Con Tinta NaPoMo 2015, La Pachanga & Award Ceremony: Ray Gonzalez

Xánath Caraza

 

POETRY IN CHICAGO: REVISTA CONTRATIEMPO

 

Con Tinta NaPoMo 2015 is here.  Send your poem to creativexc@gmail.com and/or mouthfeelpress@yahoo.com (Mouthfeel Press) and celebrate la poesía.  This is Con Tinta’s fourth year celebrating NaPoMo.  Previously published poems are welcome!  Send your poem in English, Spanish, Spanglish, Nahuatl or other language in a word document.  Viva la poesía and NaPoMo 2015!

Next are some of the poems from the Con Tinta page, which have had the most readership.  Enjoy!

 

POETRY IN AUSTIN: FLOR DE NOPAL LITERARY FESTIVAL

 

Cuzco: Ombligo del Mundo

 

 Francisco X. Alarcón

mírame danzar

incansable

 

como puma
como cóndor

 

por calles
y por plazas

 

con mis pies
de adolescente

 

ahora
en la tierra

 

luego
en el aire

 

al ritmo
del tambor

 

y quenas
andinas

 

ondeando
la bandera

 

de los siete
colores

 

del Cuzco
de mi gente

 

el arco iris
multicolor

 

que une
la tierra

 

la lluvia
el sol

 

porque
Cuzco es

 

el Ombligo
del Mundo

 

© Francisco X. Alarcón

 

Cuzco: Bellybutton of the Earth

 

Francisco X. Alarcón

 

watch me dance
tirelessly nonstop

 

like a puma
like a condor

 

through streets
through the plazas

 

with my feet
of a teenager

 

right now
on the ground

 

right then
up in the air

 

to the rhythm
of drums

 

and Andean
reed flutes

 

waving
the flag

 

of the seven
colors

 

of Cuzco
of my people

 

the multicolor
rainbow

 

the rain
the Sun

 

because
Cuzco is

 

the Bellybutton
of the Earth

 

© Francisco X. Alarcón

Jovian
By Charlie Luis Vázquez©

(From Hustler Rave XXX)

I fall down drowned by your winds, Jovian.
Your love song now whistled by leaves,
mad are its harmonies in the hissing trees,
the universe you torched rages wildly above.

I with your ghost and your music, Jovian.
Your howls of need trail long through the night,
in the fading cries of your blackbirds in flight;
as I plunge through an emptied sea that knew love.

 

labwork
By Ire’ne Lara Silva©

i gave them

my arm i’ve found it hurts less

if i watch everything but the exact moment the needle pierces my vein my blood is a deep almost black red i watch it being drawn

 out of me enough to fill three vials

 

i remember when my blood was bright

red the red of poinsettias the red

of other people’s blood

 

it’s not my imagination, i said to the young nurse, my blood is darker than it was, isn’t it yes, she said, flicking her ponytail,

it’s the insulin

 

of all the changes diabetes has brought to my body the sensitivity to heat the painfully dry skin the weight gain the exhaustion

this change in the color of my blood makes me sad seems to say i am changed

 

changed irredeemably

changed without return

 

what else of me has changed

what would i tell the lover now the one who said my skin carried the scent of sunlight and maíz the one who murmured against my thighs that i tasted of night jasmine

and the earth after rain

 

do i taste of illness now of medications

acid and poison is my skin marked over with toxic warnings no lover now could know my body young or strong or healthy no lover now could know the taste of me before insulin before disease

 

is this still my body to give

and who would find this body beautiful

when i can’t even

recognize it 

 

POETRY IN SEATTLE: LOS NORTENOS WRITERS

 

Teatro Urbano: A Moment on Stage

By Esmeralda Bernal

                             Adelina Carrasco

                            San Jose, CA  9/1968

 

We are here to form vanguard impressions;
visual resistance to our oppression.
“El Espirito habla por mi raza”
is to be unleashed on stage.
What will the spirit say tonight?

 

Tryouts are easy. We are so few,
all will have a part. Regardless
of the outcome we are all happy,
enthused to be together; free to be.

 

Cholula, name of the main character,
we roll on our tongues, we smile;
the ancient sounds of the continent
are a sweet encounter.
The root begins to show and we begin
to excavate with our minds. We dig
and delight in our discovery. So many
names we did not have to be branded with:
Maria, Juana, Estella.
The names of our ancestors bubble forth,
beautiful sounds of cascading pristine water
that we could have been named after.
I begin to feel the first rays of the sixth sun.

 

You my dear sister
are the first one on stage.
The spirit of Cholula you will channel.
In anticipation I watch your every move.
I am awestruck. My culture on stage
without Marlon Brando translating for us.
It is the first time in my life that
I see a Chicana on stage and
sisterhood is imaged.

I am mute, my thoughts are frozen.

Anticipation smolders a beginning,
the unfreezing begins, the past is now.
The sixth sun currents my heart,
I am becoming Indian woman
rooted to freedom.

The men are being hombres,

their task is drowned by their slobber.
They see flesh and commit the original sin.
Like Western serpents they conjure apples
of discord. The married one forgets his wife;
the single one forgets his love. Freedom can not
reign in triangles of masculine disrespect.

I become womanist. I become indianista.

I feel the rays of the sixth sun and walk out
the door guided by their truth.

© 2008 Esmeralda Bernal

Phoenix, AZ

 

Border Crossing

By Gabriel H. Sanchez

Somewhere within your midst I starve

As I wait to be taken in by you
And the words from your mouth say no
Somewhere within I ashen and die 

This is the story of my life

That you tell over and over
To flowers that won't bloom in autumn
To my heart that withers in your winter

But I will rise!

Rise from within!
From below the ground!
From beneath your skin!

Here I lie defiant
Digging my roots upon the deserts
Diggin’ the taste of that toxic Rio stream
Here you never say no, for my cold ears

Won’t heed your words, mister border patrol
Here I rot embalmed in fears of yesteryear
Breaking the passions, decomposing the lyrics of your rejection
Here I wait as mist in the air that poets breath

As a ray in the sun that lights their way
As a star studded sky shining Coyolxialqui by night
To be born from within...your heart
And inspired by this change

I disarm your shackles and drones
As I relax my wary bones on the Rio Grand
As your no's die from without
And walls fizzle and borders break
And only people exist…as neighbors, as one

 

Al límite
Por Gerardo Cárdenas©

 A Diana Azcona

Cruzo a pie la frontera sin más equipaje

que la caja en la que guardo mis silencios.

Recorro un largo túnel blanco:

las paredes retroceden a mi paso.
Al final
me espera un guardia solitario y dormido.

Deposito mi caja en el suelo,

mis silencios aprovechan y escapan.
El guardia abre un ojo
                   
                   me mira compasivo
                         murmura una antigua plegaria
                              se vuelve bruma.

Al otro lado de la raya

un gato
se relame los bigotes
y se traga mi último silencio.

 

Guardar (in memoriam)

Por Silvia Favaretto©

Vivo la vida

recordada por mi bisabuela.
Ella en mí quiso y defraudó.
Sacó las entrañas a colgar al viento,
barrió el piso con su pelo.
Sus placeres quitaron el polvo de la cómoda.
Ella se acostó con mi estirpe.
Yo, en cambio,
viajaré con la maleta cargada de sus sueños,
soplaré en el oído de
sus amantes,
me bañaré en el agua caliente
que tanto añoró
me limpiaré su cara con manos
espumosas de jabón fino,
me pondré crema en sus piernas
para hidratarlas después de estos
100 años de ultratumba,
me pintaré sus uñas con
esmalte escarlata
y me encamaré con sus progenitores.

Vendrá el pasado y

me encontrará muerta
con el pelo enmarañado en el polvo
y los dedos de los pies
esmaltados de rojo.
Y contenta, por Dios,
contenta.

POETRY IN KANSAS CITY: BLACK ARCHIVES OF MID-AMERICA

 

Ebriedad de Dios

Por Luis Armenta Malpica

2

De niña me enseñaron que yo era una manzana;

los hombres, el cuchillo.
Las mujeres debíamos conseguir que nos pelaran
se hundieran hasta el mango en nuestra carne
y le dieran salida a las semillas.

Ya en espiral

—con nuestra piel deforme, oscura por el tiempo­­­­—
el amor podía ser algún mordisco
un apretar los dientes
y ser mujer
callando...

Pero yo no callaba... me decía en los poemas.

 

A golpes ­­­­—como aprendió su madre­­­­—
fue lección de mi madre: la cocina es el mundo
de la mujer que calla.
Entre especias, vinagres y embutidos
esa dulce manzana de mi vida se llenó de gusanos.

No callaba: mis hijas me costaron, cuando menos, un grito.

El amor, esa lata carísima
se quedó en la alacena.

Un día, por buscarle acomodo al aguardiente

lo tiré a la basura.

Sé lo que hacen los lazos en todas las mujeres

aunque sean familiares.
Al encender el horno (¡ay, Sylvia Plath, te envidio!)
al picar la cebolla lo recuerdo...

Las profundas estrías de la garganta

son mi paso
de Dios a la intemperie.

Perdí mi casa
cuando llegó el alcohol como el mesías.
Después perdí a mis hijas, una a una.
Pero rezaba, así, como callando: «Señor, ésta es tu sangre...»

Tu madre se nos muere, les digo a mis tres hijas

luego de cada sorbo.
Ellas tan solo lloran, muy quedito
como diciendo: ¿cuándo!

Incluido en Ebriedad de Dios / The Drunkenness of God de Luis Armenta Malpica (Traducción al inglés de Lawrence Schimel. Libros Medio Siglo, USA, 2015)

©Luis Armenta Malpica

 

Westside Girls
By Reyes Cardenas©

for ct

Even now

the Westside girls

smell of fresh tortillas

their lips

taste like a Mexican Bakery
the crooked dusty streets

of the barrio

make them stronger

the Westside girls

I grew to love

so long ago

and now

their beautiful granddaughters

stand proudly in their place

 

Mece sus plumas de lapa

Por Zingonia Zingone©

I.

Al pie de un Guanacaste

el viento empuja
las áridas ilusiones
ella mece sus plumas de lapa
acaricia su piel
tigrillo que trepa las horas
de un mediodía sin fin
el ternero berrea y su madre
lo ignora
y lame el pasto hastiada
sudando
todas las áfricas
designadas por el azar
y encorvadas espigas de arroz
se revuelcan
como las olas del Pacífico
giran
al ritmo furioso 
de un terco verano
y ahuyentan al blanco ibis
el amor huido
en el cabalgar de un potro

ella sujeta el lazo

cierra el puño
los ojos
aguarda el concierto de los zanates
otro atardecer
que desbarate el fuego

II.

 

piso la hierba del silencio
buscando
una palabra que resuma
átomo y estrella

escucharlo todo en una flor
abriéndose despacio
en el campo

 

Above Drudgery

By Carlos Cumpián©

                           for Cynthia

to be Aphrodite today

must be confusing
no one knows a real goddess
when they see one—
no one has the paunch
of patient concern anymore—
flat bellies or nothing.
Or archangel of desire
i keep my shirt on while
your apricot mouth
castigates a whole
generation.
your conch shell ears
offer evidence amid
the grimace of
ordinary faces,
your old boyfriend cyclops
reads the paper,
his sunglasses the
size of cymbals.
your damp deity body
lays on a used towel,
while my eyes dehydrate
from following you
like a gladiator
in the desert.

Coyote Sun by Carlos Cumpián (MARCH/Abrazo Press, 1990)

 

POETRY IN THE BRONX

 

In Other News

La Pachanga & Award Ceremony: Ray Gonzalez

What: Pachanga & Award Ceremony 2015 Honoring Ray Gonzalez

When: AWP Minneapolis 2015: Friday, April 10, 2015 from 2 – 3:30 p.m. (Doors open at 1:30 p.m.)
Where: Bryant Lake Bowl (Restaurant, Bowl and Theater) 810 W. Lake St., Minneapolis, MN, 55408-2846, (612) 825-3737.  Click here for directions.

LA PACHANGA & AWARD CEREMONY: RAY GONZALEZ, MINNEAPOLIS

 

Almost ready for La Pachanga & Award Ceremony for Ray Gonzalez on Friday, 4/10, from 2 – 3:30 p.m. A symbolic gift and diploma in hand. 

 

EL REGALO

 

Y DIPLOMA PARA RAY GONZALEZ

 

Gracias a todos who have donated for La Pachanga & Award Ceremony 2015: Honoring RAY GONZALEZ in Minneapolis, MN.  If you can and want to donate through PayPal, select “Send to friends and family” to contintaletrasaward@gmail.com.  Please write “Con Tinta” or “donation” in the subject line with your generous donation—any amount helps! And if you want to snail mail it to us that is great también.