No rhyme, prose, rhythm. This April, National Poetry Month, has been a quiet one for me. I’ve written one what can be barely be called a poem and the one performance this month wasn’t really poetry either. I just haven’t been feeling it. The day to day has been clouding my inspiration. It feels hard to find beauty or the beauty of tragedy among the chores of mami’hood and my own poor attempts to keep it all together.
I’m not alone. So many of my rwoc friends and mamis also are struggling to segment their lives, dreams, visions, and losses into lines and stanzas. But the meter of their own daily struggle is stronger than the pen, el teclado, vocal chords. No se what is going on pero por lo menos for me and I’m pretty sure for others that our heart is keeping track, recording for when we are ready.
Cuando me di cuenta que al fondo del pozo
ya no quedaba deseos para mi
vacie mis bolsillos
asalte los cojines del sofa
y las alcantarillas.
Cambie las mondas encontradas por balas.
De las latas vacillas
dejados en tu camino
pintadas con las caras de los muertos
y tire mis deseos de plomo
uno por uno
ahorando por un dia soleado.
Que significa cuando ella aparece en mis sueños mas que tu?
En el ultimo
como el imagen de la virgincita
pero no la morena
la original de la biblia
y pinturas de Roma,
ella me da su perdon
armamos un arbolito de navidad
quizas para colocar su hijo
debajo de el
y mi mirada
no se mueve
de su pansa.
It’s National Poetry Month and I want to, desperately need to find/return to the habits I formed years ago when I started this blog(s) and all of it’s incarnations. So I will share pedazos of works – finished and those I am working on everyday of this month.
Over the last few years though something has happened. On stage, on paper, and and on the internet, I’ve censored my voice because I became fearful of the scrutiny, the scalpel, of others’ eyes and their piecing together of my words, creating a story that is not an accurate representation of my feelings – forget history. That’s not to say that poesia, specifically my own, is not a reflection of my narrative. It is. Pero it is my narrative, which feels true only to my corazon pero may not reflect that of others who are intimately involved or who think they are.
Reconozco, I recognize that poetry is often about interpretation, pero only the poet really knows what she meant, or at least she fronts like she does. For me, it is often about what I don’t know. It is about the process unfolding under my pen, beneath the teclado. It is a channeling, lighting my fingers on fire and letting the ashes speak in tongues.
Abuela Lucia, I know you know what I am writing about.
So I do this, without apology pero tambien giving notice que estas son mis palabras. I own them and the place from where they are born. Everything else is just interpretation.