#puerto rican poetry

[feral-ballad]

Julia de Burgos, tr. by Jack Agüeros, from Song of the Simple Truth: The Complete Poems of Julia de Burgos; "Moments"

[Text ID: “Me, inside myself, / always waiting for something / that my mind can’t define.”]

[beastbent]

Hood Aesthetic, by Amy M. Alvarez (2016)

Naturally, broken glass, throbbing bass, a roll of bills and a paper bag passed between the hands of hustlers. Just as true: the rows of corn planted by the family at the end of the street. Even in this leaded soil, stalks grow fat cobs. The squeal and clatter of barefoot children chasing each other on asphalt, tight braids flying, shoes abandoned at the back door, rounds of Happy Birthday to ya! from an open apartment window, the shuffle of sneaker and swish of net from the basketball players beneath. In the morning, I step outside to starlings, wings like oil slicks, construction and the smell of hot tar releasing a wavering haze of heat. I wave to a neighbor sitting on the stoop, shirtless, smiling. What neither of us knows is that he will be dead a year from now. His body will lie at the front steps of our building. His dreadlocks will splay across concrete. Another makeshift altar erected at the lamppost on the corner: candles, silk flowers, laminated pictures, empty liquor bottles. But for today, Al Green’s falsetto wafts across the street, as the blue faces of cornflowers overwhelm the empty lot where a building once burned, as August clutches us to her chest, leaving us slick with possibility.

[manwalksintobar]

Puerto Rican Obituary  // Pedro Pietri

They worked They were always on time They were never late They never spoke back when they were insulted They worked They never took days off that were not on the calendar They never went on strike without permission They worked ten days a week and were only paid for five They worked They worked They worked and they died They died broke They died owing They died never knowing what the front entrance of the first national city bank looks like Juan Miguel Milagros Olga Manuel All died yesterday today and will die again tomorrow passing their bill collectors on to the next of kin All died waiting for the garden of eden to open up again under a new management All died dreaming about america waking them up in the middle of the night screaming: Mira Mira your name is on the winning lottery ticket for one hundred thousand dollars All died hating the grocery stores that sold them make-believe steak and bullet-proof rice and beans All died waiting dreaming and hating Dead Puerto Ricans Who never knew they were Puerto Ricans Who never took a coffee break from the ten commandments to KILL KILL KILL the landlords of their cracked skulls and communicate with their latino souls Juan Miguel Milagros Olga Manuel From the nervous breakdown streets where the mice live like millionaires and the people do not live at all are dead and were never alive Juan died waiting for his number to hit Miguel died waiting for the welfare check to come and go and come again Milagros died waiting for her ten children to grow up and work so she could quit working Olga died waiting for a five dollar raise Manuel died waiting for his supervisor to drop dead so he could get a promotion Is a long ride from Spanish Harlem to long island cemetery where they were buried First the train and then the bus and the cold cuts for lunch and the flowers that will be stolen when visiting hours are over Is very expensive Is very expensive But they understand Their parents understood Is a long non-profit ride from Spanish Harlem to long island cemetery Juan Miguel Milagros Olga Manuel All died yesterday today and will die again tomorrow Dreaming Dreaming about queens Clean-cut lily-white neighborhood Puerto Ricanless scene Thirty-thousand-dollar home The first spics on the block Proud to belong to a community of gringos who want them lynched Proud to be a long distance away from the sacred phrase: Que Pasa These dreams These empty dreams from the make-believe bedrooms their parents left them are the after-effects of television programs about the ideal white american family with black maids and latino janitors who are well train— to make everyone and their bill collectors laugh at them and the people they represent Juan died dreaming about a new car Miguel died dreaming about new anti-poverty programs Milagros died dreaming about a trip to Puerto Rico Olga died dreaming about real jewelry Manuel died dreaming about the irish sweepstakes They all died like a hero sandwich dies in the garment district at twelve o’clock in the afternoon social security number to ashes union dues to dust They knew they were born to weep and keep the morticians employed as long as they pledge allegiance to the flag that wants them destroyed They saw their names listed in the telephone directory of destruction They were train to turn the other cheek by newspapers that mispelled mispronounced and misunderstood their names and celebrated when death came and stole their final laundry ticket They were born dead and they died dead Is time to visit sister lopez again the number one healer and fortune card dealer in Spanish Harlem She can communicate with your late relatives for a reasonable fee Good news is guaranteed Rise Table Rise Table death is not dumb and disable— Those who love you want to know the correct number to play Let them know this right away Rise Table Rise Table death is not dumb and disable Now that your problems are over and the world is off your shoulders help those who you left behind find financial peace of mind Rise Table Rise Table death is not dumb and disable If the right number we hit all our problems will split and we will visit your grave on every legal holiday Those who love you want to know the correct number to play let them know this right away We know your spirit is able Death is not dumb and disable RISE TABLE RISE TABLE Juan Miguel Milagros Olga Manuel All died yesterday today and will die again tomorrow Hating fighting and stealing broken windows from each other Practicing a religion without a roof The old testament The new testament according to me gospel of the internal revenue the judge and jury and executioner protector and eternal bill collector Secondhand shit for sale learn how to say Como Esta Usted and you will make a fortune They are dead They are dead and will not return from the dead until they stop neglecting the art of their dialogue— for broken english lessons to impress the mister goldsteins— who keep them employed as lavaplatos porters messenger boys factory workers maids stock clerks shipping clerks assistant mailroom assistant, assistant assistant to the assistant’s assistant assistant lavaplatos and automatic artificial smiling doormen for the lowest wages of the ages and rages when you demand a raise because is against the company policy to promote SPICS SPICS SPICS Juan died hating Miguel because Miguel’s used car was in better running condition than his used car Miguel died hating Milagros because Milagros had a color television set and he could not afford one yet Milagros died hating Olga because Olga made five dollars more on the same job Olga died hating Manuel because Manuel had hit the numbers more times than she had hit the numbers Manuel died hating all of them Juan Miguel Milagros and Olga because they all spoke broken english more fluently than he did And now they are together in the main lobby of the void Addicted to silence Off limits to the wind Confine to worm supremacy in long island cemetery This is the groovy hereafter the protestant collection box was talking so loud and proud about Here lies Juan Here lies Miguel Here lies Milagros Here lies Olga Here lies Manuel who died yesterday today and will die again tomorrow Always broke Always owing Never knowing that they are beautiful people Never knowing the geography of their complexion PUERTO RICO IS A BEAUTIFUL PLACE PUERTORRIQUENOS ARE A BEAUTIFUL RACE If only they had turned off the television and tune into their own imaginations If only they had used the white supremacy bibles for toilet paper purpose and make their latino souls the only religion of their race If only they had return to the definition of the sun after the first mental snowstorm on the summer of their senses If only they had kept their eyes open at the funeral of their fellow employees who came to this country to make a fortune and were buried without underwears Juan Miguel Milagros Olga Manuel will right now be doing their own thing where beautiful people sing and dance and work together where the wind is a stranger to miserable weather conditions where you do not need a dictionary to communicate with your people Aqui Se Habla Espanol all the time Aqui you salute your flag first Aqui there are no dial soap commercials Aqui everybody smells good Aqui tv dinners do not have a future Aqui the men and women admire desire and never get tired of each other Aqui Que Pasa Power is what’s happening Aqui to be called negrito means to be called LOVE

[nawneesama]

I hate tourists.

I hate tourists. Call me toxic all you want, but I hate them with a burning passion. They're nothing but a reminder that my land is a playground to them. My history is just a story to them. My culture is for them to appropriate. My people are slaves to them. My people are targets to them. Vieques was used as bombing practice for 63 years, and I didn’t know. We had a god named Atabey, the mother of our land, whom we loved, and I didn't know. Christ was the only “god” I knew. Our homes are nothing but hills to be plowed so the Americans can come and build their resorts upon the corpses and memories of our people. To them, we are just a vacation destination. We are a place for them to get drunk and party their cares away. But we can't party, we're stuck living here in the crisis they created. “Come on down to Puerto Rico: La Isla Del Encanto! Or did you think that was Colombia, thanks to Disney? You won't care either way when your blood is pumped full of bacardi! Since you love it so much, why not just move here? Look, one of our locals just moved out to the states, why don't you take their home?” May you drown in the resort pools. May you be cut by our reefs. May you be burned by our sun. May you be beaten by our people. Whenever tourists enter my bar, all I can see are colonizers, the erasure of my people, the erasure of who I am. Of who we are. They do not see my people, all they see is their next vacation.

I hate tourists.

[fivepercentgodsandearths]

My third album of 2023 (& my whole career!), Burnt Silk & Blessed Builds, is out now with my Godbrother @realkingkamaal . These songs represent our fight against oppression and unfortunately real combatants challenging us disrespectfully and dishonorably, thus the Burnt Silk. It is also anchored by powerful insights and soulful intricate songwriting, surely blessed builds.

No one can listen to this and not recognize the genius of the Hawk, King Kamaal's executive direction, arranging, astonishing expert lyricism and technique, soulful harmonizing and Mayfield groove. My improvement of leaps and bounds this year from our first LP to here has so much to do with the rehearsing and education King provides and then a freedom to create without hindrance. The producers @truecipher @djphonz1974

@seriousbeats absolutely inspired us and the MCs @indigophoenyx_official

@ap_da_overlord @infinite7mind

are exceptional here as they have been their whole careers. My brother @deejay_toshi

wound and bound a major song while Indigo created a lush cover for us. Of it all it is my youngest daughter, Alma, and her performance on "Remembered In Perfection" that signifies how intimate and major this LP creation is to my life. As I will protect her, I will also uphold our integrity in all of our creativity as we Creators create creation. We still build...

Supreme thank you to all who listen, share, comment and support our work.

Peace, Sunez Allah

aka #SkillastratorLO

aka #TheIronButterfly⚔️🦋

aka #LOvoeSunatra

❗️LINK IN BIO❗️

https://sunezking.bandcamp.com/album/burnt-silk-blessed-builds

[blackownersseekingsuccess]

Naturalmente Mío (Afro-Latino)

Tienes que amar mi cabello. Es un mundo de rizos.

Todas las diferentes formas, tamaños y texturas con

solo una pizca de sal y pimienta. mi cuero cabelludo es

Con sabor a Nueva York: sigue mi viaje: Mis hebras

podría formar un círculo alrededor - Ludlow Street para Christopher Street un sábado por la noche pero

Estas raíces serán todas de Harlem. Mis consejos se doblan hasta el centro de Brooklyn, a través de la 2 o

el tren 3 durante los húmedos meses de verano

mi patrón de rizos se vuelve más apretado que un

acera en Times Square, el otoño

Los vientos de octubre tienden a dejarme el pelo.

Más salvaje que una pelea con cuchillos.

como el concreto

Los ladrillos del invierno forman mi cabello

un acabado de laca impecable

pero solo después de co-lavar y luego enjuagar

Y luego relajo mi cabeza contra mi almohada de satén.

caso... durante esas frías noches de invierno dejando

extremos duros y quebradizos que arrojar su camino hacia un nuevo amanecer…

[laurandreawrites]

physical copies of my poetry chapbook came in! get yours now here!!!!

[ourobores]

—  julia de burgos, song of the simple truth: the complete poems (1995)

[text ID: Meanwhile, your life and my life have kissed.]

[entrecortada]

this feeling i’ve had my entire life about both extremes and feeling everything in its entirety or nothing, it’s so strange validating it with my past self.

have i really felt this way my whole life? or am i perhaps making it up?

at some point i was deluded about this feeling of intensity i felt. now that i’m conscious about it i believe to have been causing my own problems this whole time, but no that’s not true.

este sentimiento que he tenido toda mi vida sobre ambos extremos y sentir todo en su totalidad o nada, es tan extraño validarlo con mi yo pasado. ¿realmente he sido así toda mi vida? ¿o es que acaso me lo estoy inventando? en algún momento era ilusa a estos sentimientos de intensidad que sentía, y ahora que estoy consciente de ellos siento que he creado mis propios problemas, pero no. no es cierto

[emotionalrobbery]

[rachel-614]

THE LOST CHILDREN

He was a tailor,

the grandfather

of my grandmother.

His daughter dressed better

than anyone in town.

When she was 19

she married a Goy,

a Catholic man,

the grandfather

of my mother.

She never wore her father’s work again.

He was a brown man,

the father of my father,

the husband of a brown woman,

the father of brown children.

He knew Spanish,

his wife knew Spanish,

his children knew English.

Speak like a white man,

he told them,

or you will live like a brown man.

I, the daughter of the daughter of the daughter

of a Jewish woman

I, the daughter of the son of the son of a

man of the Island

pray like a Catholic man’s daughter

speak like a white woman’s daughter

unrooted from my past.

I hold fast to my cross

to my books and my privilege

and I mourn

for the slow death of a culture no longer my own

in the crucible they named

a melting pot.

[feral-ballad]

Julia de Burgos, tr. by Jack Agüeros, from Song of the Simple Truth: The Complete Poems of Julia de Burgos; "To Julia de Burgos"

[Text ID: "in all my poems I undress my heart."]

[imwastingmylifehere]

i don’t think they realize

that i have a divide

between the black and the hispanic and white

to the point where my uncle will run around

saying the hood is the worst of the country

black people are making stupid choices

they smother the name of this good place

they send clips of candace owens in the group chat

“look,” says titi “even this black agrees there is no need to defund the police he was a criminal”

then i say, what does that mean?

then they finally notice that i have some melanin

and they start to scramble

oh not you gabby, you’re smart gabby

you get straight As and you’ll have honors

I want to say, i don’t get straight As but i just go okay abuelo whatever you say

then uncle ben will say you and your dad are my whitest black friends

my dad isn’t around them that much so he can keep his cool

but i’m not like him so i just explode

telling him, you realize i’m black too?

stop saying that. you can’t say that. it’s offensive to say that.

“gabby why are you attacking me?”

"stop being so dramatic, it was just a statement."

“it’s such a sensitive topic and it’s hard to talk about.”

then titi starts crying.

i cant say anything now, because i just honed in on my “angry black side”

I wish i said, sensitive for who? you?

you’re not the one being killed on the streets

but her tears were staining the sheets

so i have to shut up and apologize.

i’ve stopped expecting them to realize.

[readwriteleadfight]

Identity Crisis

[acyborgkitty]

"The Sidewalk of High Art" by Miguel Algarín, introduction to Aloud: Voices from the Nuyorican Poets Cafe

"Lifting the details of the terrain into the poem reveals the self and shows how the land explains the self to the poet. ... Here the politics of land and people are one, as the poet reinvents the self through the history of the terrain. ... The land is concrete information that feeds the body and the soul and reveals the future." p. 12

"...the great commitment that the poets at the Cafe have made to writing the verse on the page and then lifting off the page into performing action..." p. 19

[aguacerotropical]

i don’t love your body but the secret it dwells in the cave that covers me at night only eases darkness. I love your gaze more than your eyes always opened when the mouth kisses with humidity of sea my irregular island of stormy coasts and jagged rocks. And more than lies which every love promises I love reality that gathers us in bed wearing off our tongues with sea urchins, growing daggers in the garden of our thighs, every dead Sunday between our bodies. When you depart without a flourish, when I return to a different symphony’s silence, when you are a man of paper, a spirit trapped within the poem, and I can’t define you again in words, which now defy all nothingness, we’ll remember things that never happened, we’ll love each other as we never did, we’ll search in tombs of sadness until we find freedom unscathed, so that time may repair what we have lost.

Manuel Ramos Otero (1948-1990), translated from Spanish by Cristina Pérez Díaz