Mis poemas

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