|
  Desperté. |
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Solitariamente en el
trópico |
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me hallé. |
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Entre árboles |
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y las arenas |
5 |
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del mar fue. |
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La mejilla izquierda |
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tostada |
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por la irradiación |
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ardiente |
10 |
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|
de la arena. |
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La derecha, |
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blanca |
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por el reflejo |
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lunero |
15 |
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de la selva. |
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Quemado, |
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me refrigeraban las olas, |
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senos de mujer. |
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|
Lunática, |
20 |
|
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me atraía el
imán |
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del Popocatépetl. |
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|
Aleteando los brazos |
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me fui al encuentro |
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|
del llamado, |
25 |
|
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llama ardiente |
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|
que me esperaba |
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|
al otro lado. |
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|
Con la espada |
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|
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en la mano |
30 |
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desbrocé el camino |
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por entre la maraña. |
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Como imán
volcánico |
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me atrajo el destino. |
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|
Acariciaba a las ondas |
35 |
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que me besaban, |
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torneando mis mejillas |
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y mis labios. |
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|
Cabalgaba las olas |
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alternando |
40 |
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y me mecía el amor |
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acostado. |
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|
De la maraña |
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por doquier brotaban |
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|
numerosos árboles. |
45 |
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|
Troncos erectos, |
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|
batallón de soldados, |
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|
arcabuces fálicos. |
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|
Las raíces en la
entraña |
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|
las copas en el aire. |
50 |
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|
Abrí más los
ojos |
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|
y se me apareció |
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|
|
una sirena. |
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|
Volaba por lo profundo |
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|
de las aguas. |
55 |
|
|
Prieta era. |
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|
Al fin del camino |
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|
se abrió un escampado. |
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|
Contra el horizonte |
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vi a un viejo acostado. |
60 |
|
|
Los milenios pintaron |
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|
Popocatépetl nevado. |
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|
La seguí. |
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|
Comenzó a girar |
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|
y me quedé quieto |
65 |
|
|
en el torbellino |
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|
del tiempo. |
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|
Me encaminé. |
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|
Empecé a subir |
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|
por la ladera del cono |
70 |
|
|
de la montaña |
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|
en lava. |
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|
Un remolino, |
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|
|
embudo de agua, |
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|
me persiguió |
75 |
|
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en la amorosa |
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zaga. |
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|
Me perseguían los
árboles |
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|
que se estiraban, |
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|
soldados sedientos |
80 |
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de amorosa |
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|
batalla. |
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|
Casa cilíndrica |
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caracola tierna, |
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bailando la zandunga |
85 |
|
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de una vieja tierra. |
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|
Escalé el promontorio, |
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|
torbellino de lava, |
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|
para ver al viejo cubierto |
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de canas. |
90 |
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|
Una voz rodó |
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por el cono acuático |
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|
y mi tímpano, |
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|
con silbido, hirió. |
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|
«Te he traído»,
me habló, |
95 |
|
|
«a las regiones |
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|
más trasparentes |
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|
del agua». |
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|
Una voz guerrera |
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|
se oyó desde la cama. |
100 |
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|
Creí que era la piedra |
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|
y me entregué incauta. |
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|
«Te llamé,
Izta», habló, |
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|
«para que vinieras |
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|
y para que, si quisieras, |
105 |
|
|
me sobaras la espalda». |
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|
Alcé la cabeza cana |
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|
y, desde lo más
profundo, |
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vi a una dama |
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|
con la boca abierta |
110 |
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|
que me tragaba. |
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|
Ante mis nublados ojos |
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vi que, al darse la vuelta, |
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|
se formó un precipicio |
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|
que me atraía |
115 |
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y me quemaba. |
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|
Dama Iztacihuatl, |
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|
bella durmiente. |
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|
Bajo rebozo de nieve |
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corazón ardiente. |
120 |
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|
Viejo Popocatépetl. |
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|
Fuerte guerrero |
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|
el tiempo derritió |
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|
tu corazón de acero. |
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|
Remolino de agua. |
125 |
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|
Torbellino de nieve. |
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|
Corazón de lava. |
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|
Rebozo de doliente. |
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|
Cono de azufre. |
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|
Horno de fuego. |
130 |
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|
Verdugo del que sufre. |
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|
Padre de mi pueblo. |
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|
Déjame que te abrace |
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|
pero no me
violes |
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|
|
y que en ti me abrase |
135 |
|
|
y tampoco me
provoques. |
|
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|
|
Juntemos la
lava |
|
|
|
y la nieve. |
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|
|
Rebocémonos de agua |
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|
y de aire. |
140 |
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|
Bailemos en el
mar |
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|
|
y en el vientre. |
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|
|
Mezclémonos en sudor |
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|
|
y en sangre. |
|
|
|
|
Nuestra querida
familia
|
|
En nuestra familia fuimos
catorce |
|
|
|
hermanos y hermanas fuimos
doce |
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|
|
unos gordos y otros flacos |
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|
|
pero todos siempre comieron
tacos. |
|
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|
|
Nuestro padre trabaja en
construcción |
5 |
|
|
y es gran trabajador de
reputación |
|
|
|
trabaja duro ocho horas al
día |
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|
|
pero de noche qué suave
dormía. |
|
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|
|
Nuestra madre se la lleva
lavando |
|
|
|
y también siempre anda
planchando |
10 |
|
|
cocina las mejores comidas |
|
|
|
muy fácil pudieran ser
vendidas. |
|
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|
|
Raúl es el hermano
más grande |
|
|
|
en todas partes no hay quien
cerquita le ande. |
|
|
|
Desde niño siempre fue muy
trabajador |
15 |
|
|
pero también salió un
poco tomador. |
|
|
|
|
Rubén le sigue a Raúl
en edad |
|
|
|
y siempre ha tenido muchachas en
variedad. |
|
|
|
El deporte a él le gusta
demasiado |
|
|
|
hasta sigue jugando después
de cansado. |
20 |
|
|
|
Yolanda es la mayor de las
hermanas |
|
|
|
trabaja y se levanta temprano por
las mañanas |
|
|
|
le gusta mucho salir a bailar |
|
|
|
en el Salón México
siempre la pueden hallar. |
|
|
|
|
Luego sigue Arturo el más
gordito |
25 |
|
|
siempre trae en la mano un
burrito |
|
|
|
le gusta mucho tomar y jugar |
|
|
|
y algunas veces hasta salir a
bailar. |
|
|
|
|
Marta seguía después
de Arturo |
|
|
|
pero un accidente determinó
su futuro |
30 |
|
|
ella siempre nos hizo
reír |
|
|
|
hasta los últimos
días antes de morir. |
|
|
|
|
Después de Marta vino el
Beto |
|
|
|
de nuestra familia fue el
más prieto |
|
|
|
a él le gusta mucho
apostar |
35 |
|
|
y al billar le gusta demasiado
jugar. |
|
|
|
|
Esgardo a Beto le sigue en
edad |
|
|
|
él trabaja en la misma
ciudad. |
|
|
|
Él no siguió la
escuela |
|
|
|
pero no parece que aún le
duela. |
40 |
|
|
|
Luego sigue la hermana tercera |
|
|
|
que el matrimonio siguió de
carrera. |
|
|
|
Su nombre es Francisca o
Paquita |
|
|
|
de la casa fue la más
chiquita. |
|
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|
|
Blanca le sigue y es la más
bonita |
45 |
|
|
no es muy alta pero es muy
flaquita |
|
|
|
ella no sabe aún lo que
quiere ser |
|
|
|
está yendo al colegio a ver
qué puede aprender. |
|
|
|
|
Leticia sigue después de
Blanca |
|
|
|
en los deportes nunca ha estado en
la banca |
50 |
|
|
siempre fue la más
machetona |
|
|
|
corre y juega y nunca cae en la
lona. |
|
|
|
|
Sylvia sigue y es la hermana
menor |
|
|
|
en la escuela nunca hace un
error |
|
|
|
a casi todo le agarra patada |
55 |
|
|
y siempre le sale una gran
carcajada. |
|
|
|
|
El baby de nuestra familia se llama
José |
|
|
|
de que le gustan los
«Big-Macs» es algo que sé. |
|
|
|
Parece que va a ser el más
grande de todos |
|
|
|
le gusta mucho la gallina en
diferentes modos. |
60 |
|
|
|
Sólo somos tres casados |
|
|
|
pero los demás son muy
enamorados |
|
|
|
algunos andan queriéndose
casar |
|
|
|
Pero aún dicen que se pueden
esperar. |
|
|
|
|
Este poema es dedicado a nuestra
madre |
65 |
|
|
que en este mundo no hay una
más grande |
|
|
|
que sean muy felices las madres en
este día |
|
|
|
especialmente nuestra madre
querida. |
|
|
|
Seduction of the
poetess
|
|
They wanted my poems |
|
|
|
written along my |
|
|
|
thighs |
|
|
|
around my breasts, |
|
|
|
sweetened |
5 |
|
|
at the tips, |
|
|
|
shriveled grapes |
|
|
|
woven into the |
|
|
|
long strands of |
|
|
|
my black hair. |
10 |
|
|
|
They wanted my poems |
|
|
|
to end there... |
|
|
|
in homage |
|
|
|
to them |
|
|
|
in honor |
15 |
|
|
of a ceremony |
|
|
|
where each piece |
|
|
|
of clothing |
|
|
|
is tossed |
|
|
|
to the floor: |
20 |
|
|
|
«Another glass of wine, |
|
|
|
monsieur». |
|
|
|
|
Yes, the lady wants |
|
|
|
another glass; is |
|
|
|
her speech slurring |
25 |
|
|
yet, is her face flushed; |
|
|
|
will she mind much if |
|
|
|
I don't want to take her |
|
|
|
home? |
|
|
|
|
«Another glass of wine, |
30 |
|
|
monsieur...» |
|
|
|
|
His grin reveals his |
|
|
|
secret. |
|
|
|
|
«Another glass of wine, |
|
|
|
monsieur, before i go... |
35 |
|
|
because i will go, i will |
|
|
|
carefully put on my coat |
|
|
|
and with infinite patience |
|
|
|
place each button into its hole; |
|
|
|
with perfect balance take |
40 |
|
|
each step to the door... |
|
|
|
and forget to leave |
|
|
|
nothing |
|
|
|
but a poem scrawled |
|
|
|
on your bathroom wall. |
45 |
|
|
|
»Monsieur, it was made |
|
|
|
especially for you. |
|
|
|
There are no other |
|
|
|
poems |
|
|
|
to be written tonight. |
50 |
|
|
|
»Monsieur has sent them |
|
|
|
scurrying off like |
|
|
|
soft rabbits in meadows |
|
|
|
or huge grey rats in |
|
|
|
damp basements...». |
55 |
|
|
Thoughts on a Late
August Night
|
|
i've been thinking... |
|
|
|
(yes, that's a nasty little habit |
|
|
|
i've never been able to break, |
|
|
|
try as i do) |
|
|
|
that the simple phrase |
5 |
|
|
i love you |
|
|
|
is not at all what it's been |
|
|
|
made out to be. |
|
|
|
|
i'm sure there was a time |
|
|
|
when its mere utterance |
10 |
|
|
provoked wars |
|
|
|
conquered nations |
|
|
|
changed the structure |
|
|
|
of the world map |
|
|
|
and in general, |
15 |
|
|
made for some very good times |
|
|
|
between the declarer |
|
|
|
and the lucky recipient. |
|
|
|
|
But now it seems, at least |
|
|
|
in my humble opinion |
20 |
|
|
and in my avid observational |
|
|
|
mind, |
|
|
|
that it is used in place |
|
|
|
of something else... |
|
|
|
that one for personal reasons |
25 |
|
|
is avoiding to define; |
|
|
|
that in fact |
|
|
|
what was actually meant by |
|
|
|
i love you |
|
|
|
might have been: |
30 |
|
|
|
i know what's best for you |
|
|
|
therefore what will be best |
|
|
|
for me. |
|
|
|
i love you... |
|
|
|
and you promised! |
35 |
|
|
i love you... so |
|
|
|
where were you last night? |
|
|
|
on and on. |
|
|
|
|
It would suffice to say |
|
|
|
in my conclusion |
40 |
|
|
i love you |
|
|
|
is a construed illusion |
|
|
|
that serves as a basis |
|
|
|
for confusion |
|
|
|
to both parties |
45 |
|
|
and if we could honestly say |
|
|
|
what it is that |
|
|
|
we really want, |
|
|
|
what we really need |
|
|
|
there would doubtlessly be |
50 |
|
|
a statistical reduction |
|
|
|
in broken hearts... |
|
|
|
and perhaps even |
|
|
|
broken heads. |
|
|
|
|
But then of course |
55 |
|
|
as i previously stated |
|
|
|
i was only thinking |
|
|
|
just now as this late August night |
|
|
|
refused to end |
|
|
|
and finding myself quite |
60 |
|
|
embarrassingly alone |
|
|
|
without the option to hear it or |
|
|
|
to say it |
|
|
|
the irony of the situation |
|
|
|
demanded my attention. |
65 |
|
|
|
As i said before... |
|
|
|
i was only thinking |
|
|
|
(a nasty little habit i've never |
|
|
|
been able to break). |
|
|
|
Poem
13
|
|
i too |
|
|
|
can say |
|
|
|
good bye |
|
|
|
effortlessly |
|
|
|
silently |
5 |
|
|
|
i too |
|
|
|
can remove |
|
|
|
myself |
|
|
|
from an undesired |
|
|
|
space |
10 |
|
|
turn about face |
|
|
|
march forward |
|
|
|
never |
|
|
|
look over |
|
|
|
my shoulder |
15 |
|
|
|
i too |
|
|
|
control |
|
|
|
memory |
|
|
|
erase unnecessary |
|
|
|
experience |
20 |
|
|
deromanticize |
|
|
|
romance |
|
|
|
|
i too |
|
|
|
can wind |
|
|
|
tomorrow |
25 |
|
|
around me |
|
|
|
without company |
|
|
|
(freeze my |
|
|
|
womb) |
|
|
|
publicize my |
30 |
|
|
birth |
|
|
|
given name |
|
|
|
|
i too |
|
|
|
can be my |
|
|
|
mother's child |
35 |
|
|
because my father's |
|
|
|
extension |
|
|
|
improved upon |
|
|
|
|
i too |
|
|
|
can go on |
40 |
|
|
gesticulating |
|
|
|
courage |
|
|
|
profess pride |
|
|
|
|
i too |
|
|
|
am worth |
45 |
|
|
that much |
|
|
|
|
i too |
|
|
|
could live |
|
|
|
satisfied |
|
|
|
with all my |
50 |
|
|
acts |
|
|
|
|
content |
|
|
|
amidst my |
|
|
|
ignorance. |
|
|
|
Invierno
salvaje
|
|
Invierno Salvaje- |
|
|
|
¿Atentas matarnos? |
|
|
|
|
|
Las fábricas |
5 |
|
|
nos esperan |
|
|
|
y la voz |
|
|
|
del mayordomo |
|
|
|
es aún más |
|
|
|
fuerte |
10 |
|
|
que la tuya. |
|
|
|
|
Las oficinas |
|
|
|
de la Torre Sears |
|
|
|
Los «Steel Mills» |
|
|
|
y la multitud |
15 |
|
|
de tiendas y mercados |
|
|
|
nos llaman |
|
|
|
día tras día |
|
|
|
noche tras noche- |
|
|
|
|
|
el recuerdo del hambre |
|
|
|
que sentimos antes |
|
|
|
nos obliga a |
|
|
|
contestar. |
|
|
|
|
Somos las
«maquinitas» |
25 |
|
|
que brillan los pisos |
|
|
|
de los hospitales |
|
|
|
y cada vidrio del |
|
|
|
John Hancock. |
|
|
|
|
¿Crees que tu mordida |
30 |
|
|
brava que congela |
|
|
|
los pies y azulea |
|
|
|
las manos |
|
|
|
nos cortará |
|
|
|
el circuito? |
35 |
|
|
|
No, Invierno Salvaje, |
|
|
|
No. |
|
|
|
Aunque recordamos |
|
|
|
esa tierra seca |
|
|
|
un sol constante |
40 |
|
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playas blancas |
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las palmas que bailaban |
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en la brisa. |
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Son lujos |
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de turistas |
45 |
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el gobernador |
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y el presidente |
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de la compañía. |
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Nada más que un |
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recuerdo para |
50 |
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nosotros. |
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Entonces, te suplico |
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de parte de cada uno |
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¡vete ya! Vete. |
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Que nos llama |
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algo más grande |
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y amenazante |
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que tú: |
60 |
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A variation on a
Dostoevski Theme
|
Canto I
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I laid there with face buried in soiled
hands; |
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the feeling of piercing eyes forced me
upward. |
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A shadowy figura of a 13th century Spanish
Inquisitor |
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with an obscurely black face:
indistinguishable, |
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empty face, no contours, no shape, no
form. |
5 |
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The face of Mephistopheles has no form- |
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Marlowe was a goddam liar; |
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«Are you ready for the
sentencing?» |
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a deep hollow voice inquired; |
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«What have I done?» |
10 |
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I refused to accept the kafkaesque fate of
Mankind; |
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«Prepare your soul and body for the First
Circle!!!» |
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«What have I done?» I echoed. |
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No more said than done. |
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A million apparitions manifested
themselves: |
15 |
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the treacherous doña Malinche pointed at
me; |
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La Llorona cried for me; Ivan Karamazov
kissed |
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my forehead; I even felt the Albatross
around |
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my neck. |
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Then a bright red neon sign: NO EXIT |
20 |
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Without warning the hooded apparition |
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unveiled himself: Hernán Cortez; |
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the false prophet Quetzalcoatl; |
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a hundred screaming voices of my brothers
moaned: |
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chicanos, mestizos, indios, batos locos. |
25 |
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«What is my fate?» -I asked |
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«Your fate is far worse than your
forefathers: |
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it is the verdict of this tribunal that
your |
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predecessors be plagued with schisms, that
the |
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New World bathe its soil with your sweat,
that |
30 |
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your children be schizoid, never knowing
their |
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identity; and may their
bilingual-biculturalism |
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suffer Title IV bureaucratic manipulation and
degradation». |
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Canto II
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A million configurations crossed my mental
path |
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mo shape, no form: |
35 |
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perhaps my deed against this nocturnal
visitor |
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was arrogance toward the Watchtower babbler,
or |
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perhaps my Prufrockian sensibility toward
humanity, |
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or the Sartrean nightmare of no material
Hell. |
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It's only my imagination: A sweet slumber |
40 |
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of Borgesian dimensions and
re-vitalizations; |
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«You, Emiliano Moctezuma, are hereby
charged |
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with heresy, with impious treason to the
Rock's |
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foundation, with spreading the word of
Being |
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and Nothingness». |
45 |
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«Who are you to judge me if you are
merely |
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a product of nothingness and
intangibility», |
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I defiantly rebuked. |
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«A tabula rasa», I yelled. «Let me
awake!!!» |
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Canto III
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I awoke to find my body transcending
Husserlian |
50 |
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interpretation: no shape, no face. |
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I saw the haunting figuras obscuras of
Gregor |
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Samsa, the hung bastard Smerdyakov, and
the |
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leader Oedipus: patricide con toto. |
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Another figura appeared: «We are the
guardians |
55 |
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of established literary criticism, the
religion |
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of the literati». |
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«There is no such thing as literary
criticism», |
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I rebuked. «It's a terrible myth: a la
Susan |
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Sontag Against
Interpretation». |
60 |
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«Even your people have succumbed to it, it
is |
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inevitable, your people have trekked
across |
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the Wasteland in search of the Citadel of
Reason». |
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«Yes», I replied, «it is written:
our chroniclers |
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still celebrate its coming
prophecy». |
65 |
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«Yes, we have kept record of Ricardo
Sánchez, Alurista, |
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Omar Salinas, Tino Villanueva, Nephtali De
León: the |
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mythmakers of contemporary Chicano poetry», the
voice answered. |
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«It is sad that there is no such
sanctuary: |
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for vapid dreams do not make
reality». |
70 |
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«Lies! Lies! Lies!» |
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«Let me argue my rationale so that you may know
why |
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such dreams as Aztlán must
survive». |
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«I'm listening, mortal!» the cloaked
visitor quipped. |
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Canto IV
|
|
To this form I argued thus: |
75 |
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«Before Zeus, before the myth of Cyclops and
the three |
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headed Cerberus, before Hercules, before Joyce's
Ulysses, |
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before the hundred fabrications, did the Aztec's
Omeyocán |
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the thirteenth heaven-establish the altar for poets
and gods: |
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Ometechtli, Omecihuatl, Tezcatlipoca and the
legendary |
80 |
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Tonatiuh, still wails the streets of Los Angeles and
San Antonio. |
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|
It was the pseudo-Western man of knowledge that
stifled |
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the birth of Aztlán literature; it was this
institution |
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that raped the fertile mind of creativity; that
killed |
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and subordinated style, technique, narrative, plot,
meter |
85 |
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and character into quaint, pre-packaged instruments
of bourgeois divisions; |
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no I'm not advocating «fart pour fart»
sake, |
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since I transcend petty Aristotelian dichotomies; I
am not asking |
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neither favor nor attention. I merely acknowledge the
respectability |
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of literatura Chicana». |
90 |
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«Enough, fool!!!» |
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«Now let me rebuke your charges!» the
voice thundered. |
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«You cannot reverse the impossible: your people
and hence |
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your art is petty, cheap and non-aesthetic. Who cares
about |
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|
barrio literature, about plumed serpents if it's
not D. H. Lawrence, |
95 |
|
|
about Hummingbird-on-the-left; we too use George
Lukacs' |
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|
methodology to our advantage since a sword cuts both
ways». |
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«You can't reverse the trend of Chicano
literature», I replied. |
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|
«Already the birth of many small journals
and |
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magazines is testimony that the cliched "sleeping
giant" |
100 |
|
|
is an awakening literary leviathan; Western
civilization |
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|
will have no choice but to praise the mammoth works
of |
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estos indios that promote las Letras
nobles. |
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|
As such, we are free to create», I
ended. |
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|
The cape-hooded Inquisitor laughed. |
105 |
|
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«Freiheit ist nur in dem Reich de Traume,
hahahahahaha!!!». |
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Yet in my dreams doth reality exist. |
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Canto V
|
|
I felt the running sweat over my eyes; the shaking
limbs |
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|
that dominated my body; soon the morning sunrays
shone |
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|
|
on my sweaty face. I was underground. |
110 |
|
|
«Is it time?» |
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|
Walking through the dark corridors of
error |
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|
I remembered that Miracle, Mystery and
Authority |
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|
|
had also been the cornerstone of Western
ideology: |
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|
|
give the masses mystery: Genre,
stream-of-consciousness. |
115 |
|
|
technique, avante-garde; give them miracle:
Science-fiction, |
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|
|
Hardcore, Gothic, Bellow, Mailer, Fowles,
Pound; |
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|
and lastly, give them authority: Welleck, Eliot,
Howe, Rahv, |
|
|
|
these are the scapels of literary criticism; these
are the |
|
|
|
yardsticks that Western ideology measures
Aztlán. |
120 |
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|
|
Canto VI
|
|
Finally, moving from the grip of the
Inquisitor; |
|
|
|
moving from the dark cave of literary
criticism; |
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|
|
moving away from the wretched icons of
quasi-art, |
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|
I saw the instruments of wisdom scribbled on
the |
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|
boards: Bright, beautiful murals painted on a
wall. |
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|
Ascending into the bright light of
Aztlán; |
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|
|
I felt the force of wisdom touch my face. |
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|
|
My eyes no longer saw the hooded Spanish
Inquisitor; |
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|
|
instead, a void of ideas: Energy and
Mass. |
|
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|
Down below the poets cry and eulogize; |
|
|
|
lucid and distinguishable: «Here lies
the |
|
|
|
poet of poets, a living monument to
Chicano |
|
|
|
literature». |
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|
