Saturday, April 30, 2011

Add to Technorati Favorites

Lucia Veronica Carmona


Vivir entre dos naciones


I

En el trajín de la madrugada,

como todos los días del año

pero cada uno diferente

como diferente es la inspiración,

casi arrancada del sueño

y la tibieza de la almohada,

aún con la memoria de tu piel

en mi boca…


Me levanto en la penumbra

con la idea de cumplir,

el frío me estremece

pero sé que no estoy sola,

en medio de la sombra

desprovista de sol

me acompaña el Lucero

Venus siempre fiel,

en este amanecer de Octubre radiante

cuando el verano se despide, dándole la bienvenida

a la luz del otoño.


Por fin se adivinan

los primeros rayos,

astro rey tan necesario,

compañero apacible y cálido,

que nos despierta su luz,

mientras a la espera

de cruzar el umbral

de la subsistencia

por un dólar más

para comer

para vivir…


II

…Vivir entre dos naciones,

un puente que nos separa

para cruzarlo a diario,

como un río de agua viva incontenible

que se revela a mantenerse quieto,

y quiere romper los cauces

que le ha impuesto el imperio.

Límites imaginarios,

diques construidos por sus miedos.


Ya no ven al río de agua que los nutre

a diario con su fuerza de trabajo,

sudor y sangre que se queda

en sus restaurantes, en los campos de chile,

en sus hoteles cinco-estrellas,

sus letrinas,

sus oficinas

que no quedan quietas.

Tac, tac, tac,

del teclado de una máquina

de escribir anuncia que llegaron,

ya se enciende el neón,

“Yes, we are open”


Ciudadanos de segunda

que cumplen tareas dignamente,

pilares del consumo,

para que no se consuman pronto

en sus contradicciones,

ni se derrumben…


III

Ellos ven un enemigo en cada uno,

ya no confían en miradas inocentes,

ya no pueden encubrir la maldad

esparcida por sus mandos,

desde un pentágono

hacia cinco direcciones,

cinco continentes

que pretenden gobernar,

saben que tienen enemigos a muerte.


Ellos ya no ven al río ni a la gente.

El miedo les señala la verdad,

porque la verdad es que la gente

es como una serpiente,

que a diario entra y sale,

que espera paciente

deslizarse por entre sus trampas,

derrumbando límites

y construyendo nuevos puentes

de unidad entre hermanos

de raza ancestral,

antes separados

hoy vueltos a encontrar.


Despiertan lentamente

caminando juntos,

en un nuevo amanecer,

en medio de la madrugada

y el sueño, sin desayunar.


Es la serpiente de Aztlán

la de la profecía,

la de mil cabezas que se expande

por todo el territorio.

La que avanza desde el Sur

huyendo de sequías y miseria

desafiando discriminación.


Entra y sale para nutrirse

de valor y dignidad de un pueblo,

que tan sólo espera

recuperar lo que es suyo.

La armonía que antes

habitaba en estos

Valles y Desiertos,

la Madre Naturaleza en paz,

sin basura radioactiva,

con agua buena para beber.


Madrugada del 22 de Septiembre 2001

Con espera de 4 horas para cruzar el Puente Córdova Juárez, Chihuahua/El Paso, TX


*


Lucía Veronica Carmona es una organizadora comunitaria por los derechos humanos , poeta y cantautora. Ella es descendiente del pueblo original Raramuris y la hija de una costurera y lavendera. Lucía Veronica trabaja como líder organizadora en el Consejo de Desarrollo de Colonias en la franja fronteriza de Nuevo México y Tejas, donde ha organizado por los derechos del campesino.

Tuesday, April 26, 2011

Add to Technorati Favorites

arnoldo garcía

pueblo de nubes serpientes

Mi abuelito
contaba
que habían
unas nubes-serpientes
que aparecían en el cielo
y descendían a las lagunas
tocando y levantando mucha agua
y de nuevo las nubes-serpientes ascendían al cielo
donde repartían el agua en lluvias.

Mi viejito
me enseñaba
que las nubes
eran la fuerza más poderosa de la tierra.
¿Por qué?
El era del pueblo de las nubes-serpientes

Tuesday, April 12, 2011

Add to Technorati Favorites

Arnoldo García
April 10-15
NOTES

Reading poetry: an act of self-determination, self-emancipation

Mini-reviews of
A River Dies of Thirst and Absence Presence by Mahmoud Darwish
A life of reinvention: Malcolm X by Manning Marable

We are all Palestine.

Mahmoud Darwish is one of Palestine's most preeminent poets. Starting out as a national liberation poet, Darwish came under Israeli security surveillance before he was even ten years old. Darwish's writings transformed Paletine's national liberation movement and struggle into a natural human liberation movement, a universal call for humanity wherever she is found and for a place to be Palestinian, for Palestine. Palestine and her people's freedom cause transformed Mahmoud Darwish, from a child-poet to a consciousness, a word-producer, an image instigator, a revolution in human consciousness, to becoming an elder of humanity -- because he spoke out, lived, wrote, imagined, protested, organized in poetry and in action, for the Palestinian cause.

Mahmoud Darwish passed away in 2008 after a heart operation in Texas. Born in 1941, his family and community lived through the "great catastrophe," the "Nakba." His family snuck back into their country and became "present absent," i.e. strangers in their own lands. For a mexicano-chicano with purépecha roots, this is the condition of all Indigenous people -- strangers in our own lands.

The conditions & life of Palestinians parallels that of Indigenous people and so-called "immigrants" (people of color and Indigenous peoples born outside the " U.S.") in the U.S. Undocumented workers and other peoples, derogatorily called "illegals," are "present absent." We have been treated as strangers in our lands. Immigrants, Indigenous peoples and Palestinians, literally, need a world revolution so that we can retake our rightful places on earth.

Darwish writes with a deep passion and multiple senses of beauty and peoplehood. In ten years, in a hundred years, Darwish's oeuvre will be mistaken as testament for the human condition. I fear that given the neo-liberal jaggernaut -- the ongoing attempt to privatize everything: rights, services, air, water, soil, DNA ... -- eventually all workers, people of color, queer, women, Indigenous people and other humans who don't speak English, humans without property, wealth, assets or the right birth certificate or passport will become strangers in their own world: present but not recognized, the illegals of the world.

Mahmoud Darwish writes the life of Palestine and her people's struggles for self-determination and land the life of anyone who has ever experienced displacement, invisibility, dehumanization. How can a "river die of thirst"?

Yet capitalist-drive consumption is driving humanity into the grave as the privatization of air, water, soil -- and even culture, identity, voice, human-ness -- literally dries up rivers and places eco-systems, species and human communities on the endangered and extinct lists.

Darwish draws out many contradictions of the human class and land battles for self-determination and people-hood in "A River Dies of Thirst." Like Absence Presence, his last work, this book of his journal entries is a canto and a letter to humanity, that human survival should not be based or result in the destruction of other humans; that human community cannot be made by destroying other human communities; that the destiny and survival of many nations and peoples across the world is intimately linked to Palestine's survival and return.

"A River Dies of Thirst" like Darwish's "Memory for Forgetfulness" needs to be read and re-read many times. Each time I pick up either of these two books a new insight a new voice a new book new words, new poems appears in his pages. A river dies of thirst, a poet dies for lack of land and his people dispersed across the globe, strangers in their lands, un-human in other countries. How will this story end?

That's the challenge we must take on -- to determine how the story of neoliberalism will end and how our story will begin. In the meantime, read Darwish, then organize and dream for the revolution to be human.

*

We are all Malcolm X.
The subtitle of Manning Marable's Malcolm X biography, A life of reinvention: Malcolm X, fits all our communities. Like Malcolm and because Malcolm is part of our communities, our communities have had to self-transform in the face of crushing exploitation and dispersions. We have had to re-invent ourselves to survive and thrive; yet, we cannot and will not forget who we are, where we came from, how we got here and where we need to go.

Malcolm X was first Malcolm Little, petty criminal, drug pusher and user, who didn't take kindly to work and women. By the time he becomes an adult he is imprisoned. Their he undergoes a spiritual transformation and becomes a member of the Nation of Islam, who eventually becomes the leading voice and messenger of the Honorable Elijah Mohammed -- a phrase he coined for showing respect and follow-ship for Mr. Mohammed -- to someone who is outcast again by the NOI and eventually pays the price with his life. This sounds easy enough, but once you read A life of reinvention: Malcolm X , this was never a foregone conclusion. Malcolm X lived and developed a new way of being principled, austere, ascetic, dedicated to the emancipation of his people. Every community and people has many examples of Malcolm X's in their midst: Emiliano Zapata, Indigenous revolutionary leader of Mexico, who through their vision and work foresaw a different outcome, a different people coming together, to make deep changes and a new history. Zapata like Malcolm X were killed in their prime.

Malcolm X changed because the people, his people, he saw as his base, his leadership, his force change. If Malcolm X had lived to old-age, we would have seen his people include African Americans and all the outcasts, the working class, the under-class, the undocumented, the Indigenous people robbed of their lands, women, LGBTQ. But this is just my speculation, my envisioning of the land he opened up for those who followed to cultivate and till.

Manning presents Malcolm X's chronology as one where in successive periods and turning points, forks in the road, Malcolm X made choices with a self-determined, iron will that makes him stand out. Malcolm became a new man, a new human, as a result of unforeseen ordeals. People of African descent in the U.S. have had to re-invent themselves from slavery to freedom, from racial segregation to racial integration, from underground spiritual struggles to overt organizing from the pulpit, for racial justice and communal liberation to self-determination. The struggle for freedom is also a struggle for identity. All politics -- whether it's Democrats, Republicans, Committees of Correspondence, Tea partiers, Indigenous, Hispanic, Xicano, Black, LGTBQ -- have identity

Malcom X's life and words model the best way to become the change you want to be. I have just begun reading, about 100 pages into the tome (4-12-11) and what comes through is that he was human, specifically a Black man in the U.S. growing up under harsh conditions created by racial segregation and a nascent movements for civil rights and Black self-determination.

Malcom X's story isn't over and keeps getting retold everyday: 60% of all prisoners in the U.S. are African American and Latinos. If Malcolm Little overcame the criminalization and branding and became Malcolm X then all our brothers and sisters can transform themselves too, re-invent themselves and our country, by bringing about new relationships between peoples, genders and classes based on mutuality, justice and human rights.
"


Saturday, April 09, 2011

Add to Technorati Favorites

arnoldo garcía

April 8-9.

My skin
has become
a trend
a battlefield
a war front
each pore
a bomb crater
a bullet wound
a warring cry
in the longest war
for human-ness.

*

Every struggle has to have
her or his own language,
adjectives of freedom
nouns and pseudonyms
of beauty
new words new liberation networks
that link us to the best
utopias and disasters of the past that created
victories and revolutions
our own lives our own suffering
our own labors
our own words
to make us free forever...

*
...

Thursday, April 07, 2011

Add to Technorati Favorites
arnoldo garcía

April 7.

palabra-alas

haces habitar
todos mis cuerpos
y tu lengua
el lenguaje
del paraíso
sobre mis sentidos

*

No revolution
repents,
No revolutionary
forgets.

*
inter-indio-net

geopolitics
geopoetics
nepantla or toppenish
Michoacán or Michigan
Purépecha or mexicano
Chicano or Xicana
Latino or hispanic
Hispanic or African
African or Indio
Indian América
indoamaraca
soy nepantlateco
soy de la tierra del medio
la tierra del miedo subyuga mi tierra del medio.

*

Nadie sabe que es una frontera
abierta
es una herida
una revolución
un abrazo
un zipper
un cementerio de la seguridad nacional
el uúnico lugar donde los indios
sob bienvenidos
el reino de la frontera?
No hay lenguaje todavía
para mis pueblos desaparcidos.

*

the snake cloud people
the serpent cloud people
revered the sky
because the sky was home
of their creator, their goddess, their power
their horizon, their land, their laughter
the serpent cloud
the snake cloud
the most powerful force of the natural world
that also threatened or embraced
struck down or gestated
humanity.

I am trying to make you my sky-land too.

Wednesday, April 06, 2011

Add to Technorati Favorites
arno!do garcía

April 6.

[another excerpt from guerra poemas
from La revolución emplumada]

Anwar Balousha mourns
his five daughters
killed by an Israeli flying an Apache [sic]
helicopter who fired missiles
at a mosque in Jabiliya
Anwar's house was destroyed
by the blasts
Four of his children escaped.
Not
Samar, six years old
Dina, seven years old
Jawaher, eight years old
Akrav, 14
Tahrir, 17
all crushed to death
where they slept
Five missiles
one for each daughter
Five daughters
one for each missile
Five girls
Five centuries
Five Malinches
in the refugee camps
in the migrant camps
Israeli drones in the dark night
looking for their targets
Using infrared television cameras
the Israeli found the five sleeping beauties
five dreaming peace or love
or family or just asleep resting
getting ready for the next day
But how do you get ready
for the next day of bombardments
atrocities. F-16 jet bomber pilots
destroying mosques,
homes, schools, universities,
markets, killing and maiming
Palestinians?

Palestine becomes modern ruins

*

My daily to-do list

1. Build a new country: only humans & the natural world allowed

2. Create, speak a new language, call her: human

3. Be loved & love

4. Accept tenderness
in all her shapes,
forms & powers

5. Organize a
guerrilla, a little war,
of poetry

6. Visit my family,
my neighbors, adopt them.

7. Eradicate sadness, suffering,
abandonment, all inhumane forms of being human.

8. Draw a map of
the desired world,
superimpose the new world over
the known world.
Now throw away the map
of the one that's easier
to live and struggle in.

9. Tag your dreams on walls,
make graffiti in your bed

10. Celebrate, honor your ancestors-to-be
Build altars to them before they die
not after they've been shot, killed, disappeared
and never knew they were living gods

11. Surprise myself,
be happy with my worldly life, dream again and again.

Tuesday, April 05, 2011

Add to Technorati Favorites
April 5

arnoldo garcía

[excerpt from drafts of guerra poemas in La revolución emplumada]

the comfort zone

where are
the comfort women?
where are the comfort artists?
where are the comfort words
so that soldiers can forget their brutality
to take it out on women
ridicule art
and mangle human tongues
for at least one night
or even just for a few hours?
where is the comfort President tonight?
Where is the comfort Senator and the comfort Congressman?
will they sleep
with the mutilated widow,
with the traumatized soldier,
wit the wounded in a deep coma,
with the human remains of the soldier?
where is the comfort citizen,
the comfort peace,
so we can vote one more time?
where is the comfort march
so that we can protest one more time
the comfort war
so that we can bring democracy and freedom
wherever our bombs explode
wherever our armies occupy?
where is
my comfort woman
my comfort man
my comfortable war?
Send them comfort-bombs
comfort-occupation
comfort mercenaries
U.S. kills day and night
and you expect comfort in the end

*

The U.S. War:
World War I
World War II
the Cold War
the Korean
the Vietnam
the Dominican
the Cuban
the Panamá
the Grenada
the Haitian
the Nicaraguan
the El Salvador
the Narco
the Bosnian
the Afghanistan
the Sudanese
the Israeli
the Palestinian
the Iraq
the Iranian
the Afghanistan
the Mexico border
the Libya
the U.S. war....

*

when will I live
in an ordinary
country
no wars
no invasion
no fly-zone
not even a threat
no drive-bys
no hunger
no greed
to drive us
to coercion
to veiled
and unveiled
violence
no armed men
no hating men
no sexual harassment
no demonstrations
or marches
other than to show poetry
display art and affection
when will I wake up
this ordinary
my ordinary
country
disarmed
not disabled by violence
differently placed
in the kingdom of laughter
an ordinary country?

Monday, April 04, 2011

Add to Technorati Favorites

arnoldo garcía

broadcasting scribbles from my notebooks

April 4

freedom sounds

my music
is noise
was satanic
to the wooden crossed ears of the conquistadores

One people's language is another's
cultural maelstorm
a tempest of terrorisms
Our gods incomprehensible
worthy of being toppled
yet they still built their religions,
their highways, their vacation spots
on ours.

One people's music is
noise to the oppressor.

Our freedom sounds
are an upside down world
to those who hold the keys to the chains

Our freedom sounds
are an offering to the ears and tongues
to hear each other voices
to sing, to holler, to cry
to live for a cause or a song

Noise, our noise, deafens the greedy one's counting games
Our voices, my voice, our words, our music
cannot be erased, cannot be silenced, cannot be dubbed over,
cannot will not be left on the cutting room floor.
Someone hears us, we memorize our sounds of freedom, of land

On paper I leave an ink trail
a path of scribbles for others
to think and go forward
beyond where my bones will finally
rest as scaffolding
In the wind, my voice is a trail
of particles and waves which ride on the moon's machete
or course down crooked migrant smiles.
The voices of our ancestors
as well as our destroyers
still fight it out in the cosmic waves
the quarks of liberation
continue pounding on our skin, our eyes, our sweat,
our voices.
Eventually we'll all get it right. Harmonic convergence
harmony & sickle, harmonic dissent, harmonic uprisings,
harmonic organizations, harmonic community, harmonic equality,
harmonic democracy, harmonic borders,
harmonic languages
where everything means the same in any language, almost anywhere,
harmonic conservation (leave the rainforest and the rainpeople alone)
don't leave home until you're free
Harmonic bones, harmonic DNA, harmonic genome project,
harmonic jimi hendrixes,
the harmonic restoration of
guadalupe|coatlicue
crazy horse
manuela
paha sapa (leave the earth's power alone!)
ana mae aquash
7,000 migrants' bones
five million braceros
50 million russians
two million rwandans, bosnians
all the disappeared indians of the world,
every ecosystem, every species, every man woman child elders youth worked to death, slaughtered by progress and economic development
harmonic liberation convergence...

*

Funny how I can write that
memory does not reside
in machines, computers, bytes, bits,
or even history books. Memory
resides, lives in
memory herself
on flesh, on skin, on bones, on skulls, in the dust, in the water, in the air, in the soil,
in the vibrations of my throat, tongue, lungs, in the way we create the sounds of words,
on how we generate waves across the air to vibrate against your ears or eyes or finger-tips, on our fingernails and hands
just as our ancestors reside growing all the time in our hair...

*

transmusic
transmission
transgender
translingual
transpose
trancegnder
trancemusis
trancelate
trancepose
trancenational
trancehuman
trancefusion
tranceplant
trancejazz
trancelucid
transsmile
trancemission
trancesister
trancerevolutions
translands
trancegress
trancegressor
trancelocated
tanceplanted
transperm
trancegestate
transtongue
trancelung
transdance
trancerhythm
tranceborder
tranceblood
trancecultural
translocura
transtorno
transgest
transgod
transword
transtongue
translanguage
transborders
trancecolors
transcribbles
transeyes
transvision
translaughter
transbound
tranceband
tranceport
transkin
transspace
transblues
transgods
tranceshell
trancesex
tranceorgasm
transart
transulpture
trancepoetry
trancehuman
trans-
trance
trancescribbles
transas
transgarabateos
trancegenic
trancestorms
transhuracán
transehumano
trancenature
transnaturaleza

*

En el reino
de tus abrazos
la utopía
de tus labios, tus besos
una dictadura
de la ternura
la comuna
de tu sonrisa
tus palabras
anidándose en mis oídos
la liberación
tu voz
una cobija
para mis sentidos
todo
en
el reino
de
tus abrazos

*

from time to time
remember the wounds
remember the agony
of being abandoned
when you smile
laugh
or
roll around
in pleasure
remember
it was not always
like this.

*

my memory
is
a small creature
tiny hands
playing
with a collective toy
of cousins
a small meeting
to study
revolution
a piece of paper
with a few lines of poetry
an endless field
we have to clean of weeds,
my grandmother cooking.
making tortillas
my memory
has
no history
no chronicle
unknown by all
except me my family
laughter
food
work
dreams
burials
weddings
baptisms
laughter
crying
mourning
food
remembering everything everyone
migrant camps
indian reservations
canals
fields
planting
thinning
harvesting
winters
no theories
just drumming,
music,
dances spinning in communal circles.
Someone dies we come together
Someone is born we come together
Someone falls in love we come together
Someone falls out of love we come together
Someone reaches a birthday we come together
Someone cooks food we come together
Someone dreams we come together
My memory
is
a small creature
a baby
we breast feed all our lives...

Sunday, April 03, 2011

Add to Technorati Favorites

arnoldo garcía

April 3 [transmitiendo desde mis cuadernos de garabateos]

I have stopped
fighting my English
garbling my Spanish
denouncing the Aztecs
ignoring my Purépecha tongue
on which war rages
and rage cries unbroken.

I am a polygamist
faithful to all my languages
married to all my words
in any language in any land
on any body
on every trembling tongue

My people invented french kissing
we stuck our tongue in your mouths
so that you could taste and desire every dictionary
lust after translators
interpreters
of the same dream
in so many dusts
in so many mouths
our lips the shock troops
our desire to subjugate your tongues, verbs unsheathed bayonets
and your body will follow
and your imagination hobbled
speak in liberation tongues but don't mumble
vomit doves and poison syllables

I speak out, denounce and debate against myself
I am split in three and my tongue binds my wounds
my tongue heals my bones and laps up the water from your body
my tongue drills endlessly into your ears
wawanko on the shell of your being
a human vibe to turn you against yourself that garbles our ways
mimics and makes a mockery
of the root of a different world sound

*

Yo hablo a través de cuerpos
mi lenguaje es un cuerpo
que anda, maronea, sufre
y padece
enfermedades y visiones
que la envejecen y la rejuvenecen

Tu cuerpo es mi ventana
Tu cuerpo es mi lenguaje
cristalino de sudores
Tu cuerpo odisea y utopía

La guerra es el cuerpo de mis
lágrimas y rabia, el puño
que florece contra ráfagas
que gruñen sus colmillas
canta y minimiza el vocabulario
de la paz y la cultura del no.

*

no necesito guardaespaldas
necesito guardalenguajes
necesito guardavoces
necesito tu cuerpo
para que me cargues
a donde vayas o estés
quiero gestar en ti
nacer nuevo entre tu cuerpo
ser un nido de palabras
ametralladoras
que con sus ráfagas
hacen los cuerpos correr
lenguaje sobre la historia
gacelas ligeras silvestres
quiero más
tengo muchos temas
como cuerpos multitudes
de garabateos que tienen miedo
no puedo decirlo ni escribirlo todo
por eso necesito tu cuerpo
convertirnos en móviles
bibliotecas y espectáculos
donde bailan los que somos
los que decimos y hacemos
todo porque somos obreras
campesinas trabajadoras
pueblos indios
es decir multitud
que no tiene nada que decirle
a este mundo
porque en este mundo
somos invisibles
somos la creación
que nos habita

*

[1992]

Poética sin policías

What would culture, poetry become
if we didn't have to worry about the police?
What would you and I be like
if we never had to worry or think about the police, La migra,
unemployment, homelessness, poverty, illness,
any of the other problems
that only exist
on this side of the planet
on this side of the line
on this side of the language, the skin, the tracks, the pollution
the politics? without corporate
power, corporate jails, corporate copyright, corporate control of the airwaves, digital bandwidth, original colors and paper?
To not worry about the police
might be an art all its own.

*

Our freedom has been hibernating long.
Their winter is long
They confuse the seasons with our hope.
Five-hundred years of patience
of wintering hibernation
will overcome hypernation
DNA will topple DSL
Our languages scramble their signals
Unscramble their prisons
open doors and closed hearts

*

qué es la historia de mi poesía?
hablo español
invento inglés
vivo en el campao
trabajo en las labores
pisco algodón, hago bultitos de algodón
pisco fesas, manazanas, uvas, peras
albericoques, cerezas, durazno
frambuesas, papas, frijol verde, mucho
descuate, espárrago, menta, mucha menta
mostaza, zanahorias, tomates
lo hago todo
al lado de mi abuelito y abuelita
aprendo a trabajar sain quejarme
escucho sus palabras, su ejemplo
vivo a sus lados
crezco a sus ladso
entre toda la música:
hay tríos, coros de iglesia, mariachis,
corridos, canciones revolucionarias y del movimiento chicano, hay calmecac
hay bailes, conjuntos, orquestras, rock n roll,
blues, jazz y todos los tríos
invento sueños y sueño descalzo
donde las plantas son olas verdes de mares verdes
donde los zurcos son montañas polvorientas
y mi lengua florece en
palabras descalzas
lengua pelada
ojos pelones
corazón remolino de polvo
la naturaleza se viste de humana
y nos viste de naturaleza

*

cada
palabra
es
un acto
una acción
un pensar
un pensa-
miento
con piernas
con vida
en movi-
miento
préactica
y practicable:
Ah palabra
bendita
que no es bomba
ni guerra
abre senderos
en las venas
de tu sonrisa
el horizonte
los zurcos
semilla maciza
viento suave
agua dulce
sobre la tierra
de mi lengua
lanzadora de reinos y utopías

...

Saturday, April 02, 2011

Add to Technorati Favorites
arnoldo garcía

April 2

manifesto ternura

tomorrow soon I will wake up
in your arms, homeland.
I will go towards you
You become a shadow of water
and here I am searching for a well,
a cenote, a fountain, dust, words,
hugs, conversation,
unconditional tenderness
to renew
to restore
to be reborn
with tiny, imperceptible wings
scars like borders
to show that I've loved
to show that I have lived
struggled to the fullest extent
to make us free

Time is different now
so I have to be different
I go to sleep to be with you
even if there is this pain
I live to love you
even if I need more courage
to be brave
to be complete
to be at your side
spinning through space
tumbling without no other purpose
than to gestate, flower, seed, sprout, unfurl
the tender roots of an explosion
in your earth, my land, my love, my darkness

Friday, April 01, 2011

Add to Technorati Favorites

Arnoldo García

April poem journal (a draft poem every day this month)
|
Abril cuaderno de poesía (un poema en borrador cada día de este mes)

1.
¿qué es la causa hoy?
organizar las palabras en una insurrección
sembrarlas. cosecharlas como esperanza, canto y justicias
compartirlas, saborearlas juntos
germinarlas como madres rebeldes

Cada quien sueña solo
Hoy tenemos que aprender a soñar juntos
Navegar la vida despierta y dormida en su otra vida
donde todo es posible
Si juntos podemos soñar lo imposible
juntos podemos arrullar al mundo y ponerlo a soñar a otro mundo

La pesadilla es estar despierto sin
un sueño,
una causa,
una visión,
un horizonte de tu abrazo

Algunos despiertan de sus peores pesadillas y están entre dos espacios indeseables llenos de cansancio
Es ese cansancio que tenemos que deshacer soñando juntos

La vida es un relámpago en su despertar

Los sueños son eternos, plasman al cósmos con su suave estructura molecular
su desgreñada manera de ordenar la ternura a su causa favorita

La locura necesita juntar
camas y caminos
soñar colores y banderas ancestrales

La noche es la mejor forma, el espacio necesario,
para soñar
En el sueño todo es posible
Soñar despiertos
Soñar juntos
y soñar el mismo sueño
cada quien de su lado
podremos hacer un mundo diferente
donde todo lo bueno (el amor, el amar, el hacer el amor, el ser amado, el amante...)
es la realidad concreta (con su dolor, trabajo, preocupaciones, desvelos, mortificaciones, su grito cotidiano que todo acaba en la ternura de la noche)
donde
todo el mal
es imposible
porque soñamos juntos

*

Estas palabras desdoblando lenguajes, gruñidos, llantos, ritmos
Lenguajes de mis manos sobre tu cuerpo
lenguajes de tus manos sobre mi cuerpo
La topografía de la ternura
Lenguajes de ojos que parten hijas e hijos la profunda raíz del futuro

Mis ojos son cebollas transparentes

Lenguajes
los colores de nuestras pieles
que nuestras pieles hablan
y nuestras lenguas enmudecen
lenguajes de ternura ahorcando rabias
lenguajes sólo para escuchar
lenguajes para borrar el tiempo
y quedar con vida para vivir con la amada y la familia
lenguajes sólo para la despedida eterna
para nunca separarnos
lenguajes para conocer el viento
lenguajes para aliarse con el sol
lenguajes para liberarnos de la inhumanidad
toda.
Lenguajes para trenzar cabellos y caballos galopados por el viento

*

De qué color es César Vallejo?
indio?
comunista?
deslenguajista
bronce
rohjo
piedra sobre piedra
ángulo de ondas
y vibraciones?
un color del futuro
germinando telarañas
desde su tumba al Perú?
un silvestre pulmón
una tristeza tiburónica
que retraga a Vallejo
por dentro
hasta fallecer en la lluvia gris de mi sonrisa
donde el sí de repente es no
el blanco negro
al verbo mudo
los ojos ;inros
los tatuajes verdes
y el tartamudo poeta?

*

De quién es el sol
a quién le toca sus colores
quién merece ver todas las atardeceres
donde el sol hunde su hacha roja
en la panza de la tierra?
Por qué no morimos cada noche
por qué no despertamos cansados
Será porque la sangre circula en mí
es la que ha circulado
en las venas de mi mamá
y mi abuelita y las mamás de mi abuelita?

*

Mis palabras se hacen palabras
al tocar tu piel
al montar tus labios
al anidarse en tus sentudos
al germinarse en tu lengua con mis besos

Mis palabras se hacen palabras
cuando pronuncias
viento
sobre mi cuerpo

Mis palabras se hacen palabras
en tu saliva, en tu sudor
en los cinco sentidos del sol
que gestas cada nueve meses
hinchándonos de sonidos caóticos
la anarquía de nuestra ternura
de pujidas palabras
que saltan y bailan cada vez que chocamos
en el cosmos de nuestra cama
nuestras lenguas y lenguajes se frotan de lluvia

*

Our language can be anywhere
and be at home. Our feet
touch the ground and you
instantaneously become the earth
Our land our language our
place is
everywhere and nowhere
We are only strangers to those
who are strangers to our lands.
In our language
we are all perfect
only in our imperfections.

In my language my grandfather
refuses his death, walks out of
his fancy coffin (which cost more
than all of his belongings and house
together). My grandmother never
even allowed anyone to put her
in a coffin. She just walked away
to complete her life over and
over till she finally was happy.

In my language there is no
death, no end, no words for
separation, oblivion. There are
shadows under my words
because there are suns in
every direction, full moons
in all my senses, in all my seasons
in which spring is
the mother and guide
and winter dream-
time, seed time, fires and stories,
chocolate and ancestors, when
everyone, every time and space
converge for a pow-wow, a
pachanga, a gathering of maizes
and mystics.

In my language
we live
not forever
but for each other.

*

Raíces desdobladas
raíces subyugadas
raíces olvidadas
raíces negadas
raíces abandonadas
raíces distorsionadas

a pesar de todo
siguen siendo raíces
nuestras raíces
morotonadas, sentidas,
vergonzantes, orgullosas
claras indias nuestras
No nos da pena ser raíces
raíces en tierra
raíces en oceános
raíces en vientos
No importa donde, siempre son raíces
en mis manos
en mi boca
en los cinco sentidos
en las borracheras
en el amor
en el dolor
en la traición
en la tradición
raíces.
raíces azules
raíces verdes
raíces cielo
raíces tierra
raíces polvo de las voces ancestrales
raíces roncas
raíces portátiles
raíces escarvadoras
raíces regeneración
raíces armas del viento
raíces tu cabellera de mis visiones
raíces cabellos trenzados con antepasados
y puente a los del porvenir
raíces mapa de mi corazón
mi corazón el planeta clandestino
del sexto sol
raíces relámpagos
raíces terremotos
raíces embarazadas
raíces abrazadoras
raíces tenues semillas
raíces torcidas alrededor de mis pueblos
raíces infinitas
raíces desafinadas
raíces las lenguas de la tierra
que se tragan al lodo para florecer en maizales
raíces la vía láctea de tu cuerpo negro...
azules
verdes
caféces
raíces del arcoiris indomable....