Monday, April 07, 2014

Lucrecia Guerrero and The Tree of Sighs, y más eventos en Kansas City, MO

Xánath Caraza

Greenlease Gallery, Rockhurst University

Lucrecia Guerrero visited Rockhurst University in Kansas City, MO on Monday, March 24 and Tuesday, March 25.  Students and professors were looking forward to hearing the author of the Tree of Sighs speak and meet her in person.  Lucrecia graciously visited three different classes including my own, U.S. Latino Literature, in addition to the classes of Rocío Duncan, Ph. D. and Leslie Mercedes, Ph. D.  My students were particularly excited to meet Lucrecia since they were involved in bringing her to Kansas City.  Other organizations participating were Sigma Delta Pi, the Spanish Honor Society, the Global and International Perspectives Committee, and the Department of Classical and Modern Languages.  Special thanks to Rocío and Leslie. 

Next is a series of photos of a variety of Lucrecia’s activities in Kansas City, and, yes, Lucrecia and I had a magnificent time together.   We laughed, laughed and laughed again.  What a pleasure it was to have you in Kansas City, Lucrecia. 

La clase de U. S. Latino Literature

Firmando libros

At the American Jazz Museum with Glenn North, Poet Laureate

At The American Jazz Museum

Greenlease Gallery, Rockhurst University

Los Libros

Coffee Break

En La Plaza, Kansas City, MO

La clase de la Dra. Duncan

Lucrecia y la Dra. Duncan

Más Eventos:

Rigoberto Gonzalez

Rigoberto González in Kansas City, MO at UMKC on Tuesday, April 8 from 5-8 p.m.
As part of Literature for Life Week, American Book Award recipient, Rigoberto Gonzalez will be speaking and reading from his work.

Please make plans to attend his reading on Tuesday, April 8 from 5-8pm in the Student Union Room 401BC.

The reading will be followed by a Q&A and a book signing with refreshments provided.

Cesar Chavez Lecture by James Edward Olmos in Kansas City at UMKC on Tuesday, April 15 at 6 p.m. in Pierson Auditorium

In Brazil

LO QUE TRAE LA MAREA/WHAT THE TIDE BRINGS book presentation today Monday, April 7th, in Apucara, Paraná, Brazil.  

Lo que trae la marea/What the Tide Brings


CON TINTA NaPoMo 2014 is here, send your poem to and/or (Mouthfeel Press) y celebra la poesía. This is Con Tinta's third year celebrating NaPoMo, more to come. Viva la poesía!

Algunos poemas

Beauty Sleeping

By Barbara Curiel
Beauty is 14
so sleep eludes her
like a lost housecat.

Her dreams are haunted
by Beasts who in a blink
would snatch a girl
on the way home from school.

So Beauty casts spells
with baggy pants, black lipstick, running shoes,
but all the girls know these tricks
and still the front pages scream
the bones of factory girls in the desert.
Girls still disappear into clouds
of dust and the screech of tires
and some Beasts even appear
at a girl’s bedside in the night
pretending to be princes.

True, there are those who escape:
girls whose hairclips enchant
car trunk locks,
insomniac girls who hold vigil
until the Beast sleeps
then grab for keys,
girls who kick,
who take the knife
into their own strong hands.

At night Beauty resolves
to be one of these girls,
then checks every lock in the house,
counts the sleeping heads of her parents
and of her seven useless brothers.
At 2 a.m. Beauty turns
over in bed, wishes
she could sleep
for a hundred years.

Barbara Brinson Curiel, from Mexican Jenny and Other Poems, 2014, Anhinga Press, book chosen by Cornelius Eady as winner of the 2012 Philip Levine Prize.

África de mi sangre
Por Rossy Evelyn Lima

África de mi sangre
mi abuelo mulato me heredó algo tuyo
¿te acuerdas de Cuba?
Traigo tus tambores en mi pecho.
Aunque de ti nadie haya hablado
te encontré en el trapiche, en el viaje, en el repudio.
África de mi sangre
mi abuelo español te trajo
a parir dolores en una isla bendita,
y a mí entre los dos me pintaron la cruz y el canto.
Emancipada tu lengua que repica en la mía,
te mezclaste con el impacto y floreciste,
vas arando en mi fisionomía,
con tu tierra y con tu voz negra.
África de mi sangre, te entiendo en mis caderas,
en los músculos que se tensan
al apretar con fuerza el tambor con el que te llamo,
mis palmas elevadas hacia el cielo,
mis hombros herederos de tu clamor.
África de mi sangre, ¿te acuerdas de Cuba?
desde allá se empieza a enredar
este hilo que me remienda por dentro.

From Ecos de Barro (Otras Voces Publishing, 2013)


By Yolanda Nieves

 Your memories are lies you’ve convinced yourself are true.

-Reza Aslan

My earliest memory is orange;

round with two people in it
in a blue room
with a smell of onions
in the air

neither sweet nor bitter
I am out of place-

no word rhymes with orange.  


          Staying in the flood 
          By Emmy Perez

            Why the tom
            Spraying the screen
            Window, why
Leftover from
Hurricane Alex
A spring after last summer
Weed seeds sprouting

Why the woodpecker's
Off and on wing
Pause causing
Vertigo, why
Confuse herons with
Egrets.  Aztlán:
Land of white herons.

Why the sap stains
Like accidents
Why the borderpatrol
Woman in a blue truck
With camper big
Enough to haul
Livestock. Why
The anacahuita
Flowers, why one
Giant swallowtail butterfly

Why the debris
Of paloverde flowers
Gathering on asphalt
Edges like
The path of hair
Under your belly button
Or a path of marigold
Petals welcoming
The dead home

And why the busted-
Up nopal like a bullet
Target or a Just-
Married sign
In April
Strung with
Tecate cans
Hitched to an
El Camino
Why is it still
Yellow roses?

~Emmy Pérez
published in Cuadernos de ALDEEU
Vol. 26, numero especial, Otoño 2013



Por Javier Bozalongo

El agua evaporada del océano
no tardará en volver
como siempre regresan las olas a la orilla;
tal vez no sea hoy ni sea aquí:
las nubes viajan a merced del viento
igual que los recuerdos caprichosos
que aparecen en distinto lugar
a aquel que dabas siempre por seguro.

Es conveniente que al mirar al cielo
sepamos distinguir lo que nos muestra:
cirros a escasa altura
-de memoria cercana, sin interés alguno-
matizando la luz que el sol ofrece;
estratos de tamaño preocupante
que traen lluvia continua
oscureciendo el día como malos augurios,
como amores lejanos;
y cúmulos hinchados de veraniega luz,
con formas vanidosas
que nos hacen creer que no son nubes,
adoptando un estado más allá de lo líquido
para no convertirse, cuando llega el otoño,
en recuerdos que caen como hojas muertas.

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