New Poems by Ivan ArgüellesTAMAZUNCHALE antes de abrir la demencia para descubrir palabra tras palabra que no tiene sentido diccionario de pulmones ! pulgas y rascacielos ! para mejor comprender lo que pasa dentro del ladrillo rojo al margen de la calle que nos lleva al sur donde los muertos tratan de olvidar lo que pasó ayer cuando la gran máquina de nubes y sonidos se acostó al lado del mar que sufre tantas camas inexplicables y sin eco y ahora dime que quieres con tus ojos apagados y tu mente como sirena de ulises llamando a todos los náufragos que la ambulancia está lista a partir ! ya me voy hacia la mejor tortillera que hay para besarla en su coma de vidas paralelas y entonces con una tristeza mundial seguiré caminando un brazo mas famoso que el otro una oreja de piedra y otra en ninguna parte para qué poner en dos el uno ? multiplicar significa morir ! 07-21-20 TEOCALLI for Joe who appeared yesterday morning for a fraction of an instant in the doorway standing in the light of the morning sun confused with radiance and dazzling the stanzas of an unwritten poem shift in the monumental distances of air crane-feathered shafts rotate like minds ablaze in the pyramidal distances of sky stone built on stone stepping to heaven solar flares like tongues speaking loud the destructions of cloud and thunder and ever deeper the effects of amnesia rain drowning cities of fine dust citadels of bone and tumult havoc of wheels spun out of control bringing down all ten directions and mountains reared overnight to mark off the western margin where the archaic sea darkens rushing to mirror itself in a dream of feathers and the twins up and down they go tracing each periphery of rock and grass measuring how far it is to the lunar aleph fading like dissolved aspirin at dawn what fills the ear at such an early hour if not the Sanskrit parrot reciting chronologies and adamantine dynasties names none can rightly recall inscribed on the reverse of coins or obliterated by a mere thumb on porous sandstone libraries ! the tomb of words and to speak the labyrinthine dialects communing with deities of the Unseen and Unheard pages torn at random from the codex depicting the origins of divine Chaos night ! splendors of ink in canyons where the dead revive use of their hands such a morning atop the great Teocalli converting sums of air into breathless voice hail all the heights and renown of fire ! we have come down the Panamerican visiting each of the summers of 1953 and talking backwards to mummified relatives wrapped in serapes of liquid gold we will never reach tomorrow for sure the Nymph death will take one of us before the prophesy can be fulfilled every day is this single bright moment standing like phantom pharaohs immobile in the pellucid movie film of memory you are me and I am you ! there is grass and maps strewn all over the lawn and avenues that stretch as far back as the first city carved out of the womb ten minutes apart the matching Teocallis that cast no shadow only black light ! 06-11-20 canción del parque chapultepec cronología del aire ! arquitectura de las nubes ! soy de poco valor que lástima ! las abejas en sus columnas verticales de azul incendiado chupando chupando los huesos de la hierba dormida soy azteca soy caldeo soy de mucho valor sierras de sueño blanco que veo nomás cuando estoy nadando en mi césped de memorias todo verde desde el hombro izquierdo de césar vallejo hasta la rodilla derecha de garcía lorca acumulando los dos las muchas muertes de la luz aunque vivimos como momias en Tenochtitlan apenas sufriendo el tránsito de los motores de las plumas yo lo único que soy es la luna chafada y transparente como aspirina a mediodía y hay mares invisibles que suben los pirámides de la frontera pistolas con ojos ! ahi viene la bala ! dame mi caballo corrompido yo soy peruano el último dios soy el mero dios de la basura hieroglífica de chapultepec fumando como nunca las chispas baratas de las olas que han venido a ahogar el estado de california poco a poco y a menudo con sus pronombres y hierro de lenguas mas muertas que el sol negro tapadera y tumba del fuego silencioso de mis pasos en el jardín unitario de la duda y por eso digo yo soy 06-17-20 Ivan Argüelles is an American innovative poet whose work moves from early Beat and surrealist-influenced forms to later epic-length poems. He received the Poetry Society of America’s William Carlos Williams Award in 1989 as well as the Before Columbus Foundation’s American Book Award in 2010. In 2013, Argüelles received the Before Columbus Foundation’s Lifetime Achievement Award. For Argüelles the turning point came with his discovery of the poetry of Philip Lamantia. Argüelles writes, “Lamantia’s mad, Beat-tinged American idiom surrealism had a very strong impact on me. Both intellectual and uninhibited, this was the dose for me.” While Argüelles’s early writings were rooted in neo-Beat bohemianism, surrealism, and Chicano culture, in the nineties he developed longer, epic-length forms rooted in Pound’s Cantos and Joyce’s Finnegans Wake. He eventually returned, after the first decade of the new millennium, to shorter, often elegiac works exemplary of Romantic Modernism. Ars Poetica is a sequence of exquisitely-honed short poems that range widely, though many mourn the death of the poet’s celebrated brother, José.
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Rinconcito is a special little corner in Somos en escrito for short writings: a single poem, a short story, a memoir, flash fiction, and the like. Two poems by Vincent CooperVeterano Before the election I saw Chicano veterans holding up Vote for Trump Signs outside of schools And libraries. Some Veteranos Don’t know they’re Chicano, They want that towering wall Dividing America and Mexico To smite gay pride and the rainbow flag. Trump-sates the blood-thirsty hate from within The void of my father Was filled by a Veterano, Who in 1967 (Dropping out of Brackenridge High School) Heard the war song of A westside Marine Corps Recruiter. “Go defend our country son make Uncle Sam proud. Don’t worry about a High School Diploma, You’ve got the Viet Cong to think about. You’ll be physically fit, cock strong, in your dress blues All these westside chicks are gonna want to fuck you You’ll have medals pinned on your chest, a career as a cook or custodian Benefits with a steady paycheck, a cheap little house with an iron fence C’mon be a real man with a rifle in your hands And tell them all, later on, about the young heroes of war Jungle sounds, Khe San and how things were in’ Nam. Vietnamese rats Chasing like rabid dogs So large you couldn’t swallow Shooting women And children Coming back To be a Little League coach For your kids- A hero? A patriot? Wearing a red and gold cover That reads: 1967-1969 Reconnaissance USMC Raising a Devil Dog flag in the front yard Next to an American flag. Everyone driving by knows where you stand. Who you are A Veterano What you did For this country That is not yours A dream you’re not in. A Real Marine You’re a marine? Thank you for your service is physically fit, says OORAH when they see another marine, has American pride, honors the eagle, globe and anchor, has a bulldog named Chesty, tells war stories, while polishing his medals, banks with USAA, psycho tough, ready to kill, never hesitates, knows martial arts like Chuck Norris, is an alcoholic with a side chick, has PTSD, a racist in denial, attends air shows with the silent drill platoon. A real marine says this country has gone to shit, doesn’t want to die, because their grandson is gay, on the flip, he wants gays in the military to serve as bullet-catchers. A real marine gets shafted by the corps, years later, thankless service, wearing a red cover, USMC t-shirt, won’t stop until the job is done, flashbacks, hates Asians, haircut high n’ tight, originally from Parris Island, is sometimes a tio taco, not that amphibious, a cock boy in dress uniform, marching at grocery stores. A real marine trains people of color to kill people of color. A United States fucking Marine, trained to kill anyone, anything, even himself. I didn’t go to war. Vincent Cooper is the author of Zarzamora – Poetry of Survival and Where the Reckless Ones Come to Die. His poems can be found in Huizache 6 and Huizache 8, Riversedge Journal, and Latino Literatures. Cooper was selected to the Macondo Writer’s Workshop in 2015. He currently resides in the southside of San Antonio, Texas. In search of parchment, indelibilityExcerpt from Meteors, a collection of poetryby Robert René GalvánGRAFFITI Take this glowing script As a burnt offering Of chrism from my brow. Midnight oil consumed By the greedy darkness, When my wick grows dim And words become a relief Of amoebic spectres On the wall. We are the same, A whimsy of dancing hands, Indigo faces in search Of parchment, Indelibility: The stealth of youths And the stench of sprayed Rebellion in the trainyard, A lover's vow scratched in oak, Or in wet cement, The bathroom bard, Granite elegies, Scars of melody on vinyl, Frozen images on celluloid, And shadows made fast on wafers Of dead tree. My own strokes are engulfed By solitude, Like footprints on the moon. They are faint adumbrations, A sack of spores Waiting to be strewn From the folds Of paper birds. An earlier version of "GRAFFITI" appeared in Sands. LA PARTERA My grandmother's raisined hands Guide a new life through the meniscus of sleep and into the blinding day. This has been her ritual for fifty years: The phone rings -- The metallic music of her black bag Answers back as she flies to a neighbor's house. She prepares her fingers in boiled water As if to coax sweetness out of those dried figs And waits for the mother to blossom. But this one's a breach, Poised as if trying to break his fall, feet first. Calmly, she finds the baby's mouth With her finger; He bares down to suckle And she turns him toward the light. Age and aches have not dissuaded her For her room is filled With reminders of her faith: A statue of La Virgen, Bottles of holy water Among brittle blades of palm, And countless gift rosaries That grace the bedposts; She caresses each pearl And prays for stronger hands. MEMORIAL for Woody McGriff, dancer 1957-94 The blood-dimmed tide is loosed.... -- W.B. Yeats An obsidian wing glanced my shoulder Amid the languid trance of cicadas Seething in the midday heat. It fluttered like an errant leaf And summoned the splendor of your dance, Flight frozen like a Rodin bronze, Fixed by a flash of incorruptible light. But the heavy tide drew you under, The once supple leaps reduced To a lumber toward a distant sea. Robert René Galván, born in San Antonio, resides in New York City where he works as a professional musician and poet. His last collection of poems is entitled, Meteors, published by Lux Nova Press. His poetry was recently featured in Adelaide Literary Magazine, Azahares Literary Magazine, Gyroscope, Hawaii Review, Newtown Review, Panoply, Stillwater Review, West Texas Literary Review, and the Winter 2018 issue of UU World. He is a Shortlist Winner Nominee in the 2018 Adelaide Literary Award for Best Poem. Recently, his poems are featured in Puro ChicanX Writers of the 21st Century. He was educated at Texas State University, SUNY Stony Brook and the University of Texas. An excerpt from Phantom Tongue |
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