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.

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

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."

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...

*

...

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.

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.

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?

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...

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

...

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

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....

Tiempo (la revolución humana)

tochtli

luna
rasguñada
raza nada
la tierra
anda sangrando
por nuestro
ombligo
luna
maya
lluvienta
luna
mestiza
india
olvidada
peregrina
astral
migrante
terrenal
en la gira
más larga
de los indios
tocamos
tu tambor
sagrado

atl

me emborracho
con tus sílabas
pulque
me transformo
con tus labios
agua
me convierto en dios
contigo pulque
me convierto en polvo
contigo agua
pulque más agua
suman humano
trastornan soles
ombligan pueblos
rasguñan lunas
destapan coyotes
en mi lengua
en mis ojos
en mí

itzcuintli

Escuincle
mordilón
se pasa las tardes
soñando en el sol
las noches
las llena de ladridos
avisándonos
de las sombras
aún ambulantes
hormiguitas

ozomatli

mis hijos
mis hijas
son moléculos
rebotando
bailando
saltando
corriendo
dentro
su propio paraíso
el jugar
es destino
colgamos los columpios
en el árbol
en los soles
escuincles

malinalli

pusimos
todas
nuestras
lenguas
en
fila
haciendo
un
sendero
torcido
alrededor
de
nuestro
corazón
protegiéndolo
de
las espadas
crueles
de sus palabras
incendiarias
tumbando
templos
diosas
desastre
que
acabaremos
o
nos acabarán

acatl

mi abuelito
mi abuelita
eran verdes
plantaban
semillas
cosechaban
comunidades
cultivaban
pueblos
verdes
zacates
yerbas
sanadoras
sobando
tierras
espaldas
adoloridas
vientres
explotando
sazones

ocelotl

mi abuelito
mi abuelita
me enseñaron
a cargar
soles y estrellas
sobre mi espalda
sobre mis hombros
pueblos y amores
sobre mi cabeza
años nuevos
llenos
de
primaveras
veranos
otoños
inviernos
diosas
dioses
sacrificios
serpientes
ternura...

sobre mi espalda
nacen soles
espacios
tus abrazos
tus semillas
el movimiento

cuauhtli

águila
hechicera
descansa
sueña
coma
mi corazón
nopalero
deshilacha
mis venas
que de tu boca
nazca
otra
Aztlán
nuevo
no-gabacho
donde
somos
hijas
e
hijos
obedecientes
de la tormenta
del mundo natural

cozcacuauhtli

aprendo
a bailar
en el cielo
en la tierra
el viento de pies
el polvo de ritmo
bailar
danzante
descabellar
al tiempo
desbaratar
al espacio
compacto
auroras
con
levantamientos
y
mi única
arma
será
el sol
que llevo sobre mi espalda
(nadie me lo quitará)

ollin

para llegar al tiempo
para nacer al espacio
para entrar de nuevo
retorno
en comuna
retorno
al mundo
natural
a sus polvos
a sus cenotes
a sus ombligos obligatorios...

En la distancia
la tierra
tiembla
no son temblores
no son terremotos
no son movimientos
hacia el sol
son
tanques
de guerra
son
bombardeos
hacen crujir
a los desiertos
de Kuwait
hunden un cuchillo
sucio
gurgujea el petroleo
sangre de antepasados
en llamaradas
que son señales
que
el tiempo
viejo
se acaba
que
el tiempo
nuevo
espacios
vientres
pujan...

quiahuitl

mi abuelito
era
del
pueblo
de las nubes

decía que
las nubes
eran la fuerza
más potente
en la tierra
cargaban agua
serpientes de viento
acobijaban
campesinos e indios
impregnaban
semillas
germinaban
pueblos de maíz
pueblos de polvo
pueblos anublados

xochitl

mi abuelita
sembraba
jardines
en
todos
los campamentos
migrantes:
chiles
tomates
cebollas
cilantro
orégano
frijol
y
flores
y
flores
dalias
tulipanes
rosas
bugambílias
alcatraces
zempansuchil
en donde quiera
que vivíamos
inviernos
primaveras
ella
cargaba
su jardín

cipactli

sus ojos
sus mentes
sus cuerpos
se vieron
y me vieron
a mí
se enamoraron
porque amaban
a un niño
un soldado
un poeta
que nació
de sus cuerpos
y sólo ella
me amamantó
de sus pechos
leche terrenal
amor mortal,
materno

tecpatl

los prisioneros
de guerra
los desaparecidos
los caídos
los despedazados
son un cuchillo
en
nuestras lágrimas
nuestras bocas
escupen humo
lleno de sangre
los soldados
entran a nuestras casas
a punta de bayometa
caen bombas
la tierra se estremece
el miedo anda suelto
dominando pulmones
y sueños
buscan armas
hallan familias

quiahuitl

la lluvia llueve
contra el diluvio
guerrerista
la ocupación
la conquista
la destrucción
nubla a la tierra
soldados
camuflagados
de verde
esconden el desierto
el pueblo
se esconde
de las bombas
los tanques
aplastan casas
y cultivos
la lluvia
caerá
lodo de sangre.

coatl

la sabiduría
está en el polvo
las bombas
aplastan
los palacios del dictador
la sabiduría
parte de los escombros
un coronel Bill Bennett
declara: Tengo 30
cañones, los disparo
todos. Nunca he
disparado tantos
en toda mi vida.
Necesito más
proyectiles
Habían asesinado al
dictador?
La sabiduría
está en las semillas
en el vuelo de pájaros
en camino al paraíso
de la primavera
la sabiduría
no comparte
polvos ni escombros
con presidentes ni dictadores.

miquiztli

el ciclo de guerras nuevas
hace la muerte muerte
cuándo será
la muerte
una siembra
una cosecha
irregada
con lágrimas
y esperanza
cuándo será la muerte
un altar a la vida
no los escombros
ofrecidos al sol
no la basura
ofrecida a las bocas
no el miedo
encajado en los pulmones
cuándo será la muerte
clausura que abre
primaveras
en las casas
ahora
llenas
de humo
de polvo
de muerte
guerrerista?

cuetzpallin

es el nombre de horizontes
es la palabra de óleo
es el arcoiris
encajado en miseria
si Cuauhtemoc y
Motecuhzoma
la hubieran
pronunciado
hoy estuviéramos
hablando
en náhuatl
en purépecha
en maya
y no
español
e
inglés
ella es el terremoto
único
que derroca
a mi corazón

Photographic memory

I was in Mississippi
meeting
with
my ancestors.

the most recent middle passage
called katrina
the beautiful woman
who drowned us in her sleep

katrina, marina's sister
malinalli
who loved us so
who spoke in tongues
and has been gestating a new dream
giving us birth for the last five hundred years. katrina

we are ghosts, hardly a breath in cosmic time, space

here we are stepping into space, expanding without end

collapsing in on all the evil,

all the maladies,

all the suffering we took

poof, everything, everyone, gone,

disappeared,

not even dust to show for our pain.

My eyes are a bridge of DNA

genetic code for the sixth sun

so no one will be forgotten

so no one will become

a tear of oblivion

either we are all living

or we are all walking into the light

the dark matter of our resistance.

The headlights blind the police,

thinking,

believing

they have power.

What is power?

The State,

his armies,

his dungeons,

his death sentences,

his working class,

his nuclear weaponry,

nuclear energy?

A tsunami

will make us forget

everything.

The sun bats her eyelashes

in a flash

only she remains

staring into the space

an earthquake, a seaquake, a moon stops over swallows the sun?

[All photographs copyrights: arnoldo garcía; taken during a community solidarity delegation meetings with their counterparts in Louisiana and Mississippi, November 2005, in the aftermath of the Katrina hurricane.]

Excerpts from/Extractos de
La revolucion emplumada
the revolution to be human

Arnoldo Garcia

my ancestors

have not yet

invented the wheel

they will never run over

innocent animals

possum

deer

buffalo

wolves

raccoon

birds

butterflies

insects

they will never pave over

acquifers

dam or divert water

never stop the flow

of rivers, creeks, streams

to the cosmic ocean of the natural world

my ancestors

will never invent

the wheel

the bomb

will never fiddle with DNA

will never fertilize in vitro anything

they will walk

where humans can walk

they will love

where humans can love

they will pray

where humans can pray

they will be human

where humans can be human

they will never be gabachos

that step on plants and other ancestors

recklessly

they will never

defecate or urinate

in the soul of the earth

in the water

[2]

Our revolution

has no martyrs

our martyrs

have no revolution.

we have no revolution

yet we have martyrs

young men and boys

who kill each other

because we have no revolution

police who shoot black young men in the back or in the front

The border brothers

make north and south

the north is nothing without the south

the south cannot exist without the north

yet young men and boys

kill each other

for lack of the four directions

the border brothers are both

north and south

North is a border

South of the border

North borders South

they are lost in their venganza

we are lost without a plumed revolution

[...]