Amelia M.L. Montes (ameliamontes.com)
Even though the
month of April (designated “Poetry Month”) is soon to give way to the month of
May, my poetry books are not going to disappear. I will continue to whisper lines of poetry to amuse myself
when walking, driving, or riding my bike, or when sitting in an office, waiting
to be called. Poetry is a moment
of beauty I can enter anytime, anywhere. It’s a space of meditation.
Permit me, then,
to share with you some of my favorites. I really could fill many books with so
many lovely poems. It was
difficult to choose which ones to share with you. I’m noticing a theme in my choices, however. A theme regarding immigration, familia,
crossings. Some of these are older
and some newer. Here is one that I
use in class when I begin to teach Gloria Anzaldúa. It’s a good poem to introduce Anzaldúa’s theory of Nepantla to the students.
To Live in the Borderlands means you
are neither hispana india negra española
ni gabacha, eres mestiza, mulata, half-breed
caught in the
crossfire between camps
while carrying
all five races on your back
not knowing
which side to turn to, run from;
To live in the
Borderlands means knowing
that the india in you, betrayed for 500 years,
is no longer
speaking to you,
the mexicanas call you rajetas,
that denying the
Anglo inside you
is as bad as
having denied the Indian or Black;
Cuando vives en la frontera
people walk
through you, the wind steals your voce,
you’re a burra, buey, scapegoat,
forerunner of a
new race,
half and half –
both woman and man, neither—
a new gender;
To live in the
Borderlands means to
put chile in the borscht,
eat whole wheat tortillas,
speak Tex-Mex
with a Brooklyn accent;
be stopped by la migra at the border checkpoints;
Living in the
Borderlands means you fight hard to
resist the gold
elixir beckoning from the bottle,
the pull of the
gun barrel,
the rope
crushing the hollow of your throat;
In the
Borderlands
you are the
battleground
where enemies
are kin to each other;
you are at home,
a stranger,
the border
disputes have been settled
the volley of
shots have shattered the truce
you are wounded,
lost in action
dead, fighting
back;
To live in the
Borderlands means
the mill with
the razor white teeth wants to shred off
your olive-red
skin, crush out the kernel, your heart
pound you pinch
you roll you out
smelling like
white bread but dead;
To survive the
Borderlands
you must live sin fronteras
be a
crossroads.
--Gloria
Anzaldúa
(from Borderlands/La Frontera: The New Mestiza)
Here’s
celebrating Eduardo C. Corral’s work.
This poem comes from his collection, Slow Lightning which won the
2012 Yale Series of Younger Poets Award.
Immigration and Naturalization
Service Report #46
After the body
was bagged and whisked away, we noticed a scarlet
pelt on the
sand. “This guy had it nice,
sleeping on a pelt for days,”
Ignacio
joked. He paused mid-laugh, bent
down, ran his hand
through the
fur. One of his fingers
snagged. “This isn’t a pelt, it’s
a
patch of wolf
ears,” he said. “No, they’re too
large,” I replied.
“Then they must
be coyote ears,” he murmured.
Sweat gathered in
the small of my
back. “Ignacio, should we radio
headquarters?” I
asked. Two ears rose slowly from the
patch. I said a few more
words. Nothing. I uttered my own name.
Two more ears unfurled.
We stepped back
from the patch, called out the names of our
fathers and
mothers. Ramón. Juana. Octavio.
More and more ears
rose. Rodolfo. Gloria . . .
for Javier O. Huerta
--Eduardo C.
Corral
Our own La Bloga
writer, Melinda Palacio’s newest book of poetry is How Fire is a Story, Waiting.
It was named a finalist in the Binghamton University Milt Kessler Book
Award.
How Fire is a Story, Waiting
My grandmother
caught the flame in her thick hands.
Curled fingers
made nimble by kaleidoscope embers.
Fire buns hot
and cold if you know where to touch it, she said.
I watched the
red glow spit and wiggle as it
snaked down the
thin timber, a striptease,
born out of the
festive sound of a half-filled matchbox.
Through orange
windows framed by obsidian eyes, I saw the child she once was.
A little girl
who raised herself because her mother had a coughing disease.
Blood on her
mother’s handkerchief didn’t stop her from dreaming.
Maria Victoria
was going to be a singer with her deep, cinnamon stick voice.
She watched
novelas in the kitchen while waiting for dough to rise.
Her body, heavy
with worry for two families and three lifetimes. She tucked
Mariachi dreams
under her girdle. Lullabies
escaped on mornings
Warmed by her
son falling into gas burners turned on high.
The flame on a
stove was never the same. It had a
bad hangover,
didn’t remember
the many matches lit when its starter broke down.
My grandmother
rolled paper into a funnel,
Stole fire from
the pilot to light the stubborn burner on the right.
Crimson burned
blue on the white paper, its folded edges
Curled black
like a lace truffle on a skirt.
The finicky flam
can’t comment on its magic.
The thousands of
tortillas and pancakes cooked over the years.
How I burned
myself roasting a hot dog campfire style.
How a melted
pencil smudged under my sister’s eyelid make her beautiful.
My grandmother
noticed the time, almost noon.
She needed to
make three dozen tortillas to feed her family of thirteen.
The show over,
she blew the match into a swirl of gray squiggles.
Snuffed before
it had a chance to burn hot on her finger.
Funny, how fire
is a story, waiting.
--Melinda
Palacio
This is one of
my favorite poems by our Presidential Inaugural Poet, Richard Blanco.
Queer Theory: According to My Grandmother
Never drink soda
with a straw---
Milk
shakes? Maybe.
Stop eyeing your
mother’s Avon catalog,
And the men’s
underwear in those Sears flyers.
I’ve
seen you . . .
Stay out of her
Tupperware parties
and perfume
bottles—don’t let her kiss you.
she
kisses you much too much.
Avoid hugging
men, but if you must,
pat
them real hard
on
the back, even
if
it’s your father.
Must you keep
that cat? Don’t pet him so much.
Why
don’t you like dogs?
Never play
house, even if you’re the husband.
Quit hanging
with that Henry kid, he’s too pale,
and
I don’t care what you call them
those
GI Joes of his
are
dolls.
Don’t draw
rainbows or flowers or sunsets.
I’ve
seen you . . .
Don’t draw at
all—no coloring books either.
Put away your
crayons, your Play-Doh, your Legos.
Where
are your Hot Wheels,
your
laser gun and handcuffs,
the
knives I gave you?
Never fly a kite
or roller skate, but light
all
the firecrackers you want,
kills
all the lizards you can, cut up worms—
feed
them to that cat of yours.
Don’t sit Indian style with your legs crossed—
you’re
no Indian
Stop
click-clacking your sandals—
you’re
no girl.
For God’s sake,
never pee sitting down.
I’ve
seen you . . .
Never take a
bubble bath or wash your hair
with
shampoo—shampoo is for women.
So
is conditioner.
So
is mousse.
So
is hand lotion.
Never file your
nails or blow-dry your hair—
go to the barber
shop with your grandfather—
you’re
not unisex.
Stay out of the
kitchen. Men don’t cook—
they eat. Eat anything you want, except:
deviled
eggs
Blow
Pops
croissants
(Bagels? Maybe.)
cucumber
sandwiches
petit
fours
Don’t watch Bewitched or I Dream of Jeannie
Don’t stare at The Six-Million Dollar Man.
I’ve
seen you . . .
Never dance
alone in your room:
Donna Summer,
Barry Manilow, the Captain
and Tennille,
Bette Midler, and all musicals—
forbidden.
Posters of
kittens, Star Wars, or the Eiffel Tower—
forbidden.
Those fancy
books on architecture and art—
I
threw them in the trash.
You can’t wear
cologne or puka shells
and I better not
catch you in clogs.
If I see you in
a ponytail—I’ll cut it off.
What? No, you can’t pierce your ear.
left
or right side—
I
don’t care—
you will not
look like a goddam queer,
I’ve
seen you . . .
even if you are one.
--Richard Blanco
This next poem
is from another one of our own La Bloga writers, Olga García Echeverría. It is from her collection, Falling
Angels: cuentos y poemas
Vuelo
Nobody ever
looked up to see her
sitting against
splintered window sill
She liked the
sight of the city below
rambunctious
poem
lights
orchestrating traffic
cars honking
buses screeching
pigeons fleeing
Her mother would
scold
tell her it was
no good
to stare out
windows
with so much
longing
You only 13 mija get away
from that damn window!
And her brother
would tease
frighten her
with stories
of young girls
falling
said he’d seen
heads bust open
like watermelons
breaking on concrete
seen arms where
legs should’ve been
bare bones
popping out from skin
Falling ain’t pretty mensa pero you
keep leaning out that window
You hear me?
Keep leaning
They didn’t know
it but
she had already
fallen
226 times
it was never
like her brother said
she never
tumbled or screamed
on her way down
never cracked
open her head
her flight was
always
slow
and elegant
body gracefully
ascending
arms and
shoulders opening softly
into wings
--Olga García
Echeverría
Wishing you all excellent poetry readings, writings, celebrations!
1 comment:
Wonderful post. Every month should be Poetry Month! Gloria Anzaldua, Melinda, and Richard are among my favorites. I think the poetry world is being continuously enriched with the poems of our Latina/o authors. I was absolutely thrilled when I saw Richard Blanco reading the inauguration poem. What a boost!
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