Posts tagged poetry

Lucifer sits beside me with one
blue-jeaned knee pulled up to his chest
and one lanky leg draped over the dock:
“but isn’t pain sort of 
beautiful, in its own way?”
his hair’s the kind of blonde that
holds the sunlight and his eyes
are speckled blue
(but not so beautiful because
he knows i’d be suspicious.)
“and where would art come from?”

“you’re good,” i tell him
as he picks at his guitar.

he shrugs with a small
quirk of a smile. “would you really
want to be perfect?”

“i don’t know,” i say. “i
don’t know what perfect
looks like.”

the dusky sunlight shows the
rogue freckle aside his nose and
the teeth that are slightly
(charmingly)
crooked. “why do you think i
fell?”

he doesn’t need an answer, but
my silence is one.
“you’re good,”
i say again.

“i know.”

the Adversary picks out
hey there delilah on the acoustic.
“you’d miss it.”

“maybe.”

“you’d want a minor
chord. a piece of
poetry. something real.”

“how’d you get so good at
twisting people?”

another smile.
“years of
practice.”

“maybe you’re
wrong.”

“and maybe i’m not.”

i pause.

“i guess we’ll find out.” 

Hello, all! Happy Friday! Hope you’re having a wonderful afternoon, maybe sitting and writing in a coffee shop while waiting to meet with an old friend, like me.

This morning, my little sister had an appointment, and I was sitting in a waiting room reading one of the books they’d left out for families to peruse while they wait. I found the language of the book to be a bit contrived and its underlying philosophy somewhat contrived, but the chapter I read actually hit upon a good point: it underlined and explained the power of words, both spoken and written, and the extent to which society, though deeply affected by it, tends to ignore this. 

It occurs to me that a lot of the things I’m trying to do this year, and more broadly, a lot of the things on my 101 list, are directly related to words and their use. In fact, three of my four year-long goals are about words: blogging once a week, writing a poem a week, and submitting writing once a week. Of course, it’s hard to think of a part of my life words don’t touch: I’m a sister, daughter, writer, actor, singer, reader, academic, negotiator, mentor, Bible study leader, student, etc.: words couldn’t be more relevant to me, in both their spoken and written forms.

This got me thinking that maybe I’d give myself a focus this year. I realize that I need to pay more attention to words and their power. I want to pay more attention to the words I surround myself with, how I allow myself to be affected by words, what words I choose to speak, and how I use words in writing. Language has the power to completely change people’s perceptions and attitudes about themselves and the world. I want to use words as effectively, truthfully, sincerely, and positively as possible in my interactions with the world, and I want to be cognizant of how the words of others, spoken, written, or sung, affect me.

I want to speak, write, and pray with more clarity, assertiveness, authenticity, purpose, and love. I want to surround myself with words of positivity, encouragement, truth, and love. I want to say and write what I mean without using fluff words that have no purpose or words that dilute my opinions and convictions. I want to learn to be diplomatic and loving without being halfhearted. I want to use and receive words as a blessing, not a curse. I want to read the Word of God and acknowledge that without God’s creativity, I would have no creativity or language myself.

There’s a reason that the closest way the Bible can explain creation is through telling us that God spoke the universe into existence, that the way John describes the Trinity is the Word being with God and being God. Our ability to create and destroy through language is one of the ways we are created in God’s image, and we have to recognize the power and responsibility with which this leaves us. Our words have power, and I want to spend the next year diving into that.

101 things update: I finished something yesterday! One of my items was to finish a knitting project, and we had a knitting party last night. I finished a dark green scarf, which I am currently wearing. It was a simple project, but it still counts. 

Also, since it’s now the new year, several more items are now in progress. However, I also haven’t been getting up to my alarm, so I’m going to have to start that one over. 

That’s my update! Check my sidebar if you’re ever curious how many items I’ve completed or how many I’m currently working on. 

I’m doing this ten day challenge to up my productivity and help me get a handle on my life a little better. I figure that winter break is a good time to do it because I don’t have a lot going on, so it’ll be easier for me to follow through with this right now. Here’s a link to the challenge, which is fabulous, and I highly recommend it. I’m on day 4. 

One of the interesting things is it tells you to take the weekend of the challenge as a “vacation” away from social media. I don’t count Tumblr, because that’s not how I use it. In any case, I’ve spent the day off Facebook, which is my biggest time-sucker. I’ve done this before, but it’s weird doing this while I’m home for Christmas, because I keep wanting to share what I’m doing and how wonderful home is.

This brought me to an epiphany. Facebook kills my writing. Here’s why: after spending a rare and wonderful home-cooked brunch with my family and basking in being home for Christmas, my impulse is to stick up a quick Facebook status about it.

What’s wrong with that? Well, I realized that there’s easily a poem in that moment, or an impression, or a blog post, or something that requires more creativity and thought and wordsmithing than a simple, “Brunch with the family. :)”

I keep wondering how it is that I’ve only written three poems over the course of the past semester, and I think I may have hit upon why, as well as my struggle to blog consistently. I’m spending all my magic sparks and creative moments on inane Facebook statuses that no one does more than glance at and pass over, maybe “liking” it or dashing down a quick comment. It doesn’t make anybody feel anything, except maybe the quickest of smiles. But I would bet there’s often not even that. And it doesn’t make me a better writer or force me to think or allow me to craft something beautiful.

I’m not sure what I’m going to do with this realization. I’ve come to terms with the fact that it’s absolutely not feasible for me to get rid of my Facebook, because that’s how I keep in touch with people. I have friends out of the state and out of the country, people organize events, and honestly, that’s even sometimes where homework questions get answered and quick chats happen. Of course, there are other ways to communicate, but I would miss important events and reaching out to my friends and family who are far away would be much more difficult. I’m far too much of a people person to allow that to happen.

But something’s got to change. It’s costing me as a writer. And, whatever else I may be and however that may change, I am and always will be a writer. It’s in the way I think, how I see, what I do, and who I am. So if I’m serious about being a better writer, this is something I have to take care of. I’ll keep you updated—and I think I’m going to start by taking every weekend off of Facebook. I’ve changed my settings so that direct messages and timeline posts go to my email, so I won’t miss any direct important communications. But other than that, cold turkey. So I’m trying.

This version loses a little in translation, so check out the bilingual version if you can.

We are the memory
Of vast empires snaking through the Amazon
Of great peoples and high temples
Of Quiche and Kechua and culture
They couldn’t wipe out, no matter how hard
They tried.

We are the pain
Of nations decimated for their
Gold and silver
Nations with roots deep as
The mountains they blew open
With hearts strong as
The people they enslaved in the mountain
Stripping the riches from their own soil
Hail Mary, full of grace…

We are the spirit
Of the Virgin of Guadalupe
Of the Spanish church and
the native gods and
the mixture of spirits from two
Disconnected worlds.
The spirit of the Church
That controlled everything
And everyone.

We are the fight
For independence
The struggle that finally burst
From a land controlled by
Aliens across the ocean with their
Gold and silver
Their
”Civilization.”

Read more …

Somos la memoria
Of vast empires snaking through the Amazon
Of great peoples and high temples
Of Quiche and Kechua and cultura
They couldn’t wipe out, no matter how hard
They tried.

Somos el dolor
Of nations decimated for their
Oro y plata
Nations with roots deep as
The mountains they blew open
With hearts strong as
The people they enslaved in the mountain
Stripping the riches from their own soil
Hail Mary, full of grace…

Somos el espíritu
Of the Virgin of Guadalupe
Of the Spanish church and
the native gods and
la mezcla of spirits from two
Disconnected worlds.
El espíritu de la Iglesia
That controlled everything
And everyone.

Somos la lucha
Por la independencia
The struggle that finally burst
From a land controlled by
Aliens across the ocean with their
Oro y plata
Their
“Civilización.”

Somos el liberalismo
Sending our crops
To strangers and
Bringing in the luxuries
Created by the roaring
Twenties
That we cannot afford

El nacionalismo
Of a people tired of hating
And being hated for their history—
Ready to paint murales
A celebrar Kahlo y Rivera
A recordar los raíces

El populismo
Of a people who wanted a leader to listen
Of a leader who smiled
And promised
And changed nothing
Of Evita
Primera dama, pasionante,
Actriz.

Somos la industria
A movement to stop our dependency.
“Developmentalism”
Developing our
Brown skies and gray earth
And destruction of our land
Filled with our gods
So they will stop destroying
Our nation
Filled with our people

Somos las víctimas 
De la dictadura
We are the Mothers and Grandmothers
The Leftists
Noche de los Lápices
Students, unionists, “subversivos”
We are the French nuns
We are the pregnant women screaming
From inside soccer stadiums.
And we are the Church,
Silent and stolid.

Somos el neoliberalismo
La desigualdad
In the palm of the IMF and
World Bank
Raped by foreign capital
Tearing down our own countries
With the same hands that so painstakingly
Protected our markets,
Handing the pieces
To Walmart
McDonald’s
And Coca Cola

Somos la democracia de infancia
Picking up the pieces
The junta left behind:
Promising housing
Concertación with all
But leaving the people
Demobilized and 
Demoralized
De-democratized
Unable to stand up to
The government they 
Had elected

Somos la generación de jóvenes
Rising up to take our place
In remembering
And moving forward
Los líderes indígenas
Chewing coca leaves
And writing el espíritu
Into a new constitution
A nation of Aymara and
Latinoamericanos

Somos la herencia
Of a democratic pendulum
Swinging back and forth
Colony to independence
Racial control to equal say
Democracia to dictadura
And back again
But we are on the upswing
Of Correa and Morales
Of constitutions and change
Of yelling to be heard
But finally getting a response

Somos el desarrollo
In fits and spurts
Throughout our existence:
“Development”
Through racism and mining
Blancura y progreso
Eurocentrism to nationalism
Exports to industrialization
To free markets and 
comparative advantage
To backlash against
Neoliberal inequality
To the pink tide
Engulfing us in efforts to 
Finally change things

Vamos caminando
But we have far to go
Our neighborhoods
Run by cárteles de drogas
Our poblaciones
Empty of the promises
They made to our people
Of community centers
Parks and Laundromats

Todavía luchamos contra el racismo
City folk who spit at our
Presidente indígena
Maquiladores
That take advantage
In the name of “development”
And a world that
Marginalizes us
As the secondary America
Vulnerable and ignorant

Vadeamos por
The mess left by privatization
La fuga de cerebros
The refuse of greedy corporations
Millones en la deuda externa
Still in the palms of
Foreign nations
Dangling our debt over our
Impoverished heads

Todavía luchamos
Luchamos siempre
For equality and recognition
For dignity and security
Forming collaboratives
Running hotels
Pushing for pride and
Communication and
Regional autonomy

Latinoamérica
Is a changing place
Still settling into its
Democratic stance
Trying on and throwing out
Different last names
Reconciling its pasts
And trying to fit them to 
A future

Sabemos quiénes somos
And we remember the past
That has painstakingly
Constructed our identity
Brick by brick
Regime by regime
Paradigm by paradigm

Somos desiguales
Inciertos
Inestables
Inseguros
Explotados
But we are strong
And we are fighting
And inch by inch
We are moving forward 

Portrait of a late December morning
etched in glass and ice 
the air so still that your breath hangs in a frozen fog
suspended until the ringing of the cathedral bells shatter it
and it falls to the ground tinkling like crystals
a December morning so cold
that your nose loses feeling before you even have a chance to cross your threshold
the wind glitters in the trees
collecting crushed leaves like forgotten memories and swirling them around in the
still freeze that wraps itself around the old churches
time stops here
waiting
breath suspended
for the next moment that the world starts to turn again
and breaks itself out of this
December eternity
this December moment
in the late morning
when frost covers the earth in a thin layer of incredulity
and reality forgets itself
as it watches the stars spin about
and the impossible become slowly possible
in the thinning of the veil between worlds that December always brings
you never know what you’ll see this time of year
what you’ll hear
nothing is certain
December whispers that it’s the month of death
but it lies
December is month of waiting
hanging
suspended
outstretched millimeters from touching flesh
mouth open
breathing into what could be a kiss
in one interminable moment 
of silence
as the world refuses to turn
refuses to advance to that next moment when
eternity will break into this dimension
shattering all our illusions so instead
the world
waits 

My mother gave me her love of cemeteries
And words—those carved into stone monoliths
As well as those scrawled across the back of
Receipt paper and notepads stained with old
Coffee drippings. She gave me skinned knees
From kneeling in front of gravestones taking
Rubbings of the names and strange symbols,
Of the stories clawing out of the stale, dead
Earth or bursting through the broken door of the
Old mausoleum. She gave me lips
Stained with letters and ears eager to
Eavesdrop on the melodic conversations of
Eccentric strangers. She showed me the mist that only
Gathers at 4:07 in the morning in late October
When the leaves crisscross the tops of graves
Yet to be dug. She taught me to hear the
Murmurs in the ground around coffee shops
And subway stations and dark clearings when the
Moon hits just right. We are words, stone, mist,
And eyes, with dirt on our knees and callouses
On our fingers from gripping the pen so
Tight we felt we might break right through
The thin veil that covers the
Graves and syllables, ghosts and symbols.
In my open palms lies my inheritance:
Death, shrouded dreams, and creation.