Conocí a Iván en los años ochenta del siglo pasado. Neeli Cherkovski me sugirió contactarme con Iván, poeta mayor y bibliotecario políglota de UC Berkeley. Me dio un ambiguo retrato: afirmó que llevaría una chamarra de mezclilla azul y el pelo alborotado sobre la frente, con un copete cayendo lacio sobre los anteojos. Esa imagen no ha cambiado en casi medio siglo.
 
No lo he olvidado. En el caudaloso río de estudiantes que cruzaban Sproul Plaza, la explanada central del campus, vi a una persona que caminaba lentamente, libro en mano, leyendo. Lo que más me impresionó fue que pudiera caminar y leer a la vez, sin alterar el tráfico estudiantil. Un ojo al gato y otro al garabato. Era Iván Argüelles.
 
Hoy en día, los jóvenes manejan y textean, atienden a una clase y mandan correos electrónicos y selfies al mismo tiempo. Se jactan de ser la generación de los delfines, que pueden mantener cinco conversaciones simultáneas y estar atentos a todas, inmaculados. En aquella época, éramos distintos. Nuestros padres nos educaron al ritmo de adagios como: “El que come y canta, loco se levanta.” “Concéntrate.” “Una cosa a la vez. Lo demás es caos.” Tal vez Iván Argüelles se adelantó a su tiempo o, más bien, siempre ha sido atemporal. Maneja con destreza sorprendente muchas lenguas: griego, latín, sánscrito, hindi y bengali, inglés, español, francés, portugués, italiano, alemán, catalán, rumano, etc. Y piensa en todas ellas, sin mengua. Alguna vez le pregunté cómo podía sostener su conocimiento de tantos idiomas. Me comentó sin inmutarse que alternaba los días y leía un poema o fragmentos en las lenguas que conoce. Es una costumbre que guarda desde que lo conozco.
 
Jack Foley escribió en 2010: “Iván Argüelles es uno de los más finos poetas de este siglo; sin embargo, sólo lo conocen unos cuantos de sus apasionados partidarios. Su obra es ‘difícil’ pero no más difícil que la de otros poetas más conocidos, y su poesía es mejor que la de ellos.” Su estética se ancla en la imagen vertiginosa, anacrónica, multidireccional y explosiva. John M. Bennett afirma que debemos leer la obra de Argüelles “con una manera nueva de pensar / with a new mind-set.” Y añade este fino consejo: “Uno debe dejarse llevar, “ahogarse” en el océano de esta sorprendente y proteica obra, y ser receptivo a todas las ambigüedades y contradicciones que contiene.” En muchas instancias, Argüelles se vale de monólogos dramáticos--siempre con una especie de máscara—y “una suerte de conciencia surrealista desnuda” que (afirma con acierto Jack Foley) deliberadamente busca, como Yeats, “the face I had / Before the world was done.”

​El método de Argüelles es inmediato y visceral. Hay que captarlo antes de entenderlo e incluso “no entenderlo.” Su poesía es panóptica y diacrónica: es decir, puede referirse, sin cortes transversales, al Gilgamesh y a olvidadas diosas fenicias, o recordar a su hermano gemelo subiendo las gradas de la pirámide de Teotihuacan, monologar con Caballo Loco, retratar a Dante, invocar los ojos de Elizabeth Taylor, silbar una tonada de Elvis Presley o un concierto de Mozart, monologar con Astolfo en la luna, o meditar sobre la nave de David Bowie que acaba de dejar el planeta y estalla en medio del polvo sideral. Sus imágenes son desaforadamente despegadas del significante y las palabras resuenan en múltiples lenguas, lanzadas sin sentido hacia inesperadas direcciones, como en una erupción gramatical de lava incontenible que, a sus 83 años, todavía arde y no se detiene.

Afirmé que su poesía es panóptica y diacrónica. Lo reitero. En aquel primer almuerzo del siglo pasado, en Larry Blakes, uno de los templos del blues desaparecidos, Iván Argüelles me regaló varios de sus poemarios; entre ellos Instamatic Reconditioning – Recondicionamiento instamático (1978), un título que todavía hoy no alcanzo a comprehender de manera cabal. Ahí encontré un poema admirable que ejemplifica los adjetivos que menciono. Se trata de “Antes de que llegara el Buda.” En esa visión panóptica hay algo misterioso que mueve fibras sensoriales arcaicas. Hoy se habla de memoria ancestral o información genética. El lector tiene la sensación de que Iván Argüelles estaba allí, en la más recóndita prehistoria, entre las primeras manadas de seres humanos, colgado de una rama, en espera del Avatar que otorgó conciencia al mundo. Tal es la plenitud y convicción de sus palabras. Con ese poema abrimos esta antología.​

A memento of the translator and the poet meeting in San Francisco in front of City Lights Books: Neeli Cherkovski, Iván Argüelles, Steven Schwartz and Arturo Dávila, ca 1986

I met Iván in the 80s of the last century. Neeli Cherkovski suggested that I contact Iván, a major poet and polyglot librarian at UC Berkeley. Neeli gave me an ambiguous description: he stated that Iván would be wearing a blue-jean jacket, his hair tousled on his forehead with a pompadour falling straight over his glasses. That image has not changed in almost half a century.

I have not forgotten it. In the mighty river of students that crossed the central Sproul Plaza of the UC Berkeley campus, I saw a person who was walking slowly, book in hand, reading. What impressed me most was that he could walk and read at the same time without disrupting student traffic. Un ojo al gato y otro al garabato. It was Iván Argüelles.

Today, young people drive and text, attend class and send e-mails, snapchats, and selfies at the same time. They take pride in being “the generation of the dolphins,” who can hold five simultaneous conversations and be attentive to all of them imperturbably. In our time, we were different. Our parents raised us to the rhythm of adagios like: “He who eats and sings his brain spins.” “Excess is no success.” “One thing at a time. The rest is chaos.” Perhaps Iván Argüelles was ahead of his time or, rather, he has always been timeless. He handles many languages ​​with surprising skill: Greek, Latin, Sanskrit, Hindi and Bengali, English, Spanish, French, Portuguese, Italian, German, Catalan, Romanian, etc. And he uses of all of them interchangeably. I once asked him how he could sustain his knowledge of so many languages. He told me without flinching that he read a poem or fragments in each of the languages he knew every day, as much as possible. It is a habit he has kept since I have known him.

​Jack Foley wrote in 2010: “Iván Argüelles is one of this century’s finest poets, yet he remains known to only a few passionate partisans. His work is ‘difficult,’ but it is no more difficult than the work of many better-known poets--and his work is better than theirs.” His aesthetic is anchored in vertiginous, anachronistic, multidirectional, expansive, and explosive images. John M. Bennett states that we must read Argüelles’s work with “a new mind-set.” He adds this fine piece of advice: “one has to allow oneself to be ‘drowned’ in the ocean of this stunning and protean work and be receptive to all the ambiguities and contradictions it contains.” In many instances, Argüelles makes use of masked dramatic monologues and a naked surrealist unconscious that, according to Jack Foley, deliberately reveals, like Yeats, “the face I had / Before the world was made.”

​Iván Argüelles’ method is immediate and visceral. You must grasp it before you understand it and even “not understand it.” His poetry is panoptic and diachronic: id est, he can refer, without cross sections, to Gilgamesh and forgotten Phoenician goddesses, or remember his twin brother climbing the steps of the Teotihuacan pyramid, engage in a monologue with Crazy Horse, portray Dante, invoke Elizabeth Taylor’s eyes, whistle a tune by Elvis Presley or a Mozart concerto, ride with Astolfo to the moon, or meditate on David Bowie’s ship that has just left the planet and is about to explode in the middle of the cosmic dust. His images are wildly detached from the signifier and the words resonate in multiple languages. They are thrown aimlessly in unexpected directions, as in a grammatical eruption of irrepressible lava that, at age 84, still burns incessantly.
​
I had previously stated that his poetry is panoptic and diachronic. I repeat this affirmation. At that first lunch with him at Larry Blake’s in the 80s, one of the longtime temples to the blues in the Bay Area, Iván Argüelles gave me several collections of his poetry, among them Instamatic Reconditioning (1978), a title that I still cannot fully understand today. I found an admirable poem that exemplifies the adjectives I mention in this collection. It is titled, “Before the Buddha came.” In the poem’s panoptic vision, there is something enigmatic that moves our ancient senses. Today we talk about ancestral memory or genetic information. The reader has the feeling that Iván Argüelles was there, in the deepest prehistory, among the first troops of human beings, hanging from a branch, waiting for the Enlightened One. Such is the fullness and conviction of his words. We open this anthology with that poem.

Arturo Dávila S.
Laney College
Oakland, California
February 2023

1.- Before the Buddha came
 
there were many of them
sleeping on the trees
or awake just watching from a
silvery distance the glistening backs
of animals
as if preparing the idea of the hunt
faces composed of aspirin and fur
teeth like combs riveted into
the shoulders of their mates
drawing a slow dream-like fluid
with which to tread the new moon
 
they have forgotten the dusky witness 
of the stars
now dwindling like orbs of dust
in the back mind of the sky
they have come down to the ground
to spend years inside the hides
of what they have killed
soon they will be persons
inventing units of thought or
describing parallel selves with which
to explain the strange inconvenience
of dying
 
1.- Antes de que llegara el Buda
 
había muchos de ellos
durmiendo en los árboles
o despiertos tan sólo mirando desde una
distancia plateada las espaldas relucientes
de animales
como si prepararan la idea de la caza
caras compuestas de aspirina y piel
dientes como peines clavados en
los hombros de sus compañeras
dibujando un fluido lento como un sueño
con el que pisar la luna nueva
 
han olvidado al testigo oscuro
de las estrellas
menguando ahora como orbes de polvo
en la mente oculta del cielo
han bajado al suelo
para pasar años dentro de los cueros
de lo que han matado
pronto serán personas
inventando unidades de pensamiento o
describiendo seres paralelos con los cuales
puedan explicar el extraño inconveniente
de morir

19.- Buffalo
 
under our feet
the grass has stopped rolling
a single cigarette undoes the leaves
metal appears for no reason at all
where we need to sleep
the horizon disappears in a zipper
our hooves sink in miles of paper
a thin flame piercing us
flank to flank
catalogs the function of our skin
 
in a still pool
somewhere to the far west of here
a god with a sky blue jaw
with creosote heels
with celluloid eyes
with a magnificent tin lapel
and a railroad ticket that works like a clock
is eating the last of us
   
19.- Búfalo
 
bajo nuestros pies
la hierba ha dejado de rodar
un solo cigarrillo deshace las hojas
el metal aparece sin razón alguna
donde necesitamos dormir
el horizonte desaparece en un ziper
nuestros cascos se hunden en millas de papel
una fina flama que nos atraviesa
flanco a flanco
cataloga la función de nuestra piel
 
en un estanque tranquilo
en algún lugar al lejano oeste de aquí
un dios con mandíbulas azul cielo
con tacones de creosota
con ojos de celuloide
con una magnífica solapa de hojalata
y un boleto de tren que funciona como un reloj
se está comiendo al último de Nosotros

22.- Illegal Sintax
 
where there can be only confusion... sleeping among the dead the glorious
ones who came through fire remembering the shore
where the shadows grew warm… dreaming in the dark oak-groves
strangling in the ivy childhoods already violent with the future
gods incarcerated in the pinnacle where a reading continues daily
about the seas underfoot about the paths divine about the morphology
desperately convulsed... orgasmic messages to earth the humus
the detritus of that other reality ... watching the screen for some
real significance for that burning for that ultimate signal on high
as they bring their barks to this strand exhausted with the lie of delivery
cattle in the meadow of their memory… bleeding hospices… dung
ancient with a forgotten tradition how they lift their palms waving
that one great feather of pampas grass and it is night already
not the mild one with fragrances and the calling of exotic birds
but the ruddy treacherous one where the planets acknowledge aloud
the illegal syntax the dread omens… falling from the heavens
the once considered pure the body and spirit      the demi-gods
“how can I touch the consecrated moment of     the imminent echo?”
… sluggish the source of the Meander the water of tragedy
where they stepped convinced this is the hour or the life of Noon
the meridian of philosophy the Holy the exchange of the sexes
…………………………………………………….
 
what kind of guilt is blindness combined with total recall of the visible?
each leaf extends its oratory to the eternal optic nerve…
the sea returns its buried to the skin of the Universal Day
and all around they cast their illicit glances waiting for History
to incarnate them those for whom the Republic was an uncultivated Vine
… the azure the crown the ring of day-stars dripping fiery dew
Enigmas… who can elude their passionate and embryonic solitude?

22.- Sintaxis ilegal
 
donde sólo puede haber confusión... durmiendo entre los muertos
los gloriosos que vinieron desde el fuego recordando la orilla
donde las sombras se calentaban… soñando en los oscuros robledales
estrangulando infancias de hiedra ya violentas con el porvenir
dioses encarcelados en el pináculo donde una lectura continúa diariamente
sobre los mares bajo los pies sobre los caminos divinos sobre la morfología
desesperadamente convulsionada…  mensajes orgásmicos a la tierra el humus
los detritus de esa otra realidad… mirando la pantalla para buscar algún
significado real alguna quemadura alguna señal definitiva en lo alto
mientras traen sus ladridos a esta ribera exhaustos con la mentira de la entrega
ganado en el prado de su memoria… hospicios sangrantes… estiércol
antiguo con una tradición olvidada cómo levantan sus palmas saludando
a esa gran pluma de hierbas de la pampa y ya es de noche
no la suave con fragancias y el canto de pájaros exóticos
sino la rojiza traicionera donde los planetas reconocen en voz alta
la sintaxis ilegal los temibles presagios… cayendo desde los cielos
los una vez considerados puros ¡el cuerpo y el espíritu los semidioses!
“¿cómo puedo tocar el momento consagrado del eco inminente?”
… perezosa la fuente del Meandro el agua de     la tragedia
donde pisaron convencidos de que ésta es la hora de la vida El Mediodía
el meridiano de la filosofía El Sagrado el  intercambio de los sexos
…………………………………………………
¿qué clase de culpa es la ceguera combinada con el recuerdo total de lo visible?
cada hoja extiende su oratoria hasta el eterno nervio óptico…
el mar devuelve sus muertos a la piel del Día Universal
y a su alrededor lanzan miradas ilícitas esperando la Historia
para encarnar en ellos a aquéllos para quienes     la República era una vid inculta
… el azur la corona el anillo de estrellas diurnas goteando rocío ardiente
Enigmas…. ¿quién puede eludir su soledad apasionada y embrionaria?

Iván Argüelles is the author of many books, including: “That” Goddess; Madonna Septet; Comedy , Divine , The,; Fiat Lux; Orphic Cantos; Tamazunchale, and many others. Born in 1939 in Rochester, Minnesota, he has lived variously in Mexico City, Chicago, New York City, Macerata, Italy, and settled in Berkeley, California. A retired librarian, he was employed by the New York Public Library and The Library of the University of California at Berkeley. His collection, Looking for Mary Lou, received the 1989 William Carlos Williams Award from the Poetry Society of America. In 2010, he received a National Book Award from the Before Columbus Foundation for his early selected poems, The Death of Stalin. This collection, Sintaxis Ilegal, written in English, was translated into Spanish by Arturo Dávila and published by the Universidad Autónoma de Nuevo León.

Arturo Dávila S. is Chair of the Department of Modern Languages at Laney College in Oakland, California. He specializes in contemporary Latin American poetry and Colonial Literature (the conquest of Mexico). He is poet laureate in Spain and Mexico where he won the following prizes for his books: La ciudad dormida (“Sor Juana Inés de la Cruz” Prize, México, 1995), Catulinarias ("Antonio Machado" Prize, Spain, 1998), Poemas para ser leídos en el Metro (“Juan Ramón Jiménez” Prize, Spain, 2003), and La cuerda floja (“Nicolás Guillén” Prize, Caribbean Philosophical Association-CPA, 2015). Some other publications include, Alfonso Reyes entre nosotros (UANL, 2010), an extensive prologue on poems by the same author, Homero en Cuernavaca (2014), the anthology La Tinusa. Poetas latinoamericanos in the USA (Aldus-Secretaría de Cultura, 2016), Sátiras (Hiperión, Spain, 2017), and more recently Tantos troncos truncus (Casa Vacía, 2020), and También garganta el mar (Casa Vacía, 2023). At present he is compiling a second anthology of 21st century Latin American poets living in the USA and doing research on pre-Hispanic codices and re-visions of the conquest of Mexico. 

The Shadow of Time
​
New Year’s 2018 – Bear Mountain
 
The International System of Units has defined a second as 9, 192, 631, 770 cycles of radiation corresponding to the transition between two energy levels of the caesium-133 atom.
 
 
The star glares through the glass;
A frozen lake between two mountains;
The world turns on its spine as it has for billions of years.
 
What’s a year?
 
An accretion of eddies within a vast storm,
An endless trek, but more than the distance
Between two points, a resonance we feel compelled to track,
First with arrays of stone, then with falling grains of sand
And complex contraptions of wheels within wheels,
The heartbeat of liquid crystal, the adumbrations of an atom.
 
I listen to what the geese tell me as they form a V in retreat,
The toad as he descends to his muddy rest,
The perennials as they retract beneath the frost,
The empty symmetry of a hornet’s nest,
And the choir of whales fleeing in the deep.
 
They all return like the tides, so tethered to the sun and moon,
While we chop at time with a pendulous blade,
Doomed to live in its shadow.



Awakening
 
And then, the machine stopped;
the sky began to clear
when the great gears
groaned to a halt;
the ground ceased
its shivering,
stars appeared
and beasts emerged
in our absence,
wings cast shadows
over empty streets.
 
In the gnawing silence,
a distant siren
reminds us of a gruesome tally;
we peer from our doorways
for a ray of hope,
long to walk the paths
we barely noticed.
 
In the ebb and flow
of life and death,
we inhabit the low tides,
a scant respite
from irresistible waves.
 
After a time,
most will return to normal,
become mired
in old assumptions
and petty desires,
to the ways that failed us,
 
But a few will awake
to find that the world
kept turning
and changed:
 
They will walk into the sun
And shed their masks.



Hommage à Neruda
 
What does the horseshoe crab
Search for in the murk
With its single hoof,
 
Or the she-turtle
In her lumbering butterfly
Up the shore?
 
Does the quivering hummingbird
Find solace as it probes
The dreaming delphinium,
 
Or the velvet worm
As it reaches with its toxic jets?
 
Are the choral cicadas
Worshiping the sun
After emerging from seventeen
Years of darkness?
 
What of the myriad species
That have come and gone,
The gargantuan sloth,
The pterosaur that glided
Over a vast ocean
From the Andes to the coast
Of Spain,
Saw the seas rise and fall
Back upon themselves,
 
Just as I slumber and wake
For these numbered days.



L’heure Bleue – The Time of Evening
 
The sun has set, but night has not yet fallen. It’s the suspended hour…
The hour when one finally finds oneself in renewed harmony with the world and the light…The night has not yet found its star.    
-Jacques Guerlain
 
As the world folds into shadow,
A grey tapestry descends:
 
The coyote’s lament from the wild place
Across the creek and the fading chorale
Of the late train awaken crepuscular birds
Who inhabit the rift like rare gods.
 
Abuelo sits in the cleft of a mesquite,
His rolled tobacco flickering
With the fireflies as a dim lantern
Receives the adoration of moths;
 
A cat’s eyes glow green
In the gloaming light
And a cloud of mosquitos
Devoured by a flurry of bats.
 
The outhouse door moans open
And the boy treads quietly
On the moonlit stepping stones,
Through the corn and calabacitas,
Under the windmill as it measures
The October wind;
 
Pupils widen like black holes,
Ingest the night spirits,
And he cannot yet imagine
A world beyond these stars,
Or that he will someday
Live in a place where it’s never dark.


 
Sarabande
 
                              for Zuzana Růžičková
 
 
She clutched the leaves
in her hand
as she waited
to be loaded
onto the waiting truck.
 
Somehow, an angry wind
lifted the notes
and they sailed
down the street
like runaway kites,
 
But the music rode
along in her heart,
persisted through
every kind of horror,
from Auschwitz
to Bergen-Belsen,
antithesis of the camp
accordion and broken
strings’ blithe
accompaniment
to endless roll calls
in the bitter cold,
starvation,
dehydration,
executions
and the merriment
of the guards.
 
Those pages looped
in her head
even as she wrestled
a stray beet from the cold ground,
digging with her fingernails
to feed her dying mother.
 
When she returned
to Prague,
her hands were ruined,
and new monsters
would soon appear
in the streets,
but the Sarabande sang
in her insistent fingers
until it circled the soiled world
like a golden thread.
 
 
 
 
* Harpsichordist, Zuzana Růžičková, is considered one of the great musicians of the 20th century.  She survived Auschwitz and Bergen-Belsen.
 
The work in question is J.S. Bach’s E minor Sarabande from the fifth book of English Suites. Růžičková had written it out by hand at the age of 13 to take with her during her internment.

Robert René Galván, born in San Antonio, resides in New York City where he works as a professional musician and poet. His previous collections of poetry are entitled, Meteors and Undesirable: Race and Remembrance.  Galván’s poetry was recently featured in Adelaide Literary Magazine, Azahares Literary Magazine, Burningword Literary Journal, Gyroscope, Hawaii Review, Hispanic Culture Review, Newtown Review, Panoply, Sequestrum, Somos en Escrito, Stillwater Review, West Texas Literary Review, and UU World. He is a Shortlist Winner Nominee in the 2018 Adelaide Literary Award for Best Poem. His work has been featured in several literary journals across the country and abroad and has received two nominations for the 2020 Pushcart Prize and one for Best of the Web. René’s poems also appear in varied anthologies, including Undeniable: Writers Respond to Climate Change and in Puro ChicanX Writes of the 21st Century.

by Isaac Goldemberg
​​

Isaac Goldemberg was born in Peru in 1945 and has lived in New York since 1964. He is the author of four novels, a collection of short fiction, thirteen collections of poetry
and three plays. His most recent publications are Libro de reclamaciones (Palma de Mallorca, 2018), Philosophy and Other Fables (New York, 2016), Dialoghi con me e con i miei altri/Diálogos conmigo y mis otros (Rome, 2015), and Remember the Scorpion (Los Angeles, 2015). He is also the author of El gran libro de América judía (The Great Book of Jewish America, a 2240-page anthology, 1998). In 1995 his novel The Fragmented Life of Don Jacobo Lerner was selected by a committee of writers and literary critics as one of the best 25 Peruvian novels of all times and in 2001 a panel of international scholars convened by the National Yiddish Book Center chose it as one of the 100 greatest Jewish books of the last 150 years. His work has been translated into several languages and included in numerous anthologies in Latin America, Europe and the United States. He has received the following awards, among
others: the Nuestro Fiction Award (1977), the Nathaniel Judah Jacobson Award (1996), the Estival Theater Award (2003), the Luis Alberto Sánchez Essay Award (2004), the Order of Don Quijote (2005), the Tumi Excellence Award (2014), and the P.E.N. Club of Peru Poetry Award (2015). In 2014, the House of Peruvian Literature in Lima, presented “Tiempos y Raíces” (Times and Roots), a Homage/Exhibition devoted to his life and works.

Isaac Goldemberg nació en Chepén, Perú, en 1945 y reside en Nueva York desde 1964. Ha publicado cuatro novelas, un libro de relatos, trece de poesía y tres obras de
teatro. Sus publicaciones más recientes son Libro de reclamaciones (Palma de Mallorca, 2018), Philosophy and Other Fables (Nueva York, 2016), Dialoghi con me e con i miei altri/Diálogos conmigo y mis otros (Roma, 2015) y Remember the Scorpion (Los Ángeles, 2015). Es autor también de El gran libro de América judía (antología de 2240 páginas, 1998). En 1995 su novela La vida a plazos de don Jacobo Lerner fue
considerada por un comité de escritores y críticos literarios como una de las mejores novelas peruanas de todos los tiempos; y en el 2001 fue seleccionada por un jurado
internacional de críticos literarios convocado por el Yiddish Book Center de Estados Unidos como una de las 100 obras más importantes de la literatura judía mundial de
los últimos 150 años. Su obra ha sido sido traducida a varios idiomas e incluida en numerosas antologías de América Latina, Europa y los Estados Unidos. Ha recibido,
entre otros, el Premio Nuestro de Novela (1977), el Premio Nathaniel Judah Jacobson (1996), el Premio Estival de Teatro (2003), el Premio de Ensayo Luis Alberto Sánchez
(2004), la Orden de Don Quijote (2005), el Premio Tumi a la Excelencia (2014) y el Premio de Poesía del P.E.N. Club del Perú (2015). En 2014, la Casa de la Literatura Peruana en Lima, presentó “Tiempos y Raíces”, una Exhibición/Homenaje dedicada a su vida y obra.

Luna para poetas asesinados
​​
                    Creyeron que te enterraban
                    ​y lo que hacían era enterrar una semilla.
                         Ernesto Cardenal, epitafio para la tumba
                         de Adolfo Báez Bone revolucionario nicaragüense
 
          para los poetas de Myanmar,
          y todos los poetas muertos
          ​resistiendo tiranía.

Inmensa, cerca a la Tierra, la luna,
jala a las mareas de los mares
y de la sangre.
En la sombra de la Tierra,
se tiñe escarlata
como laca birmana
por los atardeceres de la Tierra.
¿O será que se ruboriza de furia,
partera, madrina de la vida?
La sangre de sus sumos sacerdotes,
los poetas, corre roja en las calles
 
Pero mátenos
y otros se levantarán.
Palabras cargadas
de verdad, belleza, amor
no mueren; encienden el pensar
y hacen revolución en el corazón.

Moon for Murdered Poets

                    They thought that they buried you
                    & what they did was bury a seed.
                         Ernesto Cardenal, epitaph for the tomb
                               of Adolfo Báez Bone, Nicaraguan revolutionary

          for the poets of Myanmar,
          & all poets killed
          ​resisting tyranny.
 
Huge, near Earth, the moon
pulls at the tides of the sea
and of the blood.
In the Earth’s shadow,
she is tinged scarlet,
like Burmese lacquer,
by the sunsets of the Earth.
Or is it that she flushes in fury,
midwife, godmother of life?
The blood of her high-priests,
the poets, runs red in the streets.
 
But kill us
and others will rise.
Words freighted
with truth, beauty, love
do not die; they ignite thought
and make revolution in the heart.
 
© Rafael Jesús González 2021

​Rafael Jesús González, Prof. Emeritus of literature and creative writing, was born and raised biculturally/bilingually in El Paso, Texas/Cd. Juárez, Chihuahua, and taught at University of Oregon, Western State College of Colorado, Central Washington State University, University of Texas El Paso (Visiting Professor of Philosophy), and Laney College, Oakland, California where he founded the Dept. of Mexican & Latin-American Studies. Also visual artist, he has exhibited in the Oakland Museum of California, the Mexican Museum of San Francisco, and others in the U.S. and Mexico. Nominated thrice for a Pushcart prize, he was honored by the National Council of Teachers of English and Annenberg CPB for his writing in 2003. In 2013 he received a César E. Chávez Lifetime Award and was honored by the City of Berkeley with a Lifetime Achievement Award at the 13th Annual Berkeley Poetry Festival 2015. He was named the first Poet Laureate of Berkeley in 2017. Visit http://rjgonzalez.blogspot.com/. 

​Richard Blanco was selected by President Obama as the fifth inaugural poet in U.S. history, the youngest and the first Latino, immigrant, and gay person in this role. Born in Madrid to Cuban exile parents and raised in Miami, he interrogates the American narrative in How to Love a Country. Other memoirs include For All of Us, One Today: An Inaugural Poet’s Journey and The Prince of Los Cocuyos: A Miami Childhood. A Woodrow Wilson Fellow, Blanco serves as Education Ambassador for The Academy of American Poets and as an Associate Professor at Florida International University.

Connecticut Autumn

I have seen the pageantry of the leaves falling--
Their sere, brown frames descending brakingly,
Like old men lying down to rest.
I have heard the whisperings of the winds calling--
The young winds—playing with the old men--
Playing with them, as the sun flows west.
And I have seen the pomp of this earth naked--
The brown fields standing cold and resolute,
Like strong men waiting for the end.
Then have come the sudden gusts of winds awaked:
The broken pageantry, the leaves upflailed, the trees
Tremor-stricken,
the giant branches rent.
And a shiver runs over the remnants of the brown grass--
And there is cessation....
The processional recurs.
I have seen the pageantry.
I have seen the haggard leaves falling.
One by one falling.

Otoño en Connecticut 

He visto la ceremonia de las hojas cayendo--
Sus secos esqueletos marrones descendiendo quebrados,
Como viejos hombres que se acuestan a descansar.
He escuchado los susurros de los vientos llamando--
Los jóvenes vientos—jugando con los viejos hombres--
Jugando con ellos mientras el sol va hacia el oeste.
Y he visto la pompa de esta tierra desnuda--
Los campos secos, fríos y resueltos,
Como si fueran hombres fuertes que esperan el fin.
Y entonces llegan sin avisar las ráfagas de viento que despiertan:
La ceremonia quebrada, las hojas hacia arriba agitadas, los árboles
Estremecidos, las ramas gigantes desgarradas.
Y un temblor atraviesa los restos de los pastizales secos--
Y hay un cese....
La procesión se repite.
He visto la ceremonia.
He visto a las demacradas hojas cayendo.
Una por una, cayendo.
​
Traducido por Pablo Brescia

Hiroshima

The man who gave the signal sleeps well--
So he says.
But the man who pulled the toggle sleeps badly--
So we read.
And we behind the man who gave the signal--
How do we sleep?
And they below the man who pulled the toggle?
Well?

Hiroshima 

El hombre que dio la señal duerme bien--
Eso dice, al menos.
Pero el hombre que accionó la palanca duerme mal--
Eso leemos.
Y nosotros, los que estamos detrás del hombre que dio la señal--
¿Cómo dormimos?
¿Y los que están debajo del hombre que accionó la palanca?
¿Y?
​
Traducido por Pablo Brescia

The Milkman

The milkman walks with mysterious movements,
Translating will to energy--
To the crunch of his feet on crystalline water--
While the bad angels mutter.
A white ghost in an opaque body
Passing slowly over the snow,
And a telltale fume on the frozen air
To spite the princes of terror.
One night they will knock on the milkman’s door,
Their boots crunch hard on the front-porch
floor,
One-two,
open the door.
You are the thief of the secret flame,
The forbidden bread, the terrible Name.
Return what is let; go back where you came.
One, two, the slam of a door.
A woman crying: Who is there?
And voices mumbling beyond the stair.
Is there a fume in the frozen sky
To spell that someone has been by,
Under the sun and over the snow?

El lechero 

El lechero camina con movimientos misteriosos,
Que traducen la voluntad en energía--
Con un crujido de sus pasos sobre el agua cristalina--
Mientras los ángeles malos murmuran.
Un fantasma blanco en un cuerpo opaco
Que pasa lentamente sobre la nieve
Y un vaho delator en el aire helado
Para atormentar a los príncipes del terror.
Una noche golpearán en la puerta del lechero,
En el piso del pórtico anterior, sus botas crujirán duro,
Uno, dos, abre la puerta.
Eres el ladrón del fuego secreto,
El pan prohibido, el Nombre terrible.
Devuelve lo prestado, vuelve a dónde viniste.
Uno, dos, el golpe de la puerta.
Una mujer grita: ¿Quién está ahí?
Y voces murmuran más allá de la escalera.
¿Hay un vaho en el cielo helado
Para anunciar que alguien ha estado
Bajo el sol y sobre la nieve?

Traducido por Ximena Gómez y George Franklin

On the Photograph of a Man I Never Saw

My grandfather’s beard
Was blacker than God’s
Just after the tablets
Were broken in half.
My grandfather’s eyes
Were sterner than Moses’
Just after the worship
Of the calf.
O ghost! ghost!
You foresaw the days
Of the fallen Law
In the strange place.
Where ten together
Lament David,
Is the glance softened?
Bowed the face?

De la fotografía de un hombre que nunca vi 

La barba de mi abuelo
Era más negra que la de Yahvé
Justo después de que las tablas
Fueron partidas en dos.
Los ojos de mi abuelo
Eran más severos que los de Moisés
Justo después de la adoración
Del becerro.
¡Oh fantasma! ¡fantasma!
Previste los días
De la ley incumplida
En la tierra extraña.
Donde los diez reunidos
Lloran a David,
¿Se enternece la mirada?
¿Se inclina el rostro?

Traducido por George B. Henson

 Coda

A recent traveler in Granada, remembering the gaiety that had greeted him on an earlier visit, wondered why the place seemed so sad. The answer came to him at last: “This was a city that had killed its poet.” He was talking, of course, of the great Federico García Lorca, murdered by Franco’s bullies during the Spanish Civil War. But are there not many cities and many places that kill their poets? Places nearer home than Granada and the Albaicín? The poets, true, are humbler than Lorca (for such genius is a seed as rare as a roc’s egg), and the deaths are less brutal, more subtle, more civilized. Against us, luckily, there are no squads on the lookout. There is no conspiracy against us, unless it is a conspiracy of indifference. But there are more powerful things in the modern world (and people who are the slaves of things, and people who are things) that move against poetry like an intractable enemy, all the more horrible because unconscious. They would kill the poet—that is, make him stop writing poetry. We must stay alive, must write then, write as excellently as we can. And if out of our labors and agonies there appears, along with our more moderate triumphs, even one speck of the final distillate, the eternal stuff pure and radiant as a drop of uranium, we are justified. For history, which does not lie, has proven that our product, if understood and used as it ought to be, is more powerful for the conservation of man than any mere material metal can be for his destruction.

[This essay originally appeared as the Preface to Plutzik’s collection, Apples from Shinar, published by Wesleyan University Press in 1959 and reprinted in 2011 on the centennial of the poet’s birth.]

Coda

Un reciente viajero en Granada, al recordar cuánta alegría le había brindado la ciudad durante una visita anterior, se preguntaba por qué lucía el pueblo tan triste esta vez. Por fín se le ocurrió la explicación: “Este es un pueblo que mató a su poeta”. Se refería, por supuesto, al gran Federico García Lorca, asesinado por los verdugos de Franco, durante la Guerra Civil de España. Pero, ¿no son muchas las ciudades y demás sitios que matan a sus poetas? ¿Sitios mucho más cercanos que Granada o el Albaicín? Claro que aquellos poetas son más humildes que Lorca (porque tal genio es una semilla más escasa que el huevo del pájaro rokh), y aquellas muertes menos brutales, más sutiles, más civilizadas. A nosotros, afortunadamente, no nos vienen a perseguir cuadrillas. No hay complots contra nosotros, a no ser el complot de la indiferencia. Pero sí hay cosas más poderosas en el mundo moderno (y gente que son esclavos de las cosas, y gente que son cosas) que asaltan a la poesía como un enemigo inmutable, aún mas horrible por ser inconsciente. Matarían al poeta—es decir, no le permitirían escribir poesía. Nosotros tenemos la obligación de permanecer en vida, de seguir escribiendo, de escribir con toda la excelencia que nos sea posible. Y si nuestros esfuerzos, nuestras agonías, producen—entre los triunfos de mediano valor—aunque sea una migaja del destilado final, esa materia eterna y radiante como una gota de uranio, eso nos justifica. Porque así la historia, que no miente, logra comprobar que nuestro producto, si se comprende y se utiliza como debe ser, puede hacer más para conservar al hombre de lo que podrá hacer cualquier mero material metálico para lograr su destrucción.

Traducido por Rhina P. Espaillat

(Este ensayo apareció en su origen como prólogo al poemario Apples from Shinar (Manzanas de Sinar), publicado por Wesleyan University Press en 1959 y reeditado en 2011 para conmemorar el centenario del natalicio del poeta.)

Hyam Plutzik was born in Brooklyn on July 13, 1911, the son of recent immigrants from what is now Belarus. He spoke only Yiddish, Hebrew, and Russian until the age of seven, when he enrolled in grammar school near Southbury, Connecticut, where his parents owned a farm. Plutzik graduated from Trinity College in 1932, where he studied under Professor Odell Shepard. He continued graduate studies at Yale University, becoming one of the first Jewish students there. His poem “The Three” won the Cook Prize at Yale in 1933.

After working briefly in Brooklyn, where he wrote features for the Brooklyn Daily Eagle, Plutzik spent a Thoreauvian year in the Connecticut countryside, writing his long poem, Death at The Purple Rim, which earned him another Cook Prize in 1941, the only student to have won the award twice. During World War II he served in the U.S. Army Air Force throughout the American South and near Norwich, England; experiences that inspired many of his poems. After the war, Plutzik became the first Jewish faculty member at the University of Rochester, serving in the English Department as the John H. Deane Professor of English until his death on January 8, 1962. Plutzik’s poems were published in leading poetry publications and literary journals. He also published three collections during his lifetime: Aspects of Proteus (Harper and Row, 1949); Apples from Shinar (Wesleyan University Press, 1959); and Horatio (Atheneum, 1961), all three of which were finalists for the Pulitzer Prize. To mark the centennial of his birth, Wesleyan University Press published a new edition of Apples from Shinar in 2011. 

In 2016, Letter from a Young Poet (The Watkinson Library at Trinity College/Books & Books Press) was released, disclosing a young Jewish American man’s spiritual and literary odyssey through rural Connecticut and urban Brooklyn during the turbulent 1930s. In a finely wrought first-person narrative, young Plutzik tells his mentor, Odell Shepard what it means for a poet to live an authentic life in the modern world. The 72-page work was discovered in the Watkinson Library’s archives among the papers of Pulitzer Prize-winning scholar, Professor Odell Shepard, Plutzik’s collegiate mentor in the 1930s. It was featured in a 2011 exhibition at Trinity commemorating the Plutzik centenary.

For further information, visit hyamplutzikpoetry.com.

​Hyam Plutzik nació en Brooklyn el 13 de julio de 1911, hijo de inmigrantes recién llegados de lo que ahora es Bielorrusia. Habló solo el yídish, el hebreo y el ruso hasta la edad de siete años, cuando se matriculó en la escuela primaria cerca de Southbury, Connecticut, donde sus padres tenían una granja. Plutzik se graduó en Trinity College en 1932. Continuó sus estudios de posgrado en la Universidad de Yale, llegando a ser en uno de los primeros estudiantes judíos allí. Su poema “The Three” ganó el Premio Cook en Yale en 1933. 

Tras haber trabajado un breve período en Brooklyn, Plutzik pasó un año thoreauviano en la campiña de Connecticut, escribiendo el poema Death at The Purple Rim, que le valió otro premio Cook en 1941. Durante la Segunda Guerra Mundial sirvió en la Fuerzas Aéreas del Ejército de los Estados Unidos en el Sur Estadounidense y en Norwich, Inglaterra; experiencias que servirían como inspiración para muchos de sus poemas. Después de la guerra, Plutzik se convirtió en el primer miembro del cuerpo docente judío en la Universidad de Rochester, donde ocupó la Cátedra John H. Deane en la Facultad de Inglés hasta su muerte el 8 de enero de 1962. Los poemas de Plutzik fueron publicados en destacadas revistas literarias y antologías oéticas. También publicó tres colecciones durante su vida: Aspects of Proteus (Harper y Row, 1949); Apples from Shinar (Wesleyan University Press, 1959); y Horatio (Atheneum, 1961), el cual lo convirtió en finalista del Premio Pulitzer de Poesía ese año. Para conmemorar el centenario de su nacimiento, Wesleyan University Press editó una
nueva edición de Apples from Shinar en 2011.

En 2016, se lanzó Letter from a Young Poet (The Watkinson Library at Trinity College/Books & Books Press) que revelaba la odisea espiritual y literaria de un joven judío estadounidense por el Connecticut rural y la Brooklyn urbana durante los turbulentos años treinta. En una narración de primera persona finamente forjada, el joven Plutzik le dice a su mentor, Odell Shepard, lo que significa para un poeta vivir una vida auténtica en el mundo moderno. La obra fue descubierta en los archivos de la Biblioteca Watkinson entre los papeles del profesor Odell Shepard, ganador del premio Pulitzer y mentor universitario de Plutzik, y tuvo un papel destacado en una exposición que conmemoró en 2011 el Centenario del poeta.

Para mayor información, visite hyamplutzikpoetry.com.​

​Pablo Brescia was born in Buenos Aires and has lived in the United States since 1986. He has published three books of short stories: La derrota de lo real/The Defeat of the Real (USA/Mexico, 2017), Fuera de Lugar/Out of Place (Peru, 2012/Mexico, 2013) and La apariencia de las cosas/The Appearance of Things (México, 1997), and a book of hybrid texts No hay tiempo para la poesía/NoTime for Poetry. He teaches Latin American Literature at the University of South Florida.

Pablo Brescia nació en Buenos Aires y reside en Estados Unidos desde 1986. Publicó los libros de cuentos La derrota de lo real (USA/México, 2017), Fuera de lugar (Lima, 2012; México 2013) y La apariencia de las cosas (México, 1997). También, con el seudónimo de Harry Bimer, dio a conocer los textos híbridos de No hay tiempo para la poesía (Buenos Aires, 2011). Es crítico literario y profesor en la Universidad del Sur de la Florida (Tampa).

Ximena Gómez, a Colombian poet, translator and psychologist, lives in Miami. She has published: Habitación con moscas (Ediciones Torremozas, Madrid 2016), Último día / Last Day, a bilingual poetry book (Katakana Editores 2019). She is the translator of George Franklin’s bilingual poetry book, Among the Ruins / Entre las ruinas (Katakana Editores, Miami 2018). She was a finalist in “The Best of the Net” award and the runner up for the 2019 Gulf Stream poetry contest.

Ximena Gómez, colombiana, poeta, traductora y psicóloga vive en Miami. Ha publicado: Habitación con moscas (Ediciones Torremozas, Madrid 2016), Último día / Last Day, poemario bilingüe (Katakana Editores 2019). Es traductora del poemario bilingüe de George Franklin Among the Ruins / Entre las ruinas (Katakana Editores, Miami 2018). Fue finalista al concurso “The Best of the Net” y obtuvo el segundo lugar en el 2019, en el concurso anual de Gulf Stream.

George B. Henson is a literary translator and assistant professor of Spanish Translation at the Middlebury Institute of International Studies at Monterey. His translations include works by some of Latin America’s most important literary figures, including Cervantes Prize laureates Elena Poniatowska and Sergio Pitol, as well as works by Andrés Neuman, Miguel Barnet, Juan Villoro, Leonardo Padura, Alberto Chimal, and Carlos Pintado. Writing in the Los Angeles Review of Books, Ignacio Sánchez Prado called him “one of the most important literary translators at work in the United States today.” In addition to his work as translator and academic, he serves as a contributing editor for World Literature Today and Latin American Literature Today.

George B. Henson es un traductor literario y profesor de traducción en el Middlebury Institute of International Studies en Monterey. Sus traducciones incluyen obras de algunas de las figuras literarias más destacadas de América Latina, entre ellas las galardonadas con el Premio Cervantes Elena Poniatowska y Sergio Pitol, así como las
obras de Andrés Neuman, Miguel Barnet, Juan Villoro, Leonardo Padura, Alberto Chimal y Carlos Pintado. Escribiendo en la Los Angeles Review of Books, Ignacio Sánchez Prado lo calificó como “uno de los más importantes traductores literarios en ejercicio en los Estados Unidos hoy en día”. Además de su labor como traductor y académico, es editor colaborador para las revistas World Literature Today y Latin American Literature Today.

Rhina P. Espaillat is a Dominican-born bilingual poet, essayist, short story writer, translator, and former English teacher in New York City’s public high schools. She has published twelve books, five chapbooks, and a monograph on translation. She has earned numerous national and international awards, and is a founding member of the Fresh Meadows Poets of NYC and the Powow River Poets of Newburyport, MA. Her most recent works are three poetry collections: And After All, The Field, and Brief Accident of Light: A Day in Newburyport, co-authored with Alfred Nicol.

Rhina P. Espaillat, dominicana de nacimiento y bilingüe, es poeta, ensayista, cuentista y traductora, y fue por varios años maestra de inglés en las escuelas públicas secundarias de New York. Ha publicado doce libros, cinco libros de cordel, y una monografía sobre la traducción. Ha ganado varios premios nacionales e internacionales, y fue fundadora del grupo Fresh Meadows Poets en NYC y el grupo Powow River Poets en Newburyport. Sus obras más recientes son tres poemarios: And After All, The Field, y una collaboración con el poeta Alfred Nicol, Brief Accident of Light: A Day in Newburyport.​

​By 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.

​By 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.

Linda Coronado, poet, musician, artist, and community activist born in Tucson, Arizona in 1947, fought for gay rights, feminist rights, and Chicanismo until her death from cancer in 1993. We have learned of her works from friends and one cassette recording of a reading she performed of seven of her poems on October 21, 1993, as she lay in a hospice bed. Coronado died a week later.

The recording may be the only physical evidence we have of her writing, the sound of her vibrant voice, her deeply human nature, and the friendships she amassed over her years of activism in Tucson. We print those seven obras here to memorialize the rich potential she possessed for greater works of poetry and perhaps fiction, memoir, who knows.

My thanks to two women who knew Coronado and made these materials available to Somos en escrito, Cecilia Vindiola and Alison Hughes, both of Tucson.  Alison made a cassette recording as Linda recited some of her favorite poems while surrounded by friends. Cecilia shared a drawing of her grandmother, shown here, which had been drawn by Linda.  Together these two friends shared the information about Linda with Somos en escrito in order that her amazing talents would not be lost to history.  

We believe that someone in the academic world will recognize Coronado as a singular personality worth investigating for more insights about her life and struggle. Perhaps somewhere more of her  poetry and artworks will be found to inspire us even these several decades since she died.

                                                      --Armando Rendón
                                                                           Editor

The following biographical information is taken from the program text of a ceremony honoring  Linda Coronado’s achievements as a community activist, in the arts (painting and music), education, and social service by the dedication of a tile in the University of Arizona Women’s Plaza of Honor. The text was read by Josefina Ahumada, retired social worker, activist, and member of the Tucson YWCA Board. 

​“Born in Tucson in 1947, Linda never knew her real mother as she was adopted by a Tucson family as a baby. It became obvious when she was quite young that her talents in the music field knew no boundaries. At Tucson High School her teacher encouraged her natural abilities. She played at least nine musical instruments, but guitar was her favorite. After obtaining a bachelor's degree from the University of Arizona, she taught  in Tucson Unified School District, while at the same time she pursued her passion for art and music. 

“She wrote the music score for a ballet, she played guitar and sang songs she composed, as well as classical Latin American songs during events and special occasions in Tucson. In the 1980's her drawing and painting talents were scooped up by a local clothing producer that hired her to draw their advertisements. She was also active in theatre and quickly developed a strong reputation as a creative stage manager at Tucson’s Invisible Theater. She also worked regularly with Borderlands Theatre, and was devoted to the theatre arts.

“As a Commissioner on the Tucson Women's Commission during its formative years, Linda helped to organize Tucson's first celebration of women in the arts -- an event that drew scores of performing groups, music artists, and visual artists together to bring visibility and recognition to the talents and achievements of women in the arts.

“While in her 30's, Linda was diagnosed with Type II Diabetes, a disease that disabled her at a rapid rate. As she struggled to manage this unexpected health challenge, she continued to pursue her artistic endeavors, by writing poems, songs, and essays.

“In her final days, confined to hospice care, Linda gathered her close friends together to give her final performance. Propped up in her bed, she delivered a powerful, unforgettable reading of her poems. Linda Coronado was truly a renaissance woman. The poems that follow are  a testament to her values, humor, and sense of self.

“In the 1970s, the Chicano movement was well on its way. In Tucson there were social activists from the barrios who raised their voices speaking to issues of the day. Linda Coronado was one of those voices. Whether it was playing her guitar and singing at a farmworkers' rights rally in Tucson and at  the border between Douglas and Agua Prieta, or performing with a local theater troupe, Linda was out front advocating for equality and women's rights. Linda was active with the Teatro Libertad and Ododo Theater, two of Tucson’s first street activist theater groups.

“Linda is honored for her creative and activist contributions on behalf of women.

                                                                                        
“May she rest in peace, and may her legacy live in the hearts of future generations.”                                         
                                                      –Josefina Ahumad

Brindo por la vida

Magnifica jornada

Caminos fragosos

Agobiados con anhelos ilusiones.



Brindo por la riqueza

De nuestro pasado

Historia tupida de cuentos y mitos

Tejido en un tapiz sorprendente.



Brindo por el legado del espiritú

La concepción única de nuestro arte

La vida y sangre de la existencia.



Por nuestros sueños,

Las semillas del alma,

Que con ellos brotan

Nuestra cultural más rara.





Tierra Indiana                                           Este poema trata de conectarnos con                                                    


nuestra cultura anciana          

           

Por Linda Coronado   

                                                                              
Tierra Indiana, La Madre de mi Raza                          

Tú sangre corre por mis venas                                      

Tú eres mi pasado, mi presente                                    Y mi futuro.  



De tu vientre nació mi gente                                        

Fuerte, llena de orgullo                                                

Por la historia de esta familia.                                    

Tus llantos son mis cantos.                                                                                     

El cantar de tu corazón Azteca                                   

Inspira el himno de este cuento.                                    

Tu carne es la mía                                                        Tu alma el mismo poder                 

Que hace florecer mi vida                                                                                 

En un sueño de mi herencia 

Madre India, entre tus brazos soñe con mi futuro        

Cantaste tu canción de cuna                                          Que fue después el grito de Aztlan!                           

                                                                                   

Amasaste con tus fuertes manos llanos salvajes          

Con tu voluntad indominable                                        

Criaste la cosecha inspirada                                          

Y la llamaste India!                                                                             

Celadora de leyendas                                                    

Contabas de Dioses dorados                                        

Imágenes del oscuro pasado                                          

Forjando en mí, el gran destino                          

llamado, Indígena!                                             



Tierra indígena                                                              

La madre de mi raza                                                      

Mujer imperial                                                              

Tus sueños en mi se hacen real.






Mother Earth

Tierra Indiana is about getting in touch with our earth mother



By Linda Coronado



Indian earth, mother of my people

Your blood courses through my veins

Your are my past, my present

And my future.



From your womb we came forth

Strong, filled with pride

of the history of our family. 

Your laments are my songs.



To sing of your Azteca heart

Inspires this Story into hymn.

Your flesh is mine

Your soul the very force

That burst my life in flower.



Madre India, swaddled in your arms

I dreamt of my future.

The lullaby you sang at my crib

Became in time the Cry of Aztlan!



Guardian of our legends,

You sang of gilded Creators,

Shadowy images of the past,

Forging in me, that grand destiny

We call, Indigena!



Native land,

Mother of my people, 

Woman of empire

In me, your dreams came to be.



This poem, “Tierra Indiana,” was translated into English by the joint efforts of Cecilia and Alison, who read the piece in memory of her friend, Linda Coronado, at a meeting of the Tucson Women’s Commission in 2004. 





Canción de cuna

Coronado spoke about how her poetry was inspired by Chilean poet, Gabriela Mistral, Nobelist in literature.



Madre de Aztlan

Canta su canción de cuna.

La luna llena te lava

En su luz cristalina.



A roo roo roo

Duerme, mi niña

Duerme, duerme con tus fantasías.



A roo roo roo

Duerme, mi niña, duerme y sueñé

En el mundo dulce tuyo.



En el campo lejano

El mar de grano te acompaña

Con tu tierna voz

De brisas nocturnas.



En mis brazos

duerme,

callada,

mi niña,

mi corazon,

el futuro.





Reflección

Written in hospice after being diagnosed with terminal cancer.

“The presence of death was with me a lot, but it didn’t scare me.”



A veces a medias de la noche

Me despierto con su presencia a mi lado,

Silenciosa, dulcemente cuidadosa.



Conozco tu aliento fragrante.

He tocado tu piel y sentido

el calor de tu mirada.



Nos estamos tranquilamente en el oscuro.

Acepto la unión inevitable

dentro de nos dos.

Me contarás esta noche de fantasías perfectas.

Me llevarás a nuevos paisajes.



¿Sera este el momento en que veo tu cara

Cuando tiernamente nos abrazamos,

Dulce muerte?





El Baile Diario

“People have to fight to stay alive, to continue culture.” This poem is about “the dizziness of the fight to keep a balance.”



Es éste, el baile diario

Una sonata picante y viva

El resplendor de ritmos ondulantes

El latido del corazon y carne



Jota de llanto y grito

Emociones que dan vuelta

Como faldas de ilusiones.



Atrás y para delante

Cada paso de este tango

Un segundo delirante

Siempre una lucha  a cada nota

De guardar frágil balance

Dentro luz y oscuridad.



Los danzantes forman fila

Respondiendo al nuevo compás

Otro cuadro, otra obra

Cada quien el escritor

Escenas imprevistas

Como huellas en el alma

Como marcas en el alma.



Sobre la eternidad

Y asi es éste, el baile diario,

Cada vida tomando parte

En este drama sin final.





Rezo

Is about when cultures meet, “they tear each other apart or they form unions.”



Llanura callada,

Llanura solitaria,

Viento de voz tierna y pura.

Es tu aliento que acaricia los valles.



Es tu aliento que da suave fragancia a la noche.

Olas doradas que murmurran su canto,

Murmurran su llanto como rezos

Invocadas a dioses lejanos.



Dioses inmortales, dioses de cielo y tierra.

Guardias del tiempo sin fin,

Celadores de leyendas, de mitos, de cuentos.



[A section here was written in Nahuatl, or Aztec, spoken by some 2 million people mostly in central Mexico and by some in the U.S.]



Arraigados en sus misterios,

Somos la mezcla única, sangre y sol

Infantes de carne y cruz,

Mortales creados de sueños inmortales

Como rezos implacables

Como fuegos en un mar infinito sin luz

Perdidos en busca, en busca de un anhelo,

de nuestro derecho, de nuestro ser.





Soy Latina

“How Latinos are so varied. There’s so many ways that you can see that, so I started to think, What does that mean, and this is what came out.”



Soy Latina.

Me dicen Chicana, Colombiana, Mexicana,

Peruana, Brasileña, Borincana,

Panameña, Española, Boliviana.



Mi abuelita se llamaba Cultura.

Mi madre, Arte.

My roots sink deep into the soil of four continents.

I have been queen and high  priestess.

I was servant and slave.

I have born civilizations

And taught my children to dream.

I am the quardian of my history,

The storyteller, cantante, actríz.

I am la pintora de mi raza.



Mi figura es diversa y bella

Mi color, un arco iris.

Cuando camino es a un ritmo primitivio.

Soy fuerte y decidida, tierna y apasionada.



Mi vista es ancha y llena de esperanza.

Es asi me reconocerán, orgullosamente,

Les he dicho, soy Latina.



                                    FIN



The poems contained here were transcribed and edited for publication by the Editor from the audio cassette taped by Alison Hughes. The poems are copyrighted in the name of Linda Coronado.

​Flor y canto para nuestros tiempos
(al modo nahua)

By Rafael Jesús González

La flor y canto que nos llega
es desarraigado --
         se marchitan las flores,
                  se desgarran las plumas,
                          se desmorona el oro,
                                    se quiebra el jade.
No importa que tan denso el humo de copal,
         cuantos los corazones ofrendados,
se desarraigan los mitos,
         mueren los dioses.
Tratamos de salvarlos
de las aguas oscuras del pasado
con anzuelos frágiles
forjados de imaginación y anhelo.
Dentro llevamos voces mixtas --
abuelas, abuelos
conquistados y conquistadores
         — nuestro legado.
De él tenemos que escoger lo preciso,
         lo negro, lo rojo,
cultivar nuestras propias flores,
cantar nuestros propios cantos,
recoger plumas nuevas para adornarnos,
oro para formarnos el rostro,
buscar jade para labrarnos el corazón --
sólo así crearemos el nuevo mundo.

​Flower & Song for Our Times
            (in the Nahua mode)
  
The flower & Song that come to us
is uprooted --
          flowers wither,
                    feathers tear,
                             gold crumbles,
                                       jade breaks.
It matters not how thick the incense smoke,
           how many the hearts offered,
myths are uprooted,
           the gods die.
We try to save them
from the dark waters of the past
with fragile hooks
forged of imagination & longing.
Within we carry mixed voices --
grandmothers, grandfathers
conquered & conquerors
          — our legacy.
From it we have to choose the necessary,
          the black & the red,
grow our own flowers,
sing our own songs,
gather new feathers to adorn ourselves,
discover new gold to form our face,
seek jade to carve our hearts --
only thus can we create the new world.