Christopher Carmona
EE.UU. Poeta. Christopher Carmona es profesor de la Universidad de Texas en Brownsville. Su doctorado es de Texas A&M University. Fue el Writer-in-Residence inaugural para el programa de escritores de 2015 de Langdon Review. Su relato “Strange Leaves” fue finalista del concurso de cuento del Texas Observer en 2014. También fue nominado para el premio Pushcarten 2013. Su trabajo ha sido publicado en Callaloo: A Journal of African Diaspora Arts and Letters, Tecolote, Trickster Literary Journal, Intersective, Vandal, Bordersenses y Sagebrush Review, entre otras revistas literarias.
Tiene un libro de relatos, The Road to Llorona Park, y dos poemarios, I Have Always Been Here y Beat. También coeditó las antologías Outrage: A Protest Anthology about Injustice in a Post 9/11 World y The Beatest State in the Union: An Anthology of Beat Texas Writing.
Es coautor de Nuev@s Voces Poéticas: A Dialogue about New Chican@ Identities. Carmona es Director del Coalition of New Chican@ Artists y del Annual Beat Poetry and Arts Festival.
El trabajo de Carmona exuda justicia social en cada verso de sus poemarios. La voz poética invoca la frontera, la búsqueda de identidad chicana, la espiritualidad y el proceso creativo en sí mismo. Es una voz inquisitiva fronteriza que invita a la reflexión, reta y deja plantada la semilla de conciencia social en el lector.
La poesía es su arma predilecta. Las palabras van cargadas de pólvora que traspasan la piel más gruesa. Carmona no pide permiso, habla de los estereotipos para derrumbarlos. Menciona lo doloroso e injusto, lo que incomoda para traerlo a la luz.
La mayor parte de su trabajo está escrito en inglés pero también integra el español a modo de cambios de códigos lingüísticos en sus textos. El verso libre es dominante en sus estructuras, las cuales fluyen con ritmo durante sus presentaciones en vivo.
Para esta ocasión he seleccionado y traducido los poemas “Colonización a la inversa” y “Frontera”.
Por Xánath Caraza
Copatrocinado por el Smithsonian Latino Virtual Museum
Colonización a la inversa
No soy indígena pero
somos primos
chican@s mexicas indi@s
español inglés cheroqui
maíz tortillas calabacitas
mi bisabuela era curandera con remedios en los bolsillos
remedios que cosía con amor, relatos y dedos curtidos
porque el mal de ojo siempre acechaba
sé lo que significa un huevo crudo bajo mi cama
no soy indígena pero
somos primos
inglés mexican@s americano
híbrido mestizo español
mi madre era una católica devota
nos hacía ir a la iglesia cada domingo
el servicio en inglés la culpa en español
y un altar en la cómoda
no soy indígena pero
somos primos
indios tejan@s latin@s
agave mezcal tequila
mi padre me dijo que su abuela vino de un pueblito
en México de donde la familia de Juan Cortina era originalmente
muy dentro en el corazón de tierra yaqui con costumbres yaquis y rostros yaquis
con frecuencia me pregunto, ¿qué tanto somos yaqui y qué tanto españoles?
no soy indígena pero
somos primos
yunwiya gente pueblos
uwodige café bronce
mi cara es tu cara mi lengua es tu lengua
mi color es tu color
mi rostro es tu rostro mi habla es tu habla
mi piel es tu piel
cuando cruzo a México y la puerta giratoria me golpea en el trasero
advirtiéndome que dejo EE. UU. no puedo regresar y cruzar
por ese puente
debo tomar otro para cruzar, uno paralelo
de México a EE. UU. una vez traté de volver por el mismo puente
pero la patrulla fronteriza me detuvo y dijo,
no, debes cruzar por el lado mexicano
porque Estados Unidos no se da cuenta que los puentes se pueden
cruzar por ambos lados
en los últimos años he descubierto que los puentes pueden ser cruzados
en dos sentidos
lo único deteniéndonos es la creencia de que no podemos
no soy indígena pero somos primos
tenemos la misma sangre
la misma piel
y las mismas mentes colonizadas
pero si recordamos que los puentes conectan
derrumbaremos cercas
y comenzaremos a intercambiar chicles por pan frito
Frontera
Era la esencia de toronja en la ropa recién lavada
que torcía el viento
la que me arrastró al pasado
como aliento de Dios
mi mente regresó nadando
donde comenzó, yo.
El origen del origen del origen
a 70 millas por hora
los insectos chocan contra el plexiglás
las vísceras se deslizan hacia la parrilla negra del olvido.
La Frontera espera
permeándose en el suelo seco y agrietado
y en el asfalto inundado de chapapote
ese es el camino a casa.
Espera un sacrificio
para relamer la mancha carmesí
de aceite de motor viejo y de fluidos de transmisión
de lo que una vez fue la húmeda fuerza de la acidez color rubí.
Hombres en fulgurantes chalecos anaranjados
y sombreros tejidos de paja
venden voces llenas de tinta a 50 centavos por escuchar
mientras están en medio de dos corrientes opuestas de
tráfico
a la orden de ojos rojos, titilantes, amarillos y verdes
de dioses nuevos.
A los dioses viejos les sacaron los ojos
hace años con brillantes y cegadoras luces en el cielo nocturno
que solo prometían el resplandor y el destello
que quemarían las retinas para que nadie tenga que ver
a la tierra engañar a la palma de la mano sudada
de Lujuria y Avaricia
Mas ahora vienen nuevos dioses
Han estado aquí
desde el falso amanecer
Demandan nuestros sacrificios.
Christopher Carmona is an assistant professor in the Department of English at the University of Texas-Brownsville. He was a nominee for the Alfredo Cisneros de Miral Foundation Award for Writers in 2011 and a Pushcart Prize nominee in 2013. He has been published in numerous journals and magazines including Trickster Literary Journal, Interstice, Vandal, Bordersenses, and Sagebrush Review. His first collection of poetry, beat, was published by Slough Press, and his second book, I Have Always Been Here, was published by Otras Voces Press. He is currently editing The Beatest State In The Union: An Anthology of Beat Texas Writings with Chuck Taylor and Rob Johnson, and working on a book called Nuev@s Voces Poeticas: A Dialogue about New Chican@ Poetics with Isaac Chavarria, Gabriel Sanchez and Rossy Lima Padilla, to be published in 2015. He is organizing this year's annual Beat Poetry and Arts Festival in Dallas, and is the artistic director of the Coalition of New Chican@ Artists.
Premios y Honores:
Nominee for the Puschcart Prize in Poetry 2012.
Nominee for the 2011 Alfredo Cisneros Del Moral Foundation Award for Emerging Poet.
Texas A&M University. Poetry: 1st Runner Up for the Gordone Award for Poetry, Creative Writing Department, College Station TX April 2010.
Texas A&M University. Fiction: 1st Runner Up for the Gordone Award for Fiction, Creative Writing Department, College Station TX April 2010.
The American Alphabet
a is for anger.
b is for brutality.
c is for culture not represented.
d is for disruption.
e is for empathy not felt.
f is for fire not set.
g is for greed not grace.
h is for history buried deep.
i is for ignorance not isis.
j is just cause.
k is for KKKan’t.
l is not for love.
m is for mentiras we believe.
n is for nigger.
o is for oppression.
p is for peace we’ve never known.
q is for quiet when the rinches come.
r is for revolution never achieved.
s is for survival in stories we sing.
t is for truth in those songs.
u is for us coloring their history.
v is for vanity in both its meanings.
w is wetback.
x is for xenophobia, America’s white state
y is for you because z might not be last
Check | Point
idling at Sarita checkpoint
Anzaldúa in my backseat
dogs with jobs sniff my tires
men in green eyes and tired uniforms wave cars on through
they know only one question
toughest to answer…
I am leaving what I thought was America
but was really something else
the question burns me up
U.S. citizen?
there are only two answers
yes, sir…no, sir
but Anzaldúa in my backseat whispers truths in my ear
truths that I may have been born in this country
it does not belong to me
I belong to the land and its hodgepodge of peoples
mixed together in the great genocide soup
existing together in a land so hot it has burnt my memory
U.S. citizen?
simple answer: yes, sir…wrong answer: no, sir
where do I exist? what do I answer?
somewhere…in-between
pinned to a dissecting tray
sliced into little pieces
how do I work? how am I put together?
analyze me…label me…name me
my tongue moves too much
I will not be pinned
I want to say that I am not a U.S. citizen
I am not a citizen of any nation
I belong to this land and its people
no fences to divide…only bridges to cross
but I can’t say that
as I inch closer I need to remember
take sunglasses off
turn off radio
practice answer…yes, sir
don’t want to be pulled over
don’t want to be searched
just want to go on through
no hassles…no poetry…no confrontation
nothing to delay…nothing to arouse suspicion
1100 undoucmented aliens seized to date
am I one? oh wait, I am a U.S. citizen!
then what is this fear that creeps through me?
I will be caught…I will be deported to a land I don’t know
I will be detained…accused of being a terrorist and sent to Gitmo
I will be forgotten…locked in a hole forever
I am not a U.S. citizen….citizens have rights
waived away when planes crashed into buildings
we are just as brown as any Muslim/Mexican/Mojo
we are all the same…not U.S. citizens....
we are suspicious characters
we need to carry papers
prove we are not that kind of brown
we do want to overthrow the government so we can be equal
we do want to blow it all up
not with bombs and bullets
with marches/poems/e Spanglish
we want democracy not built on the backs of people
we want democracy built for the least privileged
we don’t want to be subject to a checklist
Chican@ isn’t even an option
have to check Hispanic
even closer…I’m the next car in the line
what do I say?
can I answer, I don’t know?
can you tell me? I was never really clear on that one…
how do I determine if I am a U.S. citizen?
is a birth certificate all I need?
what about Obama? They still don’t believe he is one and he’s the president
I don’t even know what a long form birth certificate is…
is that the one with a printing of your feet?
can you tell me officer? please?
what if he doesn’t know?
what if he is just like me?
trying to work…raise a family…just survive
do not ask questions!
what if he breaks protocol…declares everyone…illegal?
what do we do then? do we resist? do we cry out in protest?
but what if he lets his guilt get the better of him?
he stops doing his job and lets everyone through…no questions asked?
is that possible? wouldn’t that be something? la migra taking a stand?
but here I am…I pull up and lower my window
U.S. citizen? he asks
Yes, sir.
The Emperor Changes His Clothes
for Manny Martinez
the emperor changes his clothes
and yet we stay the same
his robes have too many holes
not enough stitches
he can still see the ghettoes
the emperor changes his clothes
we gaze up in wonder
bright colors and soft silks
shine down with dazzling blindness
his walls trickle treasures for all
or so we are told
but how many kneading bread and digging graves
have ever changed their clothes?
and yet we stay the same
toiling in the sun
rays turning our backs to leather
working at Walmart with no benefits no living wage
pushing a raft made of hopes, dreams, and old plastic bottles
down a river that has no end
tortured by the cruiseliner with no plank
where everyone is helicoptered in
so that their feet never touch the dirt
the emperor squarely inside
his robes have too many holes
it cannot be helped
it was made by the people
with all their blood and toil
there are still gaps in the seams
and even though he changes his clothes
we are still there hungry and old
older than him and the one before
making his food and pouring his wine
never can quite see them like ghosts
out of the corner of his eye
things are moved
beds are done
and yet he always sees them out of the holes in the seams
not enough stitches
to block the light
not enough wishing to make them invisible
they are there in the seams and in the gaps
running around toiling away
they are always quiet until they say a word
which startles the emperor and makes him blush
he hates to ask them for anything
they should just know his every want
and sometimes he desires them for just one night
promises he makes never intending to keep
promises that slip through the gaps
because there are always too many holes
that let the light in and expose his fragile soul
and through these holes he can always see
beyond his gilded palace lies places
he never wishes to go but he cannot stop looking
because there are never enough stitches to block his view
he can always see the ghettoes
covered in soot belching out black smoke for his high-end beemer
he can still see the people as they come and go
asking for more than he will ever give
it makes him sick that they are so needy
why, he only asks that they serve the greater good
his palace, his planes, his comfort, and his gold
they are alive and working and should be grateful
he provides them water and money when they work for it
but what have they done for him lately
except maintain his gardens and cook his food
if they weren’t there, he thinks, I would just order in
let the grass grow wild
drive out to the country
and watch the ocean waves
nothing to worry about except when they come
asking for more than he is willing to give
he needs his 100% profits or else how will his children live?
go to public schools and eat fast food?
that is not for emperors
and so he changes his clothes
and yet we stay the same
we always leave holes
never enough stitches
so that he will always see the ghettoes.
.
