22 July 2014

Alma Luz Villanueva. Poesía chicana (6)


WITCHES' BLOOD

power of my blood, your secret
wrapped in ancient tongues
spoken by men who claimed themselves
gods and priests and oracles – they
made elaborate rituals
secret chants and extolled the cycles,
calling women unclean.
men have killed
made war
for blood to flow, as naturally
as a woman’s
once a month–
men have roamed the earth to find
the patience of pregnancy
the joy of birth–
the renewal of blood.
(the awful, bloody secret: O woman
you dare birth
yourself)
call me witch
call me hag
call me sorceress
call me mad
call me woman. Do not
call me goddess.
I do not want that position.

I prefer to gaze in wonder, once
a month at my
witches’ blood.


SANGRE DE BRUJA

Fuerza de mi sangre, tu secreto
envuelto en lenguas antiguas
habladas por hombres que se consideraban
dioses y curas y oráculos – ellos
crearon complejos rituales
cánticos secretos
y alabaron los ciclos, llamando
a las mujeres impuras.

Los hombres mataron
hicieron la guerra
para que la sangre fluyera naturalmente,
como la de una mujer,
una vez al mes–

Los hombres deambularon por la Tierra para encontrar
la paciencia del embarazo
el júbilo del nacimiento–

La renovación de la sangre
(el terrible, sangriento secreto: Oh, mujer,
tú que osas nacer
en ti).

Llámame bruja
llámame arpía
llámame hechicera
llámame loca
llámame mujer.
No me llames diosa.
No quiero esa posición.

Prefiero contemplar asombrada,
una vez al mes,
mi sangre de bruja.


Traducción de Beatriz Viol


Alma Luz Villanueva (1944, Lompoc, California). Es una poeta mexicana-estadounidense y escritora de relatos cortos y novela. Entre su numerosa obra publicada se encuentra Weeping Woman: La Llorona and Other Stories (Bilingual Press, 1994); Desire (Bilingual Review Press, 1998); Soft Chaos (Bilingual Press/Editorial Bilingüe, 2009). Ha publicado recientemente la novela Song of the Golden Scorpion (Wings Press, 2013) y está prevista próximamente la publicación de su último libro de poemas Gracias.
Más información en su página web y en su blog

7 July 2014

Javier Gálvez. Poesía Chicana (5)


SOMBRAS Y CRISTALES

Tú fuera de la casa
Yo dentro de la casa
La casa dentro de mí
Estás fuera de la ventana
Nos divide el cristal
Nuestras sombras cruzan el cristal
Y en la tierra se unen
Tú hablas y no te oigo
Te oigo y no me hablas
Nos vemos uno al otro
Nos acercamos
                                     Chocamos con el vidrio
Nuestras sombras se unen
No se hablan . . . . . .
                            Imposible
¿Por qué? . . . . . . . . .
                     Sombras y cristales


Encontrado aquí.

17 June 2014

Jo Carrillo. Poesía Chicana (4)


AND WHEN YOU LEAVE, TAKE YOUR PICTURES WITH YOU

Our white sisters
radical friends
love to own pictures of us
sitting at a factory machine
wielding a machete
in our bright bandanas
holding brown yellow black red children
reading books from literacy campaigns
holding machine guns bayonets bombs knives
Our white sisters
radical friends
should think
again.

Our white sisters
radical friends
love to own pictures of us
walking to the fields in the hot sun
with straw hat on head if brown
bandana if black
in bright embroidered shirts
holding brown yellow black red children
reading books from literacy campaigns
smiling.
Our white sisters
should think again.
No one smiles
at the beginning of a day spent
digging for souvenir chunks of uranium
of cleaning up after
our white sisters
radical friends.

And when our white sisters
radical friends see us
in the flesh
not as a picture they own,
they are not quite sure
if
they like us as much.
We’re not as happy as we look
on
their
wall.

From And When You Leave, Take Your Pictures With You, published in This Bridge Called My Back: Writings by Radical Women of Color, 2nd ed., 1983


Y CUANDO SE VAYAN, LLÉVENSE SUS RETRATOS

A nuestras hermanas gringas
amigas radicales
les encanta tener retratos de nosotras
sentadas junto a la máquina de fábricas
manejando un machete
en pañuelos brillantes
cargando niños morenos amarillos negros rojos
leyendo libros de las
campañas contra el analfabetismo
cargando ametralladoras bayonetas bombas navajas
Nuestras hermanas blancas
amigas radicales
deben pensarlo
de nuevo.

A nuestras hermanas gringas
amigas radicales
les encanta tener retratos de nosotras
andando por el sembrado en el sol ardiente
con sombrero de paja si somos morenas
pañuelo si somos negras
en faldas de tejido brillante
cargando niños morenos amarillos negros rojos
leyendo libros de las campañas contra el analfabetismo
sonriendo.
Nuestras hermanas gringas amigas radicales
deben pensarlo de nuevo.

Nadie se sonríe
al dar frente al día
excavando pedazos de uranio como recuerdos
o limpiando detrás de
nuestras hermanas gringas
amigas radicales

Y cuando nuestras hermanas gringas
amigas radicales nos ven
en carne viva
no como su propio retrato,
no están muy seguras
si
les encantamos tanto.
No somos tan felices como nos vemos
en
su
pared.


En Esta puente, mi espalda, Voces de mujeres tercermundistas en los Estados Unidos, editado por Cherríe Moraga y Ana Castillo y traducido por Ana Castillo y Norma Alarcón, Ism Press, San Francisco: 1988


Jo Carrillo (USA, 1959) is a Professor of Law at Hastings College of Law, where she joined the faculty in 1991. She received her B.A. degree from Stanford University (1981), her J.D. from the University of New Mexico (1986), and returned to Stanford University where for her J.S.D. degree (1996). Professor Carillo teaches American Indian Law, Critical Race Theory, Property, Wills and Trusts. Her poetry appears in This Bridge Called My Back: Writings by Radical Women of Color and has been published in German and Spanish.

From here.

9 June 2014

Gloria Anzaldúa. Poesía chicana (3)


TO LIVE IN THE BORDERLANDS

To live in the borderlands means you
      are neither hispana india negra espanola
      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 voice,
      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 scattered 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.


Found here


VIVIR EN LA FRONTERA

Vivir en la Frontera significa que tú
      no eres ni hispana india negra española
      ni gabacha, eres mestiza, mulata, híbrida
      atrapada en el fuego cruzado entre los bandos
      mientras llevas las cinco razas sobre tu espalda
      sin saber para qué lado volverte, de cuál correr;

Vivir en la Frontera significa saber
      que la india en ti, traicionada por 500 años,
      ya no te está hablando,
      que las mexicanas te llaman rajetas,
      que negar a la Anglo dentro tuyo
      es tan malo como haber negado a la India o a la Negra;

Cuando vives en la frontera
      la gente camina a través tuyo, el viento roba tu voz,
      eres una burra, buey, un chivo expiatorio,
      anunciadora de una nueva raza,
      mitad y mitad –tanto mujer como hombre, ninguno–
      un nuevo género;

Vivir en la Frontera significa
      poner chile en el borscht,
      comer tortillas de maíz integral,
      hablar Tex-Mex con acento de Brooklyn ;
      ser detenida por la migra en los puntos de control fronterizos;

Vivir en la Frontera significa que luchas duramente para
      resistir el elixir de oro que te llama desde la botella,
      el tirón del cañón de la pistola,
      la soga aplastando el hueco de tu garganta;

En la Frontera
      tú eres el campo de batalla
      donde los enemigos están emparentados entre sí;
      tú estás en casa, una extraña,
      las disputas de límites han sido dirimidas
      el estampido de los disparos ha hecho trizas la tregua
      estás herida, perdida en acción
      muerta, resistiendo;

Vivir en la Frontera significa
      el molino con los blancos dientes de navaja quiere arrancar en tiras
      tu piel rojo-oliva, exprimir la pulpa, tu corazón
      pulverizarte apretarte alisarte
      oliendo como pan blanco pero muerta;

Para sobrevivir en la Frontera
      debes vivir sin fronteras
      ser un cruce de caminos.


Traducción: María Luisa Peralta
Encontrado aquí.


Gloria Anzaldúa (Valle del Río Grande, Texas; 1942 - Santa Cruz, California; 2004). She was a scholar of Chicana cultural theory, feminist theory, and queer theory, writer, poet and activist. Her work is fundamentally concerned with articulating what she calls a "new mestiza consciousness," an identity characterized by hybridity, flexibility, and plurality and focused on the experiences of Chicanas (Mexican American women) and particularly mestizas. Writing fiction, poetry, memoirs, and literary and cultural criticism (sometimes all within the same text), Anzaldúa has helped define and lend authority to women of color as well as gays and lesbians, whom she identifies as empowered by the inclusiveness and expansiveness of mestizaidentity.

Anzaldúa was born on a ranch in south Texas, near the border of Mexico. In her youth, she and her family labored as migrant agricultural workers. Although she felt stifled by the confines of a traditional Chicano home life in which gender roles tended to be rigid and rather limiting, Anzaldúa early found what she calls "an entry into a different way of being" through reading. Defying everyone's expectations, she went to college and earned a B.A. from Pan American University, an M.A. from the University of Texas at Austin, and did graduate work at the University of California at Santa Cruz. She has taught high-school English, been involved in education programs for the children of migrant workers, and taught creative writing and literature at a number of universities. A prolific writer, Anzaldúa has published stories, poems, critical theory, children's books, and a novel (La Prieta). Her work appears in both mainstream publications and alternative presses and journals. Anzaldúa's complex identity as a woman, a Chicana, a mestiza, and a lesbian is reflected in her pioneering contributions to gender studies, Chicano studies, queer theory, and creative writing. Her 1987 book, Borderlands/La Frontera: The New Mestiza, stands as a manifesto of her ideas about culture and identity construction.

From here

21 May 2014

Alejandro Murguía. Poesía chicana (2)


O CALIFORNIA

se fueron
por el camino real
ese largo y triste camino de eucaliptos
en carretas con burros
un montón de frijol y maíz
y llegaron en lowered down chewys
with gafas fileros
speaking about the low life
tomando botellas de tequila
que decían Made in Mexico
hablando tres palabras en inglés
apple pie y coffee
cantando
Vámonos a California
Vámonos a California

se iban
por el alambre
indios de calzón blanco y huarache
y aterrizaban
pochos pachucos perdidos
vatos locos con tatuajes mágicos
de vida y muerte
esperando en las esquinas el big hit
the 5 & 10 of caliente race track
that never came
cantando calladitos por las calles iban
Vámonos a California
Vámonos a California

they came
from New York
New York the big apple
to the big orange
Yorubas Jíbaros Borinquens
regando las calles de bacardí
piel color café oscuro
ojos de verde cocodrilo
y un tun-tun de tambores
de viejas selvas ancestrales
que alguna vez fueron
pero ahora con mil memorias
de viajes mal pagados
Vámonos a California
Vámonos a California
Vámonos a California


O CALIFORNIA

they went
along the Camino Real
that long and sad road of eucalyptus
in carts with donkeys
an enormous heap of beans and corn
and arrived in lowered down chevys
with sunglasses switchblades
speaking about the low life
drinking bottles of tequila
that said Made in Mexico
speaking three words of English
apple pie and coffee
singing
Let's go to California
Let's go to California

they went
through the barbed wire
Indians in white trousers and sandals
and landed
pochos pachucos lost
crazy guys with magical tattoos
of life and death
waiting on corners for the big hit
the 5 & 10 of Caliente Race Track
that never came
singing quietly they went along the streets
Let's go to California
Let's go to California

they came
from New York
New York the big apple
to the big orange
Yorubas Jíbaros Borinquens
watering the streets with Bacardi
skin the color of dark coffee
eyes of crocodile green
and a tun-tun of drums
of old ancestral jungles
that existed at one time
but now with a thousand memories
of voyages badly paid
Let's go to California
Let's go to California
Let's go to California


pochos: Mexican-Americans (derogatory)
pachucos: young Chicanos of the early and middle 1940s; “hoods”
Yorubas: native Indians of Puerto Rico
Jíbaros: Puerto Rican peasant farmers
Borinquens: synonym for Puerto Ricans

From Fiesta en Aztlán. Ed. Toni Empringham. Capra Press, 1982.

Alejandro Murguía (1949) was born in California, but raised in Mexico City. Alejandro Murguía is the author of Southern Front and This War Called Love (both winners of the American Book Award). His non-fiction bookThe Medicine of Memory highlights the Mission District in the 1970s during the Nicaraguan Solidarity movement. He is a founding member and the first director of The Mission Cultural Center. He was a founder of The Roque Dalton Cultural Brigade, and co-editor of Volcán: Poetry From Central America. Currently he is a professor in Latina Latino Studies at San Francisco State University. He is the author of the short story “The Other Barrio” which first appeared in the anthology San Francisco Noir and recently filmed in the street of the Mission District. In poetry he has published Spare Poems, Native Tongue and Stray Poems. He is the Sixth San Francisco Poet Laureate and the first Latino poet to hold the position.


Alejandro Murguia recites a poem with musician and professor Dr. Jose Cuellar (Dr.Loco)
from minute 2:00. 



14 May 2014

Tomás Rivera. Poesía chicana.


M'IJO NO MIRA NADA

Mira, m'ijo, qué rascacielo.
   “Does it reach the sky and heaven?”
Mira, m'ijo, qué carrazo.
   “Can it get to the end of the world?”
Mira, m'ijo, ese soldado.
   “¿Por qué pelea?”
Mira, m'ijo, qué bonita fuente.
   “Yes, but I want to go to the restroom.”
Mira, m'ijo, qué tiendota de J.C. Penney,
   allí trabajarás un día.
   “Do you know the people there, daddy?”
No
   vámonos a casa,
   tú no miras nada.


MY SON DOESN'T SEE A THING

Look, son, what a skycraper.
   “Does it reach the sky and heaven?”
Look, son, what a fine car.
   “Can it get to the end of the world?”
Look, son, see that soldier.
   “Why does he fight?”
Look, son, what a beautiful fountain.
   “Yes, but I want to go to the restroom.”
Look, son, what an enormous J.C. Penney store,
   there is where you will work one day. 
   “Do you know the people there, daddy?”
No
   let's go home,
   you can't see a thing.


From: Fiesta en Aztlán. Ed. Toni Empringham. Capra Press, 1982. 

Tomás Rivera (Crystal City, Texas, 1935- Fontana, California, 1984) was a Chicano author, poet, and educator. He was born in Texas to migrant farm workers, and worked in the fields as a young boy. However, he achieved social mobility through education—earning a degree at Southwest Texas State University (now known as Texas State University), and later a Doctor of Philosophy degree (PhD) at the University of Oklahoma.
His publications include Y no se lo tragó la tierra / The Earth Did Not Part, Always and Other Poems, and numerous articles, monographs, and reports. 

24 April 2014

Margaret Atwood


SIREN SONG

This is the one song everyone
would like to learn: the song
that is irresistible:

the song that forces men
to leap overboard in squadrons
even though they see the beached skulls

the song nobody knows
because anyone who has heard it
is dead, and the others can't remember.

Shall I tell you the secret
and if I do, will you get me
out of this bird suit?

I don't enjoy it here
squatting on this island
looking picturesque and mythical

with these two feathery maniacs,
I don't enjoy singing
this trio, fatal and valuable.

I will tell the secret to you,
to you, only to you.
Come closer. This song

is a cry for help: Help me!
Only you, only you can,
you are unique

at last. Alas
it is a boring song
but it works every time.


From Selected Poems 1965-1975. Copyright © 1974, 1976 by Margaret Atwood. Reprinted with the permission of the author and Houghton Mifflin Company.


EL CANTO DE LA SIRENA

Esta es la única canción que todos
querrían aprender: la canción
irresistible:

la canción que obliga a los hombres
a saltar por la borda en escuadrones
incluso viendo los cráneos en la arena

la canción que nadie conoce
porque cualquiera que la ha oído
está muerto, y los otros no pueden recordarla.

¿Debería contarte el secreto
y si lo hago, me ayudarás
a quitarme este disfraz de pájaro?

No disfruto nada aquí
acuclillada en esta isla
luciendo muy mítica y pintoresca

con estas dos locas emplumadas,
no disfruto cantando
este terceto, funesto y valiosísimo.

Voy a contarte el secreto a ti,
a ti, solamente a ti.
Acércate. Esta canción

es una llamada de auxilio: ¡Ayúdame!
Solo tú, solamente tú serás capaz,
eres único

por fin. Desgraciadamente
es una canción muy aburrida
pero siempre funciona.

Traducción de Andrés Catalán y encontrado en su blog Le Monocle de mon oncle.


Margaret Atwood, (Canada, 1939) is a poet, novelist, literary critic, essayist, environmental activist and feminist. She is a winner of the Arthur C. Clarke Award and Prince of Asturias Award for Literature, has been shortlisted for the Booker Prize five times, winning once, and has been a finalist for the Governor General's Award several times, winning twice. She is also a co-founder of the Writers' Trust of Canada, a non-profit literary organization that seeks to encourage Canada's writing community.

While she is best known for her work as a novelist, she has also published fifteen books of poetry. Many of her poems have been inspired by myths and fairy tales, which have been interests of hers from an early age. Atwood has published short stories in Tamarack Review, Alphabet, Harper's, CBC Anthology, Ms., Saturday Night, and many other magazines. She has also published four collections of stories and three collections of unclassifiable short prose works.

From here.