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​​SOMOS EN ESCRITO
The Latino Literary Online Magazine

POETRY
​POESÍA

"few will awake to find that the world kept turning and changed"

2/10/2022

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 Excerpts from
The Shadow of Time
​by Robert René Galván

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.
Click here to purchase a copy of The Shadow of Time from Adelaide Books.

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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.

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Sueño del insomnio

7/16/2021

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Excerpts from
Sueño del insomnio / 
​Dream of Insomnia

by Isaac Goldemberg
​​
PAZ
El soñador despierta
mientras duerme
con la mirada fija
en el techo del sueño.
Confía en el espíritu
que promete el triunfo
en la derrota.
Hace lo menos útil
para seguir con vida.
Calla lo que nunca tose
en su garganta.
Come aire,
nunca la solidez del alimento.
Despierta en lo mas profundo
de sus ojos.
En la superficie
la tierra se ha hundido,
están abiertos sus espacios
y ya obrando.
El soñador se cruza de brazos,
la muerte es suave
y alimenta.
Es mejor no despertar,
el mundo real
invita al sueño
y la paz se esfuma
en su carroza blanca.


PEACE
The dreamer wakes
while he sleeps
with his gaze fixed
on the ceiling of the dream.
He trusts the spirit
that promises triumph
in defeat.
He does what is least useful
to keep alive.
He silences what never coughs
in his throat.
He eats air,
never the solidity of nourishment.
He wakes in the deep end
of his eyes.
The earth has sunk
on its surface,
the spaces are open
and already working.
The dreamer crosses his arms,
death is soft
and nourishing.
It’s better not to wake up,
the real world
invites to sleep
and peace vanishes
in its white hearse.


SEÑALES
El soñador cruza
los desiertos prometidos,
los bosques oscuros.
Las lluvias de fuego
golpean su féretro
alumbrando
el silencio,
endureciendo
el espíritu
como una señal.
El espacio
es la boca del lobo,
y los dioses del humano
callan sus lenguas.
Delante de las llanuras,
detrás de los bosques,
las ruinas exhuberantes,
el aire y los golpes
del lejano templo,
las escamas del pez,
la piedra apagada,
el altar del sacrificio
supremo.
El soñador ignora
a dónde va y por qué.
Ignora las formas
de los escondites
y el arte
de las travesías sin fin.
El pasado lo hunde.
El soñador va
envuelto en la luz.
Con el día
y su falta de fe
se alzan los astros
sobre él.


SIGNS
The dreamer crosses
the promised deserts,
the dark woods.
The rains of fire
strike his coffin
lighting up
the silence,
hardening
the spirit
like a sign.
Space
is the mouth of the wolf,
and the gods of the human
hold their tongues.
In front of the plains,
behind the woods,
the exuberant ruins,
the air and the blows
of the distant temple,
the scales of the fish,
the lifeless stone,
the altar of the supreme
sacrifice.
The dreamer does not know
where he is going or why.
He does not know the shapes
of the hiding places
or the art
of endless crossings.
The past sinks him.
The dreamer is
shrouded in light.
With the day
and his lack of faith
the stars rise
above him.


DESAPARICIONES
El soñador
penetra
en la velocidad
de la luz
y sus manos
se aferran otra vez
a los instrumentos
del viaje.
El planeta no prometido,
los negros espacios
del invierno sideral
lloran en pie de guerra,
la desconfianza
hace olvidar
el venidero fervor
de la batalla.
El soñador
ignora los bienes
de la tierra olvidada,
ahora estrecha,
los meridianos quebrados
y su mansa aridez,
desprovista
de lo conocido.
El día se aleja de él
con sus sucias sombras.
​No siente la apertura
en el centro espacial,
no pierde el aliento
ante la magnitud
del misterio.
El soñador ama la vida
entre graves jadeos
y dulces maldiciones
de lo por venir.


DISAPPEARANCES
The dreamer
penetrates
the speed
of light
and his hands
grasp once more
the instruments
of the voyage.
The planet not promised,
the black spaces
of sidereal winter
weep up in arms,
the distrust
makes them forget
the oncoming fervor
of the battle.
The dreamer
does not know the goods
of the forgotten earth,
now narrow,
the broken meridians
and the gentle aridity,
devoid
of the known.
The day moves away from him
with its dirty shadows.
He does not feel the opening
at the center of space,
he does not lose his breath
at the magnitude
of the mystery.
The dreamer loves life
in between severe panting
and the sweet curses
to come.

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.
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For the poets of Myanmar & all poets killed resisting tyranny

5/31/2021

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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.
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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
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​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/. 

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First translation into Spanish of Hyam Plutzik's 32 Poems/32 Poemas

5/5/2021

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Suburbano Ediciones publishes a bilingual collection of 32 poems by Hyam Plutzik (1911-1962) translated into Spanish by 14 translators, edited by George B. Henson, with a foreword by Richard Blanco.

Richard Blanco reads the foreword.
​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.)
About the poet / Sobre el 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.​
About the translators / Sobre los traductores:
​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 Franklin is the author of Traveling for No Good Reason (Sheila-Na-Gig Editions 2018); a bilingual collection, Among the Ruins / Entre las ruinas (Katakana Editores); and a broadside “Shreveport” (Broadsided Press). He is the winner of the 2020 Stephen A. DiBiase Poetry Prize. He practices law in Miami, teaches poetry workshops in Florida state prisons, and is the co-translator, along with the author, of Ximena Gómez’s Último día / Last Day.

George Franklin es el autor de Traveling for No Good Reason (Sheila-Na-Gig Editions 2018), del poemario bilingüe, Among the Ruins / Entre las ruinas (Katakana Editores), un volante “Shreveport” (Broadsided Press), y es el ganador del primer Premio de Poesía Stephen A. DiBiase 2020. Ejerce la abogacía en Miami, imparte talleres de poesía en las prisiones del estado de Florida, y es el co-traductor, junto con la autora, del poemario de Ximena Gómez Último día / Last Day
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.​
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Tonantzin… Derramando flores/Spilling flowers

12/11/2020

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Iconic image by Robert Lentz

​Rezo a Tonantzin

​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.

​Prayer to Tonantzin

​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.
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​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.

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"A mature, intelligent, fully formed 6 year old, and a playful, giddy, un-focused 60 year old."

2/25/2020

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https://circulowriters.com/

Círculo ​

A community of diverse poets and writers supporting literary arts in California.  Somos en escrito provides a venue for these aspiring  poets to feature their poetry, interviews, reviews and promote poetic happenings.

"Let your lips feel what I think/
​Deja que tus labios sientan lo que pienso"

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Paul Aponte's interview by Lucha Corpi
with accompanying poetry

​​THE POET

​Paul Aponte is a Chicano Poet from Sacramento. He is a member of the writers’ group Escritores del Nuevo Sol. The poet Francisco X. Alarcón was one of the original founders of the group.  Paul is also a member of Círculo, a group of poets from various cities in Northern California who come together to produce and promote poetry in workshops & public performances. The group is headed by poets Paul Aponte, Naomi Quiñonez.  Lucha Corpi, Adela Najarro, Javier Huerta and Odilia Galván Rodríguez.
 
Paul has been published in Poetry In Flight (the Tecolote Press Anthology), Un Canto De Amor A Gabriel Garcia Márquez (a publication from the country of Chile), in the Anthology Soñadores - We Came To Dream, in La Bloga (a southwestern U.S. online literary review), and in the Los Angeles Review Volume 20 - Fall 2016, and is now often called upon to be the featured reader around the greater Sacramento and San Francisco Bay areas.
 
The Beginning:
In the mid 90's Paul became a Web Jefe and published his poetry online.  He then was an original member of the performance poetry group, Poetas Of The Obsidian Tongue (modeled after the San Diego based group Taco Shop Poets),  performing throughout the South SF Bay area. Finally, in 1999 he published his 1st works in the book of poetry entitled Expression Obsession.
​IN CONVERSATION
Lucha Corpi (LC) and Paul Aponte (PA)


LC:  Paul, Tell me something about your earlier years:  Themes or subjects of interest, hobbies. Adventures. Misadventures. What path or paths brought you to writing poetry and reading or reciting your poems in public?

PA:  I think my real plunge into poetry began in the early 90’s, when I decided to act on my knowledge that life was deep, complex, and filled with nuances beyond most people’s comprehension.  Until then, I had felt stagnant and life deprived.  

You see, I was a father of two young children and husband to a hard working wife, and I loved them all very much.  I was also involved, more or less by default, in a religion that required a lot of my time.  I would lead Bible studies, give speeches in various congregations, go preaching door to door, attend meetings 4 times a week, and help the congregation with the financial monthly reports.  I did it very well because I was more capable than most.  However, father time began wearing through the light coating of satisfaction I would get from helping out, and was replaced by frustration at some of the things I was forced to teach by the religious organization.  I always knew the knowledge they shared was flawed, but the momentum of life kept me on this path that was not me.

So, I felt stagnant and life deprived.   That is when I began writing every chance I’d get – usually during breaks at work.  I kept a binder at work with many thoughts, rants, sketches, and some early (really bad) poetry.  Somehow, within all these thoughts, I scribbled the words Expression Obsession, which became the title of my first publication; some of those rantings and words became a part of this book.  Even though today some of those poems in my first publication make me cringe, I’m still proud of the fact that I went all out and did it at a time when it wasn’t an easy project to get done, and that I received positive comments from many poets I respected.  Among them, Alurista, who by chance came across my book at the MACLA arts center bookstore in San Jose.  He was performing later that evening with the group that I was a member of: Poetas Of The Obsidian Tongue.  He mentioned that he found a book of poetry that he considered deeply honest and liked the voice of the poet, and asked if we knew him.  I was floating on air for the rest of the day.

The religious organization excommunicated me for my “new” way of thinking, and I found myself free to be who I am.  A free-thinking writer, a loving father and husband, and a flawed but generally loving human being (god I hate Prius drivers).
​

LC: When I was six I was asked to memorize and recite poems at school and in public. I had no idea I would one day write poems of my own. But it took a series of painful events in my life as a young divorced woman and mother, and as a cultural transplant in the U.S., learning a second language to force open the gates of literary dams and let the streams flow and reveal what was in my heart, mind and soul.  This is my experience.  How about yours? When did you start writing

PA:  Hah-hah!  I can see you reciting poetry as a cute little girl in school!  It would be great to time travel and look back at those events.  I think I was about 7 or 8 when I was taught by my uncle to recite with my brother a poem for my Mother, who was visiting us from the states.   She was impressed and shed tears, but that was the first and only poem I remember being involved in as a child.  
My writing really began on its own.  It flowed from the aforementioned life stagnancy, but also from the losses of family members that I loved and respected.  I think mainly, though, from my openness to a great desire to write.   For me, somehow, out of nowhere, I get a thought or even a complete poem in my head, and I stop whatever I’m doing and write.   I feel lucky or tortured (still not sure) that I have to write.
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Poet Paul Aponte at 2 years old.
LC: Between ages 6 and 12, what kinds of subjects more than interested and impacted you?

PA:  There were two subjects that still interest me to this day.  Oddly on the surface they appear to have nothing to do with words or poetry.  They are arithmetic-mathematics-geometry, and ancient artifacts and ruins of the ancient peoples of southern Mexico. 

About math, I just love the honesty and truth in numbers.  There can be no lies, and no matter how complex the problem, there is always a solution, even if that is zero or null.  I like  the process of chipping away at a mountainous conglomeration of words and numbers, organizing it into several pieces, and then resolving those pieces to put together towards the final solution.  I’m not a genius at Math, and I don’t always get it, but do enjoy it.

About my love of ancient ruins:  You see, I lived in La Plaza De Las Tres Culturas, in 1960's Nonoalco, Tlatelolco, México D.F. "Las Tres Culturas" was the Aztec, Spanish, and the Mestizo, as seen thru their architecture. We always had one lookout for the "tecolotes" (brown-suited police) who would surely arrest all of us, if they could catch us. Actually, one or two were usually caught, but it was way too much fun. We'd play spider-man. Climbing and clinging to the lava rock walls of the Aztec ruins, jumping from one wall to another, and hoping our grip was as good as our courage.
 
We would often find obsidian knives and arrows, along with clay figurines, in the evenings at dig sites around this area where they were laying down plumbing or repairing something down below level ground.  It amazed me that so much life and history was here so long ago, and that then conquerors changed the area to what we knew today.
 
This same area was the site of many a conflict between the "estudiantes" and "granaderos". I was living there, in the middle of the conflict. Molotov Cocktails going off, bullets flying, students running, granaderos giving chase. We would sleep in the hallway, to ensure stray bullets had a chance to be stopped by a 2nd wall, but no bullets ever came near our 2nd floor apartment at San Juan de Letrán 402, Edificio C-11, Entrada 5, Departamento 201. At a time when every corner, every building entrance, every building top, had a fully armed soldier my uncles opted to put my brother and I on a bus to Ciudad Juárez, Chihuahua, to live with my maternal grandparents - Jesús and Casimira Canchola.
 
I was deeply impressed by my having lived there during my formative years.


LC: Have any of those subjects, hobbies, themes still resonate in you at present?

P.A.  It is what I know about myself.  I feel I am a child and a grown-up.  A mature, intelligent, fully formed 6 year old, and a playful, giddy, un-focused 60 year old. I am all times in my life, I was now – then, and am then - now.  I don’t want to forget or erase any pains, but forgive all and live to the fullest today, and I keep coming across the same path in different forms.  My life is on a Mobius strip.

Yes.  Those themes resonate with me to this day.

LC: When did you start playing music and what role has it played in your poetic production?  

PA:  As a child, I saw my father and my brother Louie sing and play guitar.  My mother sang beautifully as she worked around the house.  When I moved to Mexico City with my uncles, I was 5, and my Tío Ángel, played guitar and sang corridos. I naturally progressed to wanting to learn to play. Later, when my voice changed in my early teens, I began to explore singing and took guitar lessons in high school.  To this day, I enjoy playing and singing.  This is its own creative outlet, and my experiences and creativity come from different sources for music vs. writing.  However, there may be a fine thread between poetry and some of the very few songs I’ve composed, but that is pretty much it.  I’ve often been at poetry events where music is available to be played with my words, and I usually opt out.

LC:  Have you set any of your poems to music? Written songs?

PA:  No.  I’ve only written songs for music, and separately written poetry.   It would be a dream come true if a professional musician would use my poetic words for a recording, but I don’t have that capability, that skill.
  
LC:   As far back as you can remember, when was the first time the “muse” spoke to you or the “duende” (a spirit) tricked you into writing a poem, although you might not have called it a poem?

PA :  Well, el “duende” was me because I wanted to impress a girl (who later became my wife) and so I wrote my first poem  when I was 16 years old.  I’m pretty sure I still have that poster with a poem.  I also water-colored a rose on it, and called it “La Rosa Inmarchitable” and later wrote a song by the same name (but completely different words).

LC: How/when/where did you come to realize you were a poet? Was there an instant of revelation, or a déjà vu moment--something you had felt all along but hadn’t yet named? Something that was as common as nourishment/a meal?

PA:  I knew that I was not only a poet, but a Chicano Poet, after I went to the Chicano Poetry workshop led by Marc David Pinate in San Jose, California.  I think it was 1996.

LC: How many of those earlier feelings, predilections, revelations, negative or positive experiences still move you to write?

PA:  My connection to the Aztec culture can still be an influence, because the boundary of a forward moving time capsule disappeared for me with my experiences around their ancient ruins, and I feel very connected to it.  I like to point to the mural depicting the market of Tlatelolco and the ancient Aztec city by Diego Rivera as the place where I lived about 500 years later.

LC: You must also feel very connected and perhaps you identify more closely with Odysseus as I noticed that you have titled one of your poems, a great poem, as “Ithaca.” If I remember correctly, it is the kingdom and home of one of the heroes in The Illiad. He is the main character-hero Odysseus in the classic epic poem The Odyssey by Homer.  Odysseus has been considered by many critics and writers as the prototypical, common man, an existential man, a modern man: inquisitive, willing to take calculated risks, adventurous and smart. In the end, he is also a man bound by duty to family and country.  How is all this significant for you if so, since your life, as you have related here, has also been a kind of “odyssey?”
 
PA:  Interesting that you caught this to ask a question.  It’s about all the things you mention in your question about Odysseus.  However, I was deeply impressed by Odysseus’ adventures, which were really an exploration of the unconscious, and his subsequent “awakening” to the realization of who he was and where he belonged.  That “awakening” was my experience.  I came to know that I would never find home if I didn’t live life with truth and honesty to my knowledge and acquired wisdom.  Now that I do, now that I am in the realm of the conscious, I have found my home in a truly amazing love, my life partner and wife, Anita.
          
LC: Any future plans, publications, readings or other programs worth mentioning here? Please do tell us.

PA.  Maybe this year or next year I plan to put together much of my poetry in one final book.  I’ve also been considering writing an adventure novel that would require more time than I have available right now, but I am excited about it.  That may have to wait until I retire, and as things are, it will not be anytime soon.

​LC. Gracias, Paul. It has been a most enjoyable and rewarding conversation with you. I look forward to reading more of your poetry, and of course listening to you reading it for a total enjoyment.  

THE POETRY

​PASSION THAT FOLDS
​

Kiss me with your eyes
Touch me with your mind
Vibrate like a silenced alarm
 
Let your lips
feel what I think
Let your torso note
the caresses of my perceptions
Your buttocks  
my strong hands
that lift you
on to my thighs of passion
That scream for your sliding heat
and moans
and sighs with low tones
 that call the flames
and the tireless rhythm
 
Until the physical rejections
due to the unrestricted
and growing explosive pleasure 
 
Until then when you close your doors
and bend your beautiful body
in pleasure that pleads for the end
Only then
Do I love you again.


​PASIÓN QUE DOBLA
​

Bésame con tus ojos
Tócame con tu mente
Vibra como alarma en silencio
 
Deja que tus labios
 sientan lo que pienso
Que tu torso note
las acaricias de mis percepciones
Tus glúteos
mis manos fuertes
que te levantan
sobre mis muslos de pasión
Que gritan por tu calor deslizante
Y gemidos
Y suspiros con tonos bajos
que llaman las llamas
y el incansable ritmo
 
Hasta los rechazos físicos
por el irrestricto
y creciente placer explosivo
 
Hasta entonces
que cierras tus puertas
y doblas tu hermoso cuerpo
en placer que ruega fin
 
Sólo entonces
te vuelvo a amar. 
​MY ITHACA, MY HOME
​

The gentle, cool breeze. 
The shade under this lush tree. 
Laying
upon bay leaves. 
Your beautiful feet on my thighs. 
Your smile. 
All. 
Pillow of my being,
my Ithaca. 
​​MI ÍTACA, MI HOGAR
​

El viento lento y fresco. 
La sombra bajo este frondoso árbol. 
Reposando 
sobre hojas de laurel. 
Tus pies bellos
sobre mis muslos. 
Tu sonrisa. 
Todo. 
Almohada de mi ser, 
mi Ítaca. 
​FRANCISCO X. ALARCON WORKSHOP
​

Flower and song blooms
birthing spirit teachers
 learning
 flourishing
 
Poetic mint plant
love's gift to relax and cure
spreading and growing
 
A magical feast
motivating soul and mind
Expansion of love
creating spirit teachers
an Earth cleansed with In lak'ech 
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​EAST SIDE
​

Checkalo:
Super Taqueria,
Century 21 turned into a Mercado,
Mervyn's Home Depot.
Story Rd with no more stories.
 
The home of memories standing,
The orchards & morning fog gone.
Old pachanga and gathering places replaced.
 
Chicanos y hueros
ahora más revueltos
con Tortas y Pho y Tikka Masala.
 
The low riders resting in garages,
The cars of the streets angry,
claustrophobic, and green light deprived.
The old panaderias y mercados
paved over with unoriginal shopping centers
with expensive coffee
and bumptious pastries.
 
But we're still there.
On clear blue skies
Alum Rock Park beckons
or el Happy Hollow.
The car covers come off.
The dark glasses
and slicked back hair come on.
The moves are on,
and we join nuestros carnales
en el parque
porque ya aprendimos a hacer arrachera,
and to eat frijoles y salsa with nan,
and start with a rice noodle vegetable soup,
y nos encanta. 

​LENTO

Las noches pasan. 
Los árboles se marchitan. 
La vida se estremece. 
La Madre Tierra rompe en llantos. 
La industria se cuelga. 
Lento, lento. 
Apretando el nudo. 
Asfixiando su vida,
y toda vida,
y los déspotas sonríen.  
​SLOW

The nights go by.
The trees wilt.
Life shudders.
Mother Earth breaks into tears.
Industry hangs itself.
Slow, slow.
Tightening the noose.
Asphyxiating its life,
and all life,
and the despots smile. 
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​​CASCABELES
(AYOYOTL)


Feathers,
sonidos de cascabeles
& voices of protest. 
Words for a better tomorrow,
and chatting about Pepe
y la Goya, and tonight’s pachanga. 
 
Mistress of my soul,
cultura Chicana,
Mestiza,
Mexicana,
Abuelo y Abuela,
Nana y la Nena. 
 
Vertical, sobre pies,
marchando,
ergidos. 
Marcha de acuerdo,
unidad,
en manifestación
y lucha. 
 
“What do we want
JUSTICE!!!
When do we want it
NOW!!!”
 
Drumming & danza
and calls to action. 
Pre Columbian art & musings
at Southside Park, 
in Cesar Chavez’ energy,
in RCAF’s spirit, 
in the shade of past battles fought. 
 
“Los pueblos, unidos, ¡jamás serán vencidos!”,
y los cascabeles suenan 
como lluvia fuerte
que no para. 
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Lucha Corpi, born in México, came to Berkeley as a student wife in 1964. She is the author of two collections of poetry, two bilingual children’s books, six novels, four of which feature Chicana detective Gloria Damasco, and her latest, Confessions of a Book Burner: Personal Essays and Stories issued in 2014. She has been the recipient of numerous awards, including a National Endowment for the Arts, an Oakland Cultural Arts fellowship, and the PEN-Oakland Josephine Miles and Multicultural Publishers Exchange Literary Award. A retired teacher, she resides in Oakland, California.

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Paul Aponte is a Chicano Poet from Sacramento. He is a member of the writers groups Círculo and Escritores Del Nuevo Sol (Writers Of The New Sun). He has been published in the El Tecolote Press Anthology Poetry in flight, Un Canto De Amor A Gabriel Garcia Márquez, a publication from the country of Chile, in the anthology Soñadores - We Came To Dream; La Bloga, "Los Angeles Review Volume 20 - Fall 2016," and in Escritores del Nuevo Sol / Writers of the New Sun: Anthology. Much of his poetry can also be found in Facebook. ​

While you're here, check out a review of our first publication, Insurgent Aztlán

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Preserving the Memory of a Dead Chicana Poet

7/6/2019

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Sketch of Cecilia Vindiola's abuelita, 1967

​Linda Coronado: 
Una mujer verdadera 
del renacimiento

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. 
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​“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

SEVEN POEMS OF LINDA CORONADO PUBLISHED POSTHUMOUSLY (1947-1993)
​

The quotes after each poem title are taken from Coronado’s recorded words as she introduced each writing.

Brindis

is about “having the opportunity to participate in an artist’s life.”
​

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.
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Cultivar nuestras propias flores -- grow our own flowers

6/2/2019

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​Dentro llevamos voces mixtas -- nuestro legado

​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.

​Within we carry mixed voices 
— our legacy

​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.
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​Rafael Jesús González es Poeta Laureado de la Ciudad de Berkeley, California/is Poet Laureate of Berkeley, California. Por décadas, ha sido un activista pro la paz y justicia usando la palabra como una espada de la verdad. For decades, he has been an activist for peace and justice, wielding the word like a sword of truth. 
© Rafael Jesús González 2019.
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“…when our troops were separated by color, like when you do the laundry”

5/27/2019

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César Chavez, age 16 in U.S. Navy ca 1946

Believing in equality for all

A tribute on Memorial Day 2019

​Patriotismo – Que Es?
By San Juana Guillermo

​Do we have to go to war in an unknown land
            and fight for our country in order to prove our patriotismo?
Do we have to risk our lives against soldados we know nothing about,
            except that they, too, are fighting to defend their country?
Will this war change the world? We ask of all the wars.
Nuestros padres, nuestras parejas, los hijos, los hermanos. Tienen que
            sufrir our absence while we prove our patriotismo?
El patriotismo no nomas se demuestra en la Guerra, en una tierra extraña,
            contra soldados que no conocemos, or that we personally have
            nothing against.
Patriotismo se demuestra when we served in the military
            even in the face of discrimination.
When we are only allowed to scrub the deck or paint the ship.
O, trabajar en la cocina peeling the potatoes y lavando los trastes.
We went and defended our country, in spite of this.
            when our troops were separated by color, like when you do the laundry.

One war receiving 45 sons from Hero Street, Illinois,
            sending them to the Philippines because of their Spanish tongues
            only to be silenced when they returned to their homes.
Patriotismo is watching your child going off to war
            and your heart is heavy and your spirit cries because
            it does not know if there will be a reunion embrace.
The neighborhood of Edgewood in San Antonio losing 54 to another war,
            with 2 of them still M.I.A., 10 of them graduating in the same year from
            the same high school.
Yet, “We’re a very patriotic family,” said Gloria Carson, sister to one of the 54.
Many of our returning soldados never honored until after death
Or, the families of those we lost in the battles, esperando años para recibir
            el Honor to be bestowed on their loved ones.

Patriotismo is knowing you have to drink from a different water fountain
            and enter through the back door.
Yet, we do not hesitate to take up arms to defend la poquita libertad
            que los permiten.
“Foreigners in our land” quizas, but it is our land.
Y a pesar de todo, we are orgullosos of our Patriotismo.
Patriotismo is not just defending and sacrificing in times of war.
Patriotismo is forming The American GI Forum, to serve and assist
            the needs of our veterans and their families.
And fighting for our veterans’ rights, who are American after all.

Patriotismo is leaders like Cesar Chavez,
            who fought at home and sacrificed for the dignity deserved to all.
Patriotismo is fighting in our own land upon returning home,
            not with weapons of mass destruction
            but with weapons of words and fearless leadership.
Patriotismo is encouraging people to vote,
            organizing them as a community, empowered with the knowledge
            that they are all capable of accomplishing the impossible
            regardless of circumstances.

Patriotismo is Believing in equality for all and achieving
            civil and labor rights with nonviolence.
Marching so that men, women and children have access to decent wages,
            education, decent housing and food to eat.
Patriotism is holding the country you sacrificed for, accountable to fulfill
            its promise of equality and freedom for all people.

Patriotism is collectively believing what Cesar Chavez once said:
            Once social change begins, it cannot be reversed.
            You cannot uneducate the person who has learned to read.
            You cannot humiliate the person who feels pride.
            You cannot oppress the people who are not afraid anymore.”

Patriotism cannot be taken away because we ARE this Tierra and Patriotismo is US.
​San Juana Guillermo, Texas-born, but raised in Chicago Heights, Illinois, where her migrant family had settled out to raise a family, arrived in San Antonio in 2015 from Grand Rapids, Michigan, where she had moved and raised her own family. Grandmother to 14 grandchildren and 3 great-grandchildren, she wrote her first poem at age 60 and has been published in several San Antonio-based zines and chapbooks by Jazz Poets of San Antonio and Voces Cósmicas. San Juana is active with local writers’ groups and at public readings. She may be contacted at sanjuanaguillermo1005@gmail.com.
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Rinconcito: ...our word goes out of date

4/30/2019

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R  i  n  c  o  n  c  i  t  o    es un
​i “rincón pequeño” especial  para escritos cortos: 
    

n   un poema, un cuento, una memoria, ficción de repente, y otros.
c
o    Un par de poemas / A pair of poems
n
c    By José Clemente Carreño Medina
i    ​English translations by Toshiya Kamei
t
o

​Delirio

​Un placer que se saborea solo no es placer.
–Erasmo de Rotterdan, Elogio de la locura
​aquí está nuestro pan y vino
tinto
nuestra palabra caduca de
tiempo
nuestro presente
conjugado
nuestro trozo de
eternidad…

Delirium

​A pleasure savored alone is not a pleasure.
–Erasmus of Rotterdam, The Praise of Folly
​here are our bread and red
wine
our word goes out of
date
our conjugated
present
our piece of
eternity...

​Muerte nocturna

​Camino caminando los
pasos de tus huellas
Toco el viento con el
tacto de tu boca
Respiro a muerte en
cada palabra escrita
Bebo el vaso pleno
de tu ausencia
Vivo día a día una
muerte nueva
Muero noche a noche en
cada verso recién nacido...

​Nocturnal Death

​I walk keeping
track of your footsteps
I feel the wind with the
touch of your lips
I breathe death in
every written word
I drink a glass full
of your absence
Every day I live a
new death
every day
Every night I die in
every newborn verse...
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​José Clemente Carreño Medina, of Matías Romero, Oaxaca, México, grew up in Cuernavaca, Morelos, and now lives in Kirksville, Missouri, where he is an Assistant Professor of Spanish at Truman State University. He has authored four collections of poems,Vigilias (2014), Serpientes y escaleras (2015), Guerra de palabras (2016), and Como si fuese a dejar la tierra (2017).

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