just begun
let’s chase the immensity
of the moment
in estilo.
Riding in the ’63 Impala
cruis’n el corazón del barrio
passing by
carnalitos y carnalitas running through sprinklers
abuelas y abuelos on the porch talk’n about the old days
cholos playing handball at the high school
women in the beauty shop getting their hair did
rollin’ past
taquerías panaderías heladerías
Bumping
I’m Your Puppet
La La Means I love You
Thin Line Between Love and Hate
Sabor A Mí
through the streets of Califaztlan
Chrome spoke wheels spin
low and slow
variations of pink paint layers glisten
hard top covered in a garden of hand painted gypsy roses
lean back upon velvet pink interior
flip the switch
hit the hydraulics
dip and raise
dip and raise
hop hop hop
off the ground in the intersection
the journey has just begun
let’s chase the immensity
of the moment
in estilo.
Serenade
I become earth’s
remembrance of everything
creviced skin of red rock
endless pregnant season
toothless silence
I want to understand this world, your scars
stay cradled by tree arms
delve in splinters
my womb is filled with clay
barren it throbs
I want to say many things
but my words are trapped in caverns
where bats hide from redundancies
no one told me of the gritty essence
of the residue that settles
Black star dying
innumerable deaths in this life
we have come here to the waters
we are he and she
or man and woman
scent of copper and jasmine
we sip smoldering gravity
separated space fills
a serenade in golden afternoon
unborn twins sob
otherworldly whimpers timeless
they can be heard by the bees and ants
they enter this wasteland we inhabit
nameless they will remain, my infants
Adrift we are. Come to me. I am alone.
wild horses turnover the headstones
take my ovaries spine skull
take the truth I search for in crushed leaves,
in the fading contrails of fading light.
I become earth’s
remembrance of everything
creviced skin of red rock
endless pregnant season
toothless silence
I want to understand this world, your scars
stay cradled by tree arms
delve in splinters
my womb is filled with clay
barren it throbs
I want to say many things
but my words are trapped in caverns
where bats hide from redundancies
no one told me of the gritty essence
of the residue that settles
Black star dying
innumerable deaths in this life
we have come here to the waters
we are he and she
or man and woman
scent of copper and jasmine
we sip smoldering gravity
separated space fills
a serenade in golden afternoon
unborn twins sob
otherworldly whimpers timeless
they can be heard by the bees and ants
they enter this wasteland we inhabit
nameless they will remain, my infants
Adrift we are. Come to me. I am alone.
wild horses turnover the headstones
take my ovaries spine skull
take the truth I search for in crushed leaves,
in the fading contrails of fading light.
Zapata y Frida
By chance they meet at a bar
she drinks tequila shots
she wants to be life itself
he caresses his gun
he longs for uprising.
he strokes his mustache, his wet lips glistening
she touches her brow, her eyes aflame
they speak of monkeys and flowers, of war and borders
in the corner they become the world itself, spinning off axis
they laugh loudly and don’t notice people staring
“Take me away,” she says.
II
She places her hands on his face
studies his indigenous features
examines his eyes
“I know you” she says. “I have known you all my life.
You will cause my slow death.”
III
She unbraids her hair
her pink ribbons fall to the tierra
he take off her embroidered dress
he places his hands upon her small breasts
they devour each other’s skin
thrusting and precise piercing
moaning until night melts into brightness
there are no promises made
upon the wet grass
after she places her head upon his chest
and hears the drum of his heart
“You will remember me.” she says.
IV
They ride horses through Morelos
near sugar cane fields
“It is better to die on your feet than live on your knees,” he says.
“Death knocks at my door,” she says.
“I have no mercy,” he says.
“Please have mercy on me,” she says.
VII
The next time they make love
she unhinges him
touches the wilderness with abandon
hunger drives them deeper into
the topography of vermillion desire
VIII
An eagle sits on a cactus
and watches them dance to corridos
she pulls him close with her rebozo
“We are home,” she says.
IX
That night she has a dream
she is in the forest alone
she is a deer and arrows puncture her flesh
she awakes sobbing and gasping
paint splattered on her face
She reaches for him.
“No llores,” he says.
“I want to be your soldadera,” she says.
X
He vanishes in the middle of the night
he leaves her a rifle with a rose in the barrel
she takes her brush and paints.
By chance they meet at a bar
she drinks tequila shots
she wants to be life itself
he caresses his gun
he longs for uprising.
he strokes his mustache, his wet lips glistening
she touches her brow, her eyes aflame
they speak of monkeys and flowers, of war and borders
in the corner they become the world itself, spinning off axis
they laugh loudly and don’t notice people staring
“Take me away,” she says.
II
She places her hands on his face
studies his indigenous features
examines his eyes
“I know you” she says. “I have known you all my life.
You will cause my slow death.”
III
She unbraids her hair
her pink ribbons fall to the tierra
he take off her embroidered dress
he places his hands upon her small breasts
they devour each other’s skin
thrusting and precise piercing
moaning until night melts into brightness
there are no promises made
upon the wet grass
after she places her head upon his chest
and hears the drum of his heart
“You will remember me.” she says.
IV
They ride horses through Morelos
near sugar cane fields
“It is better to die on your feet than live on your knees,” he says.
“Death knocks at my door,” she says.
“I have no mercy,” he says.
“Please have mercy on me,” she says.
VII
The next time they make love
she unhinges him
touches the wilderness with abandon
hunger drives them deeper into
the topography of vermillion desire
VIII
An eagle sits on a cactus
and watches them dance to corridos
she pulls him close with her rebozo
“We are home,” she says.
IX
That night she has a dream
she is in the forest alone
she is a deer and arrows puncture her flesh
she awakes sobbing and gasping
paint splattered on her face
She reaches for him.
“No llores,” he says.
“I want to be your soldadera,” she says.
X
He vanishes in the middle of the night
he leaves her a rifle with a rose in the barrel
she takes her brush and paints.
Railways
Smell of dirt and sweat
Mingled with whiskey and cigarettes
the train resounds, he is home.
All day he mends railroads
comes home & takes of his dusty boots,
the sour aroma of twilight.
I watch his face
think of the softness of the figs
growing in the backyard,
play with dolls.
He calls me outside
talks to me as he smokes a joint
about constellations and the dangers of night,
I tell him of the butterfly I caught and set free.
The red porch paint peels,
nearby the cactus grows entangled
this is our small space
his jagged hand caresses my face,
above a shooting star scars the sky.
Then he and my mother fight
A blur of fists, blood
his departure marked with dissipating smoke.
I don’t want to know the details
of where he went
or how he felt as all those bullets
punctured his flesh.
All I hear is his distant voice on the cracking
phone line saying, “I will be home soon.”
On the way to the funeral
we stop as the train roars
car after car after car speed by
weight & rhythm of wheel on steel,
he has gone home.
Smell of dirt and sweat
Mingled with whiskey and cigarettes
the train resounds, he is home.
All day he mends railroads
comes home & takes of his dusty boots,
the sour aroma of twilight.
I watch his face
think of the softness of the figs
growing in the backyard,
play with dolls.
He calls me outside
talks to me as he smokes a joint
about constellations and the dangers of night,
I tell him of the butterfly I caught and set free.
The red porch paint peels,
nearby the cactus grows entangled
this is our small space
his jagged hand caresses my face,
above a shooting star scars the sky.
Then he and my mother fight
A blur of fists, blood
his departure marked with dissipating smoke.
I don’t want to know the details
of where he went
or how he felt as all those bullets
punctured his flesh.
All I hear is his distant voice on the cracking
phone line saying, “I will be home soon.”
On the way to the funeral
we stop as the train roars
car after car after car speed by
weight & rhythm of wheel on steel,
he has gone home.
Foreigner
I am a foreigner in my own country
there is torment in the disconnection,
I examine the geometries of mountains and
plateaus
pass by clamorous rivers,
the land remains the same.
The land remains the same
in the mirror, reflection
my face is my own
my wide brown eyes
my carefully drawn red lips,
the world has changed.
The world has changed,
I send a letter to a good friend
Wait for an answer that might never arrive,
the mailbox is empty
I must fill my own emptiness.
I must fill my own emptiness
the dirty laundry piles up,
politicians recite alternative lies on television
lying has somehow become the norm,
I march with millions in protest against injustice
raise my voice for the voiceless,
raids round up “unauthorized” immigrants
to be sent to Mexico,
there is an unraveling of fear and hate.
There is an unraveling of fear and hate
my soul knows the unsayable,
I drive to work and back home
throw things on the ground to see
how they fall,
pick up wilted flowers
try to revive them,
find a dead seagull on the path
blood encrusted with dirt
broken wing hanging,
I search for the bare skinned essence of
light within darkness.
I search for the bare skinned essence of
light within darkness,
at the park a small girl holds a red balloon
she becomes distracted by laughter
lets go of the string
watches the balloon float to meet the sun,
I want to peel the sun
lay my fingers on permanence.
I want to peel the sun
lay my fingers on permanence,
rays illuminate a thick black arrow tattooed
on the cashier’s forearm,
I want to follow the arrow
to where it might take me,
so I may arrive at the unseen,
become connected.
I am a foreigner in my own country
the land remains the same
yet my world has changed,
memory filters through lace wings
those I thought I knew,
have become strangers.
I am a foreigner in my own country
there is torment in the disconnection,
I examine the geometries of mountains and
plateaus
pass by clamorous rivers,
the land remains the same.
The land remains the same
in the mirror, reflection
my face is my own
my wide brown eyes
my carefully drawn red lips,
the world has changed.
The world has changed,
I send a letter to a good friend
Wait for an answer that might never arrive,
the mailbox is empty
I must fill my own emptiness.
I must fill my own emptiness
the dirty laundry piles up,
politicians recite alternative lies on television
lying has somehow become the norm,
I march with millions in protest against injustice
raise my voice for the voiceless,
raids round up “unauthorized” immigrants
to be sent to Mexico,
there is an unraveling of fear and hate.
There is an unraveling of fear and hate
my soul knows the unsayable,
I drive to work and back home
throw things on the ground to see
how they fall,
pick up wilted flowers
try to revive them,
find a dead seagull on the path
blood encrusted with dirt
broken wing hanging,
I search for the bare skinned essence of
light within darkness.
I search for the bare skinned essence of
light within darkness,
at the park a small girl holds a red balloon
she becomes distracted by laughter
lets go of the string
watches the balloon float to meet the sun,
I want to peel the sun
lay my fingers on permanence.
I want to peel the sun
lay my fingers on permanence,
rays illuminate a thick black arrow tattooed
on the cashier’s forearm,
I want to follow the arrow
to where it might take me,
so I may arrive at the unseen,
become connected.
I am a foreigner in my own country
the land remains the same
yet my world has changed,
memory filters through lace wings
those I thought I knew,
have become strangers.
Expedition of the Heart
for Christina Fernandez
A woman’s voice whispers in español
there is no silence during daylight hours
only memory arranged and scattered days that become years
map charted life
air thick with absence, un canto.
for Christina Fernandez
A woman’s voice whispers in español
there is no silence during daylight hours
only memory arranged and scattered days that become years
map charted life
air thick with absence, un canto.
1910, Leaving Morelia, Michoacán
Through Michoacán the fishermen throw
nets into clear waters
fish sink heart sick
light is submerged
revolution leaves dust
thick insurgent shapes arc
She clasps her hands gazes out
in the womb a child stirs
door-heart creaks in the empty house
resolve ripens becomes honeyed
she has died and has been resurrected
she must leave the river that sings
now the monarch beckons.
Through Michoacán the fishermen throw
nets into clear waters
fish sink heart sick
light is submerged
revolution leaves dust
thick insurgent shapes arc
She clasps her hands gazes out
in the womb a child stirs
door-heart creaks in the empty house
resolve ripens becomes honeyed
she has died and has been resurrected
she must leave the river that sings
now the monarch beckons.
1919, Portland, Colorado
Stains have been scrubbed in laundry detergent
bleached in stark bubbles
that shine like prismatic marbles
creating rhythm on washboard ridges
soft hands massage grime, bitterness
Wooden pins fasten three shirts and a bed sheet
alabaster they flap in the breeze
She knows she must travel lightly
leave segments
to soak
to lift
to float feathered
and bask in the impermanent sunlight.
Stains have been scrubbed in laundry detergent
bleached in stark bubbles
that shine like prismatic marbles
creating rhythm on washboard ridges
soft hands massage grime, bitterness
Wooden pins fasten three shirts and a bed sheet
alabaster they flap in the breeze
She knows she must travel lightly
leave segments
to soak
to lift
to float feathered
and bask in the impermanent sunlight.
1927, Going Back to Morelia
What is known, will be known
what I take in this black chest is not mine, it is ours.
These tracks will take me back
to the smell of copal and agave nectar
where I will kick the scorpion and hold the snake
I will invoke la Virgen.
I clasp these words written on crumpled paper
words that have carried me through vacant terrain
I hold these needles which I will use to thread together shreds
mend each emotion filament by filament.
I am not who I was
you will know me anew
I will rename each radiant blade of grass
each distant storm after you.
What is known, will be known
what I take in this black chest is not mine, it is ours.
These tracks will take me back
to the smell of copal and agave nectar
where I will kick the scorpion and hold the snake
I will invoke la Virgen.
I clasp these words written on crumpled paper
words that have carried me through vacant terrain
I hold these needles which I will use to thread together shreds
mend each emotion filament by filament.
I am not who I was
you will know me anew
I will rename each radiant blade of grass
each distant storm after you.
1930, Transporting Produce, Outskirts of Phoenix. Arizona
Be careful not to bruise the apples
that is not to spoil the flesh
I was told to twist the stem gently
leave the tree as it is
fruit is placed into wooden crates, carried to the truck
We were told there would be water and a bathroom there wasn’t
we were told we wouldn’t be sprayed with pesticides, we were
we were told many lies.
We watch majestic seasons clinched in foliage shift
follow the crops in old cars where they lead
we are strangers yet friends
we are hombres y mujeres
always leaving behind something someone each other
always searching orchards and rows for distant secrets, trying not to bruise.
Be careful not to bruise the apples
that is not to spoil the flesh
I was told to twist the stem gently
leave the tree as it is
fruit is placed into wooden crates, carried to the truck
We were told there would be water and a bathroom there wasn’t
we were told we wouldn’t be sprayed with pesticides, we were
we were told many lies.
We watch majestic seasons clinched in foliage shift
follow the crops in old cars where they lead
we are strangers yet friends
we are hombres y mujeres
always leaving behind something someone each other
always searching orchards and rows for distant secrets, trying not to bruise.
1945, Aliso Village, Boyle Heights, California
I trust one and perhaps I trust none
I wear an apron
sweep and mop the houses of others, then my own
I clean mirrors so I can see
what is and what is not
wipe reflections with rags
as solitude encloses
After dusting, motes remain and gather
these granules the soul accumulates.
How far I have come,
each sepia detail crisscrossing
small daily miracles.
I trust one and perhaps I trust none
I wear an apron
sweep and mop the houses of others, then my own
I clean mirrors so I can see
what is and what is not
wipe reflections with rags
as solitude encloses
After dusting, motes remain and gather
these granules the soul accumulates.
How far I have come,
each sepia detail crisscrossing
small daily miracles.
1950, San Diego
Faith has brought me to where I am
These things I touch with my two hands:
a hot stove, pots, pans, a cup of tea, my children
I belong to myself, to others.
This space is mine
this spot where the floor is illuminated
and love collapses
I need to tell you, you are enough
you will leave pieces of yourself scattered through the world
you will be drawn back by generations
of madres, padres, hermanas, y hermanos
you will envision your ancestors existed
far removed from desolation
that they were not lost
You will scrape together details of their lives
become the author of your history
tell their stories with your words
Our narratives will continue
we will find our way home.
Faith has brought me to where I am
These things I touch with my two hands:
a hot stove, pots, pans, a cup of tea, my children
I belong to myself, to others.
This space is mine
this spot where the floor is illuminated
and love collapses
I need to tell you, you are enough
you will leave pieces of yourself scattered through the world
you will be drawn back by generations
of madres, padres, hermanas, y hermanos
you will envision your ancestors existed
far removed from desolation
that they were not lost
You will scrape together details of their lives
become the author of your history
tell their stories with your words
Our narratives will continue
we will find our way home.
© Poetry: Nancy Aidé González
Nancy Aidé González is a Chicana poet, educator, and activist. Her work has appeared in Huizache: The Magazine of Latino Literature, La Tolteca, Mujeres De Maiz Zine, DoveTales, Seeds of Resistance Flor y Canto: Tortilla Warrior, Hinchas de Poesía, La Bloga, Fifth Wednesday Journal and several other literary journals. Her work is featured in the Poetry of Resistance: Voices for Social Justice, Sacramento Voices: Foam at the Mouth Anthology, and Lowriting: Shots, Rides, and Stories from the Chicano Soul.
Edited by poet and writer, and member of Círculo de Poetas y Escritores, Lucha Corpi, for Somos en escrito Magazine.
Edited by poet and writer, and member of Círculo de Poetas y Escritores, Lucha Corpi, for Somos en escrito Magazine.
Archives
January 2021
December 2020
November 2020
October 2020
September 2020
August 2020
July 2020
June 2020
May 2020
April 2020
March 2020
February 2020
January 2020
November 2019
October 2019
September 2019
August 2019
July 2019
June 2019
May 2019
April 2019
March 2019
February 2019
January 2019
November 2018
September 2018
August 2018
July 2018
May 2018
April 2018
March 2018
February 2018
March 2017
January 2017
May 2016
February 2010
Categories
All
Archive
Argentina
Bilingüe
Book
Boricua
California
Caribbean
Cesar Chavez
Chicano
Chupacabra
Círculo
Colombiana
Colombian American
Cuban American
Culture
Current Events
Death
Dia De Los Muertos
Dominican American
East Harlem
El Salvador
Emerging Writer
English
Excerpt
Family
Flashback
Floricanto
Identity
Immigration
Imperialism
Indigenous
Interview
Language
Latin-america
Love
Mature
Memoir
Mestizaje
Mexican American
Mexico
Nicaraguan-diaspora
Ofrenda
Performance
Poesia
Poet-laureate
Poetry
Prose-poetry
Puerto-rican-disapora
Puerto-rico
Racism
Review
Social Justice
Southwest
Spanish
Spanish And English
Texas
Translation
Travel
War
Women
Young-writers
RSS Feed