[Poema 13] Manifesto nocturno

Eres la voz ancestral,
abuelita,
eres la amante
de los sollozos
destruyes mis hombros con sus quejidos
la noche es un velo de estrellas
sobre su cuerpo
nómina de luces
cama de separaciones
vientre bendito
niño sangrando
elote en flor
noche equis de lluvia
manos a la máquina de escribir
explotando
labios negros
senos negros
cueva del sol
zurco del cósmos
luna-arado para abrir espacios
y sembrar estrellas en tu ombligo
perpetua alegría en blanco y negro
edificios de libros
montañas de palabras
una biblioteca de corazones
mi pecho ausente
exiliado en tu boca
nocturna
amanecerás
conmigo
viento gira
alrededor
el relámpago corta
al sufridor
eres polvo en mi pensamiento
ceniza en mi lengua
labios infectados con una rabia
que corroe, derrita, derriba tus ojos
tu beso
se convierte en un NO descomunal de ternura
el beso
más antiguo
el primer beso
que se dieron mis antepasados
la arma
más poderosa
de esta lucha
por el reino
de tu amor.

El caballo viejo relinchaba
contra el viento
el viejo indio yakama
tirado, borracho,
oye su espíritu emplumado
gime cuando el viento de invierno
lo recuerda, lo despierta humano
para estremecerlo:
ahora tu tierra
es una reserva
tu patria reglas y tratados internacionales que nadie cumpla
y tu inundado de alcohol
en un rincón de tu patria.
El vino lo deja agotado, crudo
vómito en sus labios y camisa
el alcohol escurre de su piel
su piel más roja que café
el Tokay nos ha robado
su resistencia
su oso loco
se desmaya empapado de vinos
durante la noche le roban todo
despierta cubierto, desesperado, destacado
en sus sueños
por ser indio yakama
sabe que tiene algo que ver
con la tierra
aunque hoy es sólo un wino
cara hinchada, roja,
ojos ocultos detrás del alcohol
camisa desbrochada
pantalón suelto sin cinto
tiñido de orines
descalzo
el cabello grasoso, sucio, cortado
se desmaya en el parque
las y los ancestros lo rodean
le cantan
le rezan
le lloran
le danzan
le tocan tambores
lo frotan con plumas y salvia
le acompañan
en su soñar
invaden su hígado carcomido
convierten su cuerpo es espacio sagrado
Yo paso viéndolo
no me detengo para ayudarle
me da vergüenza
es mi pariente
es mi hermano
es mi primo
es mi familia
es mi tierra
allí descompuesta
ahora inconcientes juntos.

(Yakima-Seattle, 1991)

[Arte arriba es un extracto de un bordado -- una pieza manta de como 70" x 96" -- del proyecto de arte "Zapanteras: Zapatista Black Panther Art," una colaboración entre Emory Douglas, ex-ministro de cultura del partido de las panteras negras|Black Panther Party, y artistas estadounidenses y zapatistas en Chiapas. La foto la tomé el 10 de abril 2013 durante un evento auspiciado por el Chiapas Support Committee en San Francisco, California.]

[Poema 2] Rolling Hills | The land does not forget

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Lomas rodantes | Rolling hills

Toppenish

surrounds

cornfields

hops

mint

asparagus

migrants

indians

and the weekly drug war deaths

Capital

of

the

Yakama

ancient salmon spawning rivers

where once Yakama stood atop platforms

with hand-made nets

tied to the end of long poles

catching

salmon

flying up waterfalls

or twirling, zig-zagging against the rapids

Where Yakama

Today the river is dammed up

dying from pesticide run-off,

cement, asphalt, carbon monoxide

the salmon no more

the Yakama fisher a ghost

spying on the orchards and agricultural fields

now tended by other Indians

Our homes

and

Our eyes

are surrounded

by rolling hills,

Toppenish,

in the Yakama language

That's how you know

you're in the center of Yakama lands,

Toppenish

Now a res

sobering up to the realities of capitalism

and meth-smacked young Indians and Mexicans

that is, young Indians all.

Men and women

who fall off the wagon

into their graves.

The Yakama

signed a treaty

with the United States Government

in 1855

ceding infinite land

to end one war

and start another

Where Indians

of all nations

of all lands

(Yakama, Mexica, Maya, Purépecha, Zapotec, Mixtec, Snix and on and on from other horizons)

die of diabetes, drugs, drunkenness

Where they call us migrants,

when we have been Indians all along

Now suffering the pain of hundreds of years

of occupation, disturbances, turbulent hard labor in the fields,

displacement, homelandlessness\planting, cultivating, harvesting
the winters, springs and autumns of shadows

that cast long into migration

encased in the one drop quantum

that has evaporated us

with the neutron bomb the U.S. has poured into our veins.

The central Valley

the Yakama's Valley

the Río Grande | Río Bravo Valley

The cosmic central Valley

with colchas verdes

extendidas

para abrigarnos

contra el frío del hambre

contra la eternidad Blanca

para dar vuelo emborrachado

a las orgías de las avispas

pollination sin fronteras

las campesinas son semilla y pollen

de la humanidad

que hoy se acumula

en el centro de las lomas rodantes

accumulations

of hope and communities

where matriarchs struggle against death

where matriarchs are surrounded

by the ancestors,

the brothers and sisters,

the sons and daughters,

the grandchildren

scattering into oblivion

 

Ella

es

una

utopia

donde

trabaja

la esperanza

de semillas

y zurcos

el arco

con flechas

para encajar

en el cuerpo del desastre

y vivirás

*

The land does not forget

The earth does not forget.

Men forget.

Women forget.

Countries forget men and women.

Some drown,

literally,

their memory

in alcohol

or in others.

The land does not forget

The land does not forget

how she was treated,

polluted, misused, diverted, distorted

by human consciousness.

The land does not forget

her own life, dust, plants,

seeds, creations, species, worms,

ants, the four directions, the seven spaces, water

and the mixtures in union with air, the wind.

The land begets life.

The land will swallow us, gestate new life, gestate new horizons,

The earth does not die, does not forget.

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....