 Por Juan Felipe Herrera 21st Poet Laureate of The United States arizón maricopa tempe tu tierra roja sangre tu vereda arid sunset sweet arizón cactos espigas de espinas brazos verdes llantos altos almas ramas pulmones pizcando el cielo arizón campesinos levantando algodón estrellas de oro blanco pa'l ranchero nubes de sal sellos de sueldo pa'l que hace labor cuerpos roJos climbing cotton flowers to the dawn weaving una risa sin dolor arizón a las tres de la mañana hay que rajar la raíz del tiempo es que campesinos si nos hay muchos levantando el cielo por el campo arizón pima xicano pápago apache arizón no zon nombres zon rimas y un ritmo energía de un principio si nos levantamos campesinos levantamos cielos por los pueblos cotton flower suns --Rebozos of Love (1974)  PHOTO-POEM OF THE CHICANO MORATORIUM 1980 / L.A.  Photo I. Pilgrimage The march is holy. we are bleeding. the paper crosses unfold after ten years. stretching out their arms. hailed. with spray paint. into the breasts of the faithful. followers. they bleed who we are. we carry the dead body. dragging it on asphalt America. we raise our candle arms. our fingers are lit. in celebration. illuminating. the dark dome of sky. over Whittier Boulevard. below. there are no faces. only one. eye. opening its lens. it. counts the merchants locking iron veils. silently secretly. as we approach. their gold is hidden. they have buried diamond sins in the refrigerators. under the blue velvet sofas. they are guarding a vault. of uncut ring fingers. the candles sweat. who tattooed the santo-man on our forehead? Rubén Salazar. we touch the round wound with saliva the clot of smoke. a decade of torn skin. trophies. medallions of skull. spine. and soul. spilled. Jammed. on the grass. gone forever. beneath the moon-gray numbers of L.A.P.D. August 29 1970. running. searching for a piece. of open street. paraíso negro. pleading to the tear-gas virgins. appearing over the helmet horns of the swat-men. iridescent. we walk. floating digging deep. passing Evergreen Cemetery, passing the long bone palms shooting green air. stars. as we count the death stones. burning. white. rectangles. into our eyes. processions have no gods. we know. they know. the witnesses. on the sidewalks the thirty-two year old mother with three. children. no husband. by the fire hydrant. the bakers. the mechanics leaning on the fence. spinning box wrenches. in space. the grandfather on the wheelchair saluting us. as we pass. as we chant. as we scream. as we carry the cross. a park with vendors appears ahead —Juan Felipe Herrera Exiles of Desire (1983), 43 FOTOPOEMA DE LA MORATORIA CHICANA DE 1980 / L.A.  Foto I. Peregrinación La marcha es sagrada. estamos sangrando. las cruces de papel se desdoblan después de diez años. estiran sus brazos. clavadas. con pintura de aerosol. al pecho de los fieles. seguidores. ellos sangran lo que somos. cargamos el cuerpo muerto. arrastrándolo por el asfalto América. levantamos nuestros brazos de cirio. nuestros dedos se encienden. en celebración. iluminando. el domo oscuro del cielo. sobre Whittier Boulevard. abajo. no hay rostros. sólo un. ojo. que abre su lente. que. cuenta los comerciantes cerrando cortinas de hierro. en silencio en secreto. conforme nos acercamos. su oro está escondido. han enterrado pecados de diamante en los refrigeradores. bajo sillones de terciopelo azul. están cuidando una bóveda de dedos anulares sin cortar. los cirios sudan. ¿quién tatuó al hombre santo en nuestra frente? Rubén Salazar*. tocamos la herida redonda con saliva el coagulo de humo. una década de piel rasgada. trofeos. medallas de cráneo. espinazo. y alma. derramada. atascada. en el pasto. se fue para siempre. bajo los números gris luna de la policía de L.A. 29 de agosto de 1970**. corriendo. buscando un pedazo. de calle despejada. paraíso negro. rogándole a las vírgenes del gas lacrimógeno. apareciendo sobre los cuernos del casco de los granaderos. luminiscentes. caminamos. flotando cavando hondo. pasamos el Cementerio Evergreen. pasamos las largas palmeras de hueso que despiden aire verde. estrellas. mientras contamos las lápidas. quemando. blancos. rectángulos. en nuestros ojos. las procesiones no tienen dioses. lo sabemos. ellos lo saben. los testigos. en las banquetas la madre de treinta y dos años con tres. hijos. sin esposo. en la boca de fuego. los panaderos. los mecánicos recargados en la valla. girando sus llaves de tuercas. en el espacio. el abuelo en silla de ruedas saludándonos. cuando pasamos. cuando cantamos. cuando gritamos. cuando cargamos la cruz. un parque con vendedores aparece más adelante. —Juan Felipe Herrera Los vampiros de Whittier Boulevard (2009),21-22 Traductor: Santiago Román *N. de T.: Rubén Salazar (1928-1970), periodista chicano asesinado por la policía de Los Ángeles en el Silver Dollar de Whittier Boulevard, mientras reportaba las marchas de la moratoria chicana nacional contra la guerra de Viet Nam el 29 de agosto de 1970. El policía que lo asesinó nunca fue llevado a juicio. **N. de T.: La moratoria chicana, también conocida como el Comité Nacional de la Moratoria Chicana, fue un movimiento de activistas estudiantes y miembros de los “Brown Berets” (Boinas Cafés) organizados en contra de la guerra de Viet Nam. Tuvo sus raíces en el movimiento estudiantil de preparatorias del 68 llegó a su cumbre durante la marcha del 29 d agosto de 1970 con la participación de más de 30,000 personas en el estede Los Ángeles, violentamente reprimida por la policía. Este evento es conmemorado anualmente, de allí que la fecha en el título del poema se refiera a la moratoria de 1980. ODE TO THE INDUSTRIAL VILLAGE OF THE WORLD I
This is the ode to the industrial village of the world Where the Third World dwells and works imprisoned and Breathes in anguished rooms exporting a billion samples Of dependence, depression and death to the sovereign Kapital market of the singular and sacred and absolute Empire of the World Bank How long have we sailed and battled in this sinister ship? How long have we been flayed over its corporate altars? How long have we fed and hosted the invisible captain priest? O village of streams, ponds, deltas, lakes, rivers and oceans O village of deserts, mountains, jungles, islands and plains O village of women, children, men, animals, fishes and birds O village of Blacks, Indians, poor people, Latinos and Asians O village of borders, colonies, barrios, cells and reservations O village of miners, factory workers, process operators and slaves How long have we been denied our name, our song, our power? How long have we been buried in our own ashes, in our blood? How long have we been kept alive in the pockets of the Master? II We have witnessed the Master’s brothers cross the ocean for tribute To the deepest auras of the earth where minerals gnarl and harden All constellations and all the moist organisms of the world have seen In Namibia, Africa, at Tsumeb, Amax crossing its arms to contemplate At eight per cent of its import of arsenic crops throughout the world In the village our lungs sprout cancer In San Luis Potosi, Mexico, Asarco standing attentive curling its beard Gazing at the new harvest of the colossal moaning arsenic smelters Smelters of U.S. arsenic residues, smelters of high level arsenic ore In the village our lungs sprout cancer In Grafton, Australia, Mr. James Hardie, owner and illustrious King of the Burylgil Asbestos Mine, wondering and pondering on the divine Duration of the largest asbestos mine in the history of the continent In the village our lungs sprout cancer Asbestos in Brazil, Asbestos in Nigeria, Asbestos in the Philippines Asbestos in Taiwan, Asbestos in Venezuela, Asbestos in Colombia Asbestos in Korea, Asbestos in Jamaica, Asbestos in Guatemala Asbestos in Tunisia, Asbestos in Sri Lanka, Asbestos in Malaysia The Master says the Asbestos plant grows tallest in our village 45 miles North of Mexico City Bayer guards its robust affiliate factory Projecting shares and dividends from the brilliant chrome fruit crops In the village our skin sheds ulcers In South Africa Union Carbide and the General Mining and Finance Corp. Celebrate the new ferrochrome plant in the Transvaal, a smelter to rival SOVIET CHROME In the village our skin sheds ulcers In New Mexico, Kerr-McGee Corporation strips the land and computerizes The offering of days and decades in the gross weight of uranium ore To sanctify the nuclear future and illuminate a new age of intervention In the village our lungs sprout cancer Uranium in Australia, Uranium in South Africa, Uranium in Texas Uranium in Wyoming, Uranium in Canada, Uranium in Colorado The Master says the Uranium plant grows sweetest in our village O village of Mercury mines drowning the great Wabigoon River of Canada O village of Mercury death flooding Bahia Cartagena waters of Colombia O village of Petrochemical plants shrieking into the tropical night of Cubata, Sao Paolo O village of petrochemical hysteria exploding into the soft and dark ears of Shukra El Kheima, Egypt Our nerves are disintegrating Our livestock is falling and dying Our children are born without hands Our children are born without bones O village of chambers where winter is eternal and sunlight forbidden in the Tin mines of Bolivia, in the Tin Mines of Australia and Nigeria The Master has given us seven long years to live Ill O Industrial village of the world lift up your green phosphorescent voice Your jaguar throat, your tigress howl, your eagle chant, your condor words Your leopard fists, your black bear jaws, your glistening whale skin shield Your anaconda waves, your monsoon arms, your lightning fangs, your lava claws Your hurricane mouth and storm from your deepest and darkest earthquake womb And deliver the fatal strike into the billowing and bloodless global heart Of the World Bank Master Deliver the fatal strike to the export conduit in Third World nations Deliver the fatal strike to the relocation of Capitalist industry Deliver the fatal strike to the military ship of Imperialist cargo and prayer And our village shall sprout a tender fire of invincible arms And our village shall drink from an ocean of health and light And our village shall weave the flowing petals of work without fear And our village shall speak to the coming generations of liberation And our village shall sing in harmony of our sovereign independence —Juan Felipe Herrera Exiles of Desire (1983), 59-61
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