Readers Comment On AWAKENINGS: The Second AHW Anthology
“I read the whole anthology tonight. I loved Miryam Bujanda's 'The Prom,' which brought
tears to my eyes. ..I loved ‘She comes from’: I felt like I was there with you-
I experienced it all. ...The Anthology is Good. The group did a fine job. I can't wait
to see more members appear in the next one..."
-Elodia Mero (AHW member, WA state)
"This anthology is a small book to carry with you so that you can read a poem here and
there and relish the message. I like Carmen's tribute to her Abuela. We can relate
to that. ‘Canela’ by Angela: I know what you mean... sometimes we have to change our
color, but it's only so that we can survive."
-Esther Bonilla Read
(AHW member, Corpus Christi, TX)
“Awakening is a realization, an earthy attentiveness to how a discovery,
a loss, …can define who we are. The prose and poetry in this collection
are just as diverse as the writers themselves. Even so, almost every piece in
Awakening expresses an awareness and deference to the author’s heritage.
These bicultural/bilingual writers show, …just what it means to possess two
traditions in one body. Although knowledge of Spanish adds a savory
dimension to this collection, it is not necessary. As Irene Lara Silva says
in “Freedom: Second Poem”: el corazón no conoce idioma.
- Courtney O’Banion
Poetry, Co-Editor
(Austin, Texas)
September -- La Pisca
They are children seeds of cotton harvested workers.
Hunched cranes twining down rows,
they pick the white blossom
from hulls that bite at cuticles
gnaw young fingers.
Sun washing bent backs, tender workers drag
dew-weighted pickings in long canvas sacks
that worm behind them scouring
continuous waves de tierra seca..
The weight of the day’s work digs
grooves into thin shoulders.
Knees grind furrowed clumps,
grit scraping teeth and ashen tongues.
Dirt and beaded sweat draw poster moustaches.
Figures in the distance, arms in a steady rhythm
father mother uncles aunts.
Each hand in turn takes the silver dipper
gulping tepid water from the tin jug
shadowed by the truck
sip and redip
skimming the surface,
leaving the dirt particles to settle.
Son niños seeds of cotton harvested workers.
Muchachas, piel de cafe, in jeans and shirts
slump together, arms drooping around each other.
The boys stand apart
hands stuck in empty pockets.
Damp backs lean against la trocka
ready to rumble, blanketed with cotton,
canvas covered, protected.
Darkening skies send them to temporary rooms.
Limbs groaning, they empty shoes
of crumbling dirt-raw blisters-
then pour themselves into thin quilts on hard floors.
La pisca finished until tomorrow.
Harvested children
Seeds of cotton
-Gloria Amescua
abismo negro
rounded belly
pregnant moon
struggling alone
birthing light
chaste
barren
reluctant thrust
endless couplings
[pen and paper:
mind and idea]
[man and woman:
dream and hope]
brought to light:
nurtured
baptized;
brought to others:
murdered
buried;
willing struggle
fertile
wanton
begetting suns
scattering stars
feeding dreams
ample breast
-Marcela Maltos
"para Diegito"
Brown-eyed boy, the vividness of life is in your eyes-
sadness of losses even at your tender age. The spirit of Aztlán
silently awaits the right moment to spring forth.
Although at times I envy you; at times I want to teach you to
grow freely, to learn intensely, to love deeply, and to live a full life;
do not ever deny yourself the privilege of
wanting more, doing more, being more.
Live life with passion-a passion to be more
than this world will yield to you.
Live life with fervor-a fervor that arouses your spirit,
allowing it to take you to the limits.
Live life with compassion-compassion toward other humans,
toward all animals, and towards this great earth. Give back
as much as you take; feel the energy return to you.
View the sun and raise your hands in its joy be thankful for
your color, for the corn that gives you sustenance, for the energy
within you generated by the mighty sun’s rays.
Mi hijo - te doy tu vida! Disfrútala!
-Juan Ochoa (Summer, 1999)
She sips the red river
swims its turbulent currents
learns strokes of the great swimmers
wrestles in static oceans
with lobsters and iguanas
turns flips on sparkling sediment
talks to the seaweed and seashells
listens to tales of shipwrecked invaders
looking for mirrored clues in the sand
She shuffles details like
raindrops rolling off a tin roof
leaves fluorescent handprints
calling her name from night walls
left to cry through barely open windows
She sleeps with daffodils
dreams with the lilies
emits the sweet of a yellow rose
treks the tallest Southern peaks
crosses Calgary borders
grazes Aztec heavens
wheels down the slim Keys
and trolleys through Piccadilly Circus
Still, she always returns
to the honey of red ¾
ambrosia for the quill
-Anjela Villarreal Ratliff
Donde hubo fuego
cenizas quedan
my body should be a furnace
and all the past
un monte entero de mesquite
brancheslikelimbs
and fingersliketwigs
reaching out to you
es que te quieren alcanzar
tocar
y
quemar
cenizas quedan
my body covered in soot grey
darklines painted
on my face and through my eyes
entwining circles on my
arms breast and belly
long arcing lines
racing down my thighs
black feet
al
perderte
cenizas quedan
my body's been growing rings
like trees alost
shedding skin like snakes
en tu ausencia
un milagro que me conocieras
un milagro que has vuelto
and are my ashes warmer than
all their
e
ternal fires
cenizas quedan
my body should be a furnace
and all our pasts
only piles of unforgiving ashes
even dust can burn
limbs and fingers could burn
do you know that even the
wind won't blow away my
ashes
on
your skin
-Irene Silva
Sky blooded
was my father
To folks who knew him not
his eyes were always brown dark
not unlike the Folgers coffee
he enjoyed
But his eyes reflected clear skies
when I saw him at home
talking with his hunting buddies
about the big deer that got away
I didn’t see that deer
Instead I saw corners
sterile on words distant
in my school books
Resaca blood flowed through my father
His eyes reflected mud green waves
sunset ripples from that pond
formed behind our home
when hurricane Beula
fed the thirsty Rio Grande
His skilled hands made rafts
out of tar and plywood
Now he couldn’t get away
We my father me my cousin
floated on
those green waves
and sunset
ripples
rubbed against
cool slick skins on
struggling catfish and squirming frogs
fed on
fresh fried catfish and frog legs
That pond was sleepy early morning dew
My father was chaparral blooded
Spring mesquite yellow green
cenizo silver purple
nopal yellow green
huisache silver orange
Bloomed from
His eyes
Too often
while sitting at my desk
my father was Away
hunting with his friends
School book words weighed down my head
Numbers stung my eyes No
Numbers words just messengers
My blood too dull was rarely brightened
when we walked through ranch or field
Now my father’s face
emerges from
submerges into
bluish gray fog
Perhaps if I try to enter it
I will enter
The Outdoor Blood in These Coffee Eyes
But that fog freezes too deep
My chance will embrace me
When this world spins fog free
-Steve Vera
