El camino a la utopía es la utopía | the path to utopia is utopia [poema cero de abril/Zero poem for April]

1

El camino
a la utopía
es la utopía

2

hoy celebraban
a césar e. chávez
y los campesinos seguían trabajando
bajo un sol de machetes
nadie los celebró a ellos

3
hoy dos campesinos
cercas de riverbank
con azadones
estaban limpiando
una labor de fresas
un hombre
y una mujer
dos campesin@s
caminando, cabeza agachada
en un mar verde
que se mecía
con olas de viento empolvado

4
los zurcos
son las tumbas
más suaves
del mundo
allí enterramos semillas y sudor
y luego cuando
germinan
crecen
brotan
y se estiran hacia el cielo
con nuestras manos
las piscamos
y nos comemos
nuestros muertos hechos de
fresas
cebollas
chiles
chícharo
tomates
frijoles
sandía
calabacita
maíz
tierra
agua
sol

5
el camino
a la utopía
es la utopía...

*

The road to utopia is utopia

1

The road
to utopia
is utopia

2

Today they are celebrating
César E. Chávez
and the farmworkers do not stop working
underneath a sun of machetes
no one is celebrating them

3
today two farmworkers
close to Riverbank
swinging hoes with their hands
were cleaning
a field of strawberries
a man
and a woman
two farmworkers
walking, their heads bent down
in a sea of green
that swayed
under waves of dusty wind

4
the rows
were the softest
graves
of the world
there we bury seeds and sweat
and then when
they germinate
crecen
bloom
and reach for the sky
with our hands
we harvest them
and we eat
our dead made of
strawberries
onions
chiles
peas
tomates
beans
watermelon
squash
maize
soil
water
sun

5
the road
to utopia
is utopia ...

[Poema 14] Estas manos

Estas manos
nacieron
entre las huertas
haciendo las manzanas más rojas
haciendo los duraznos más jugosos
haciendo a los árboles más macizos
Las cerezas sudando entre mis manos
su dulzura
para tus labios
que se besan por mis manos

Las ramas son espadas
que punzan al sol
Las hojas las pestañas verdes
de la sombra
el campesino
hace
la primavera nuestra
la campesina
desdobla de su cintura
la verdura de tu mirada
entre los tres
la tierra nace
otra vez
despertando semillas
entre los zurcos
de nuestras manos.
Empezamos el largo camino
para acostarnos juntos,
tapándonos con las colchas blancas
del invierno
soñando lo que la primavera hace
con nosotros
después del trabajo
después de todo.

Rolling hills

Arnoldo García

Rolling hills

Rolling hills
ondulating around the sun
shredding the light
Toppenish became my home
drunk Indians and Mexicans
(that is, drunk Indians all)
Three syllables
three roots
dirt roads
hop fields
cornfields
sugar beet
mustard
asparagus
green beans
watermelon
the ranchers
drained the Yakama's river
to irrigate cash crops
White Swan stranded in the desert
three seasons and every winter
putting us in our place
My grandmother and my grandfather who took her lead
thought this better than Texas
where whites lynched Mexicans.
Here they strangled us
with hard field labor
Even the Indians had to changez
the spelling of their names, their homeland
so no one would confuse
Mexicans from Yakamas
Yakamas land forever from Yakima lands for sale
That is whites only
took their lands
and made us work it
made fertile volcanic dust
mesh with our sweat,
our dream of return
only to die paupers
without land, work or home
except in the cemetary.
Toppenish, rolling hills, makes
me dizzy
swallows me up
my soul is a tumbleweed
dried up at the mercy
of lost northern winds
Toppenish is my home
my horizon my word
my roots are also
buried there.
My hands lie fallow
I hibernate in dreams
of toxic-free seeds
and uneven rows
meant for walking
and not tractors
we grew up walking
migrant comet trails
blazing cornstalks,
green beans, hops
orchards across
the brown sky of the land
In Toppenish
you see everything
and you see
what you need to see
You cannot ignore me
or forget me in Toppenish
I did not choose this land
This land did not choose me
or my people.
Now she is mine and I hers
Toppenish is the wind become
mountains, hills, vallety,
volcanic path, migrant tomb,
laughter and bully.
the hills ondulate
cutting the horizon into my eyes....