National Poetry Month
Soneto I
By Dennis J Bock
Como la fruta plastica espera que sea devorada
O las redes lanzadas segando un mar vacio,
Los minutos mudos caigan como arboles Amazonas
En el remanso del Tiempo.
¡Fantasma! Te acuestas conmigo adentro en el silencio
Con tus ojos fríos, lejos estas de mi corazón.
Aqui me dejastes un necrofilio
Y tu, una constelación.
¿Dónde encuentro el revelo por mi suplicio?
Te pregunto, ¿que es la definición del amor
Sino tu imagen a la hora de mi descanso?
Pero perdistes la sensación del temblor
Dejando una memoria en mi campo
Y buscando a otro conquistador.
Photo: Evgeni Dinev
I come from the Mountains
By Jessica Leal
I come from the mountains.
From the burning sun,
Responsible for my grandma’s bronze skin;
I come from the torrent waves
Of a river that tastes Freedom when it reaches the sea.
I come from the hills that wish to become mountains,
I come from fields of corn and chili peppers,
From freshly slaughtered meat,
From unpasteurized milk,
From raw passion.
From pure will.
I come from a people God did not choose,
There’s no Jacob in my family.
From my grandpa’s calloused hands,
From my grandma’s broken nails,
From my parents’ broken dreams.
I come from the fresh smell of blood,
From violence and thirst,
From midnight gang fights
And gunshots, and stones, and fists.
I come from the sight of a thirteen year-old boy
Sniffing glue from a paper bag
At the corner of my elementary school.
I come from the sight of a homeless 40 year-old man,
Who lost his right foot to gangrene
And the terrible screams he uttered
as I stared at his pain, every day, as I walked down the street.
I come from a long line of Wondering
My great-grandpa,
He wondered what was behind the mountain
That protected the sun from the darkness;
He wondered if there was more to Life
Than waking up before dawn to feed his animals,
To plant his crops.
I come from my mother’s pain,
From my mother’s dream to taste an apple,
From the sight of my 12 year-old mother
Riding a bus to the city to work as a maid.
I come from my mother’s loneliness,
I come from her fierce strength.
I come from my 5-year-old shoeless father,
Who stared at his brand-new shoes every night,
Afraid to wear them;
They were the only thing he had
And they were new,
He would clean them until they shined;
He never wore them, not once.
I come from a man who took a chance,
Who, at 16, left his house
To dream of a brighter future,
Dare dream the American dream.
I come from my father’s fearlessness,
From his desire to Live.
I come from the sound of rolling R’s
Like boiling Anger,
But a softer sound of Love,
A deeper sense of pain.
I come from the mountains,
From a torrent river’s desire to be Free.
I’ve seen what’s behind the mountain,
I know that’s not all there is.
I come from a long line of Sacrifice,
From a long line of Hope.
And as I look ahead to my future,
I know I am not alone.
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