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El equinoccio de primavera
de 2026 empezó el 20 de marzo a las 9:46 de la manñana. Hoy, para
celebrar el equinoccio de primavera de este año, les comparto un poema
originalmente escrito en español que forma parte de mis poemarios Sílabas
de viento / Syllables of Wind (Mammoth Publications, 2014) y Le
sillabe del vento (Gilgamesh Edizioni, 2017). Hoy incluyo una
traducción al francés.
¡Qué la poesía nos
salve!
Xanath Caraza
Equinoccio
Cuando la noche y el día se hacen uno
La tierra canta al unísono- La Serpiente
Emplumada desciende con su sombra.
Equinox
When night
and day become one
Earth sings at unison - the Feathered
Serpent descends alongside its shadow
Equinozio
Quando la notte e il giorno diventano uno
La terra canta all’unisono - Il serpente
Piumato scende insieme alla sua ombra.
L'équinoxe
Quand la nuit et le jour ne font
plus qu'un
La terre chante à l'unisson - Le
serpent
Plumé, il descend avec son ombre.
“Equinoccio” fue publicado por primera vez
en el poemario Sílabas de viento/ Syllables of Wind (Mammoth
Publications, 2014) con la traducción al inglés de Sandra Kingery.
If Dr. MLK, Jr. Could Speak to Us Now, What Might He Say?
Thelma T. Reyna
Historians and political scientists know best, and I am neither. I am simply a poet. In 2017, as our nation reeled from the chaos and upheavals of the first Trump presidency, I wrote a book,Reading Tea Leaves After Trump (link), trying daily to parse how our country was being dismantled. Here is a persona poem in which one of our greatest Americans again spoke for many.
MARTIN, FROM THE GRAVE
If I could turn, I would, but this coffin holds me still. I whisper to you now through fifty years of tears for what you have endured.
We’ve marched these sizzling streets before, these bridges blocked by dogs, batons, and helmets of hate.
We’ve pitched these battles before, teeth tearing ankles, rubber bullets burning backs, clubs dense as rifle butts cracking skulls.
We’ve locked arms, locked eyes, locked hands on heads for safety when they came with boots and hoses to shut us down. We’ve dragged cheeks and chins on concrete when they pulled us by our feet across blood-stained streets.
We’ve been shot unarmed, flayed to the bone, hanged like dead rabbits by back doors, white folks picnicking by trees where our mangled bodies turned in air, photo ops galore.
If I could spin, I would, for what they did, what they do, should’ve died decades past but won’t. So my rasp will filter like earthworms through these clods, through stones, through smoke of churches burnt, through ether and miasmas of stillborn hopes, through centuries of hacking on the shackles. No amount of blood we shed can satiate their hate.
I whisper to you now through fifty years of hush, for I hear boots tramping once again, and smell the Ku Klux stench in the People’s House. I rush my rasp to you right now, for I hear the rattle of voter-suppression chains, hear our ballots torn and tossed, hear us mocked again for marching arm-in-arm.
I send my rasp to you, from here, for I see ramrod arms stretched high, and the man who would be king tell daily lies, and see billionaires with secrets taking reins. I whisper to you now, from here, for I see zealots in towers and lounging by lakes, our people’s money raked into pockets mysterious and soiled.
You’ve stared in these men’s eyes before, withstood forked tongues that turn equality to roulette wheels. You’ve heard their codes and veiled slurs, taken shields against these wars. If you can hear my whisper, remember what my heart once said: The measure of a man is where he stands at times of challenge and despair. Today these heartbreaks bore to the core of earth.
If I could spin or turn, I would. My coffin keeps me prisoned while my spirit weeps for you. My dessicated eyes, vacant mouth, ears filled with dust ceased mattering on that balcony in spring. My lips are stilled and filled with worms, but your feet hold fire, your arms still link, and your voices are oceans unleashed.
I did a display of science fiction by writers of what I call the Latinoid Continuum and I used the term Latinx. There will probably be objections from some of my peers, so here’s an explanation:
The sign is for the patrons of that library where I work, and while we get my fellow Chicanos here, we also get a lot of others, African Americans, “whites,” et cetera. . . It’s in a public place and as inclusive as
possible.
Also, not all of the writers featured are, if you want to get nick-picky, Chicanos. Silvia Moreno-Garcia is Mexico born and lives in Canada. V. Castro is a Tejana who lives in England. Speculative Fiction for Dreamers: A Latinx Anthologyincludes “Those Rumors of Cannibalism and Human Sacrifice Have Been Greatly Exaggerated” one of my best stories, along with “Old Folks” by Scótt Russell Dúncan (note the accent marks–should I do it too? Érnest Hógan . . .) editor forXicanxfuturism: Gritos for Tomorrow–Codex I (out now, buy it, read it, live it) and works by a diverse crew of writers from cultures transmogrified by contact with the Spanish Armada.
The x is still esoteric and controversial and not really known outside of college campuses and bureaucracies, but I consider exposing people to things from outside their comfort zone part of my job.
Once near the ruins of Monte Alban, I identified myself as a Chicano to a Zapotec guide. He had never heard the word. I tried to explain, but ended up leaving him thinking I was from Chicago.
In my career, I’ve found that it helps to use words that outsiders—Anglos (some take offense, “I ain’t from Angola!”), gringos, (et and cetera)— can understand. When dealing with more than one culture, declaring an official name never works. What usually happens, quite organically, is new languages are created.
New life and new civilizations. Chicanidad evolving into Xicanxfuturism. Talk about a concept that could cause trouble.
The word Yucatan is based on one of the many Mayan dialects for “I don’t understand you.”
I’ve never been picky about what people call me. The internet thinks I’m a cyberpunk, though I’ve never been part of the movement. People have a hard time figuring me out, so I let them slap a handy label on me and go on with my business. These labels are usually insults or place-holders for something they don’t understand.
So what? Political correctness is for losers and I’m a
bizarre phenomenon. I’m lucky they don’t call in the military.
You usually don’t get called what you choose, you get called what your enemies call you, if they win, that is . . .
Chicano started out as a vile insult. Like the N-word.
The Navajo call themselves the Diné. The many Apache tribes call themselves variations on Ndé, Ndee, N’de or even Diné. Yes, they are related, but then aren’t we all?
Do you have Neanderthal or Denisovian DNA? Or both?
Navajo and Apache are Spanishized versions of Zuni and Tewa Pueblo words for “enemy” and “cultivated fields in the valley” as in apachu from the navahu’u.
We all call the Kanien’kehá:ka the Mohawks, a Dutch/English version of the Algonquian mohowawog, “man-eater,” cannibal, if you will.
So rather than arguing about what we should be called and what language we should be arguing in we need to form a united front. But first there will be a lot of fighting about it.
Meanwhile, I’m using Latinoid Continuum . . .
ICE can’t tell Mexicans from Chicanos from Latinos from Latinx from Xicanx from brown from black from white. And a warehouse is being converted into a “detention center” not far from where I live.
New languages, and realities, will be created in the process.
Xicanxfuturism is the future!
Or as Jean-Luc Godard’s evil computer Alpha-60 said in Alphaville: “Sometimes reality can be too complex to be conveyed by the spoken word. Legend remolds it into a form that can be spread all across the world.”
See? Chicano really is a science fiction state of being.
Ernest Hogan, Father of Chicano Science Fiction, wants you to buy Xicanxfuturism: Gritos for Tomorrow / Codex I, read it, and start building the rasquache future of our choice. His Paco Cohen, Mariachi of Mars story “A Wild and Wooly Road Trip on Mars” will be in Codex II, soon . . .
An emotionally resonant, visually stirring picture book illustrated by Pura Belpré Award–winning Abraham Matias, exploring life, death, and celebrating loved ones for children navigating grief.
Inspired by the 9 levels of Mictlān and the role Xolo dogs play by guiding those who have passed on in Indigenous cultural understandings of present-day Mexico.
Nana is surrounded by family and takes joy in her many grandchildren. She's also tired and feels pain. Soon she begins her transition from life into death, accompanied by her beloved Xolo dog, Popo.
Together they go on Nana’s journey, and by the end of the story, Nana's family celebrates the many years of love they shared with her. And a grandchild will now care for Popo.
Beautifully told by debut author Paloma Angelina Lopez and featuring stunning blend of colored art by Mexican illustrator, Abraham Matias, Popo the Xolo helps kids understand how loved ones live on in our memories. An unforgettable picture book that's grounded in the importance of the 9 levels of Mictlān and the role Xolo (show-low) dogs play in Indigenous cultural understandings of present-day Mexico.
¡Edición en español! Un libro ilustrado emocionalmente conmovedor y visualmente estimulante sobre la vida, la muerte y la celebración de aquellos a quienes amamos. Ideal para los niños con preguntas importantes, que están lidiando con el duelo y experimentando una pérdida.
Inspirado por los 9 niveles de Mictlān y el rol que desempeñan los perros Xolo al guiar a quienes han fallecido, según las creencias culturales indígenas del México actual.
Nana está rodeada de su familia y disfruta de la compañía de sus muchos nietos. También está cansada y siente dolor. Pronto ella comienza su transición de la vida a la muerte, acompañada por su querido perro Xolo, Popo.
Juntos emprenden el viaje de Nana y, al final de la historia, la familia de Nana celebra los muchos años de amor que compartieron con ella. Y ahora, un nieto cuidará de Popo.
Hermosamente narrado por la autora debutante Paloma Angelina Lopez y con una impresionante mezcla de arte colorido por el ilustrador mexicano Abraham Matias, Popo el Xolo ayuda a los niños a comprender cómo los seres queridos viven en nuestros recuerdos. Un libro ilustrado inolvidable basado en los 9 niveles de Mictlān y el rol que desempeñan los perros Xolo (sho-lo) en las creencias culturales indígenas del México actual.
REVIEW
Lopez deftly lands on a bittersweet note, a message of love that transcends life and death. Gently magnificent. —Kirkus Reviews, starred review
Matias’ captivating illustrations, executed in cut paper and digital media, illuminate the story with rich jewel-toned colors and texture. Details such as Nana’s and Popo’s bony reflections in water offer interesting visual cues, while Spanish words throughout the text add cultural authenticity and warmth. This is a triumphant, moving reflection on death that pays meaningful homage to Indigenous Mexican culture. An author’s note about Mictlān, xoloitzcuintle dogs, and grief and a Spanish glossary conclude. Also available in a Spanish edition, Popo el Xolo. —Booklist, starred review
Matias’s jewel-toned cut-paper and wash-style digital illustrations leap off the page with a vivid light-and-shadow dimensionality suggestive of puppetry, making for a luminous tale of comfort. Back matter discusses the Nine Levels of Mictlān and more. —Publishers Weekly, starred review
This picture book focusing on the passing of a loved one and their journey through Mictlān is an excellent addition to children’s picture book collections, and a solid choice to discuss loss and to share on Day of the Dead. —School Library Journal
Paloma Angelina Lopez is a mother, student, and creative living in Tahlequah, Oklahoma. She is a dual citizen of the United States and Mexico. Her maternal grandmother’s family comes from Jalisco and Guanajuato and her father’s family is from Zacatecas and Sinaloa. Paloma married into a Cherokee family that is heavily involved in language and culture, and she works as a full-time Cherokee language learner. She hopes to become an educator and author in the Cherokee language. This is her debut children’s book. She hopes to publish more children’s literature inspired by her culture and upbringing.
Abraham Matias is an illustrator, designer, and filmmaker based in Los Angeles. He spent his childhood in Mexico making his own toys and miniature sets and drawing stories. Abraham works with paper-cut puppets staged and photographed inside a toy theater to create 3D, handcrafted, dreamlike scenes. https://abrahammatias.com
I’d just graduated from working for a living when Abel Salas asked if I knew Huizache? I did not. I learn from Abel Huizache grew as the brainchild of author Dagoberto Gilb. Him I knew, been following his writing since stumbling across a collection of stories, Winners On the Pass Line. Abel invites me to a kick-ass party celebrating the launch of the current issue.
There was pedo in Victoria, Tejas. As a result, Huizache moves to northern California where the Huizache tree doesn’t grow. Ni modo. Davis becomes the new centro for Huizache with a new editorial team. How impressive, I think, that UC Davis’ Office for DEI, C/S Depto, and other University organizations, support the literary arts magazine founded in 2011 by Dagoberto Gilb
Ya, quíen sabe porque, maybe DEI got axed at UCDavis, maybe “budget constraints”, maybe Texas wanted Huizache back? At any rate, Huizache has a new home at UTEP, El Paso Texas and a new editorial board.
There’s no geographical limit to excellence. Huizache established itself as the definitive monitor of contemporary Chicano writing, no matter where it’s housed.
Huizache 12, Fall 2025, is on the market now, with an engaging array of graphics, essays, stories, and poetry. Plus, there’s a bonus volume, A Central American Folio: Part 1 and Part 2.
That bonus volume offers a bilingual treat. It’s one of those dual books, turn it over and it’s a different book with its own contents. Part 1 is Curated by Francisco Aragón, translations by León Salvatierra. Salvatierra curates and translates Part 2. It’s a collection of work by writers from America Central who live in the San Francisco Bay region.
H12 arrives as the swansong of Huizache’s UC tenure. The issue publishes people you know from extensive publication, like Lorraine M. López, Yxta Maya Murray ,Rigoberto Gonzáles, and Sesshu Foster, and writers who’ve published in journals with limited circulation whom readers are “discovering” in H12.
There are six “special portfolio” sections that feature drawings and some hybrid text-drawing collections. One portfolio, “Dacaments” by Fidencio Fifield-Perez, is printed in color on polished paper. Authors obviously enjoy seeing their work in a prestige journal, I wonder if artists can be as pleased, seeing their continuous tone quality reduced to 120 lines per inch and puro b&w?
Readers will appreciate some gems in the overall high-quality work. Rigoberto Gonzáles’ “Dead You.” Dead you thinks about, remembers, your father. The story revolves around a child’s love for a father who enjoys eating like its his last meal, a father who had to retire from the fields owing to Parkinson’s Disease. There’s a gulf between father and this son, the one in his grave. Distance means little, when you’re dead and you realize “the greatest gift your father ever gave you was you.”
David Dominguez tugs at my heartstrings with a poem titled after a sweet childhood memory around a wood-burning stove, a voice singing that title, “Amorcito Corazón.” The poem is an ode to middle-class domesticity, turned completely inward. I like to compare the feeling of the piece to memories of early Chicano poetry, chest-thumping insistence that we exist, or the quiet calm of a Jefita making early-morning tortillas. Como hemos cambiados, and that’s a good thing.
Eric Alan Ponce’s Mc Nífica relates a companionship between primos separated by language and cultura. The primo from Chile is challenged by English, the storyteller challenged by Spanish. Out of their confluences over a comida chatarra hamburger—in Chile the fancy McDonald’s burger is the title—a star-crossed lovers tale emerges, quondam lovers electrocuted by a defective machine. It doesn’t have to be this way, but it is.
Huizache comes from a rich history of Chicana Chicano publishing. El Grito from Quinto Sol set the standard, the Chicana Chicano, or, today, might be called Chicanx Canon. That standard got zapped by Revista Chicana-Riqueña that emerged to challenge the canon, pointing out that Latina Latino--“Latinx” per Huizache’s masthead—literature extends beyond the borders of Berkeley hasta to Central Ameríca and Puerto Rico. Huizache XII proves the point. Así somos.
There’s now an open question. Will Huizache 13 be like Huizaches one through twelve, or does the western edge of Texas produce a different eye? A ver.
Order the full set or subscribe to the biannual publication at this link: https://huizachemag.org/
Hoy comparto “El viejo guerrero” de mi poemario Labios de piedra / Lips of Stone. La
traducción al inglés es de Sandra Kingery. Las fotos son de mi autoría.Ojalá lo disfruten.
El viejo guerrero
Para la cabeza
colosal número 4 de La Venta, Tabasco, México
Leo poesía junto a ti.
Para ti es esta voz.
Líquido encuentro a través del tiempo.
Viejo guerrero, escucha mi ofrenda.
La jungla nos rodea y las aves
anuncian mi lectura.
Tu casco grabado con el águila.
La que ve todo en la jungla olmeca.
Alma de piedra.
Jade por corazón.
Tus labios entreabiertos
dejan ir la divinidad.
Tu mirada: nobleza olmeca,
posa los ojos en mis letras.
Leo para ti, en este ambiente
húmedo, sin interrupción.
Xanath Caraza
The Old Warrior
For Colossal Head Number 4 from la Venta, Tabasco, Mexico
I read
poetry beside you.
This
voice, it is for you.
Liquid
encounter through time.
Old
Warrior, hear my offering.
The
jungle surrounds us and the birds
announce
my reading.
Your
helmet engraved with the eagle
which
sees it all in the Olmec jungle.
Soul of
stone.
Heart of
jade.
Your
half-open lips
let
divinity depart.
Your
gaze: Olmec nobility,
rest your
eyes upon my words.
I read
for you, in this damp
environment, without interruption.
Xanath Caraza
“El viejo
guerrero / The Old Warrior” están incluidos enel
poemario Labios de piedra / Lips of Stone (2021). Traducido al inglés por Sandra Kingery.
Xanath Caraza
In 2023 Labios
de Piedra / Lips of Stone won Honorable
Mention for Best Children's & Youth Poetry Book for the International
Latino Book Awards.
When my neighbor, Kristen Sneddon, invited me to read poetry at her
Mayoral Campaign Kick-off, I did not hesitate to say Yes. I remember
when she was canvassing the neighborhood during her campaign for City
Council in 2017. At the time, I didn’t know that she lived next
door to my dog’s favorite persimmon tree. Since then, I’ve been
impressed by her compassion and leadership. As a geophysicist and
city council member, Kristen is a profound listener who cares about
our city and the global environment. When she realized she needed a
bigger venue for all who had rsvp’d for her kick-off party, she was
happy Laura Capps offered her beautiful home.
Two weeks ago, one
of my biggest concerns was the continued bombardment of ICE raids on
our town and country. Today, thoughts of war occupy my waking hours,
as well as ICE and how this is impacting our community and country.
As a friend and representative of our city, Kristen has expressed how
much she appreciates my poems on immigration and ICE. I brought four
poems, but read three. ICE Detention Tornillo, Texas was a poem I
wrote in 2017 during Trump’s first term. Friday Morning Before Work
in Carpinteria is from last year and Canopy over Milpas and Alphonse
is a poem written this year in response to the Fair Trade Exhibit and
Patricia Clarke’s photograph of La Super Rica. Even in this
ekphrastic poem, I had ICE on my mind. You can read the poem in last
month’s column.
As I waited to read my poems and took in the diverse crowd in support
of Sneddon for Mayor of Santa Barbara, I was impressed by the strong
feeling of community. Another highlight of the event was hearing
Kristen’s family band entertain the crowd before the speakers.
Although they are not usually a band, her daughter, Elsie Sneddon on
drums, and son, Harry Sneddon on bass, joined their friend Lucien
Dempsey on keys, and formed a very impressive and impromptu house
band.
Hannah-Beth Jackson
offered the closing remarks and reminded everyone of Santa Barbara’s
strong history of electing female mayors. It’s always an honor for
me to contribute poetry at important community events. Last Sunday, I
read some poems honoring my mother and grandmother at Carpinteria’s
International Women’s Day Festival, held at the Carpinteria
Children’s Project. Geri Ann Carty who was recognized as
Carpinterian of the Year in 2022 was one of the festival’s
organizers. The day included a variety of women-owned and
women-centered organizations, as well as performances by local
singers and dancers, a fun start to Women’s History Month.
*an earlier version of this article appears in the Santa Barbara Independent
