autohistoria mestiza

“ I’m tired of writing memorials to black men
whom I was on the brink of knowing
weary like fig trees
weighted like a crepe myrtle
with all the black substance poured into earth
before earth is ready to bear.
I am tired of holy deaths
of the ulcerous illuminations the cerebral accidents
the psychology of the oppressed
where mental health is the ability
to repress
knowledge of the world’s cruelty. ”

Audre Lorde, “Eulogy for Alvin Frost” The Black Unicorn (via eljotitodeperris)

8.07.12. audre lorde,Poem,Quote,

awritersruminations:

I’m an ugly woman, weedlike,
elbowing my way through the perfect
grass. The best of what I am
is in the gravel behind the train yard
where obsidian chips lodge
in the rocks like beetles.
I burrow and glow.

—from “Beetles” by Lorna Dee Cervantes

(Source: modern-nostalgic.blogspot.com)

6.21.12. lorna-dee-cervantes,poem,

awritersruminations:

For weeks
the only lesson I’ve learned
is that the leaves of the apple
are finally turning. Everything
has let go. There are days now
that go by without a sound.
I could be anyone.
Once I was a person
who loved you.

—from “Cafe Solo” by Lorna Dee Cervantes

(Source: modern-nostalgic.blogspot.com)

6.21.12. lorna-dee-cervantes,poem,

On a night of the full moon

art-and-fury:

I

Out of my flesh that hungers
and my mouth that knows
comes the shape I am seeking
for reason.
The curve of your body
fits my waiting hand
your flesh warm as sunlight
your lips quick as young birds
between your thighs the sweet
sharp taste of limes.

Thus I hold you
frank in my heart’s eye
in my skin’s knowing
as my fingers conceive your flesh
I feel your stomach
curving against me.

Before the moon wanes again
we shall come together.

II

And I would be the moon
spoken over your beckoning flesh
breaking against reservations
beaching thought
my hands at your high tide
over and under inside you
and the passing of hungers
attended, forgotten.

Darkly risen
the moon speaks
my eyes
judging your roundness
delightful.

Audre Lorde - The Collected Poems, 1997

6.05.12. audre lorde,literature,poem,on a night of the full moon,

“Zacuanpapalotls”

memorabilescriptu:

by Brenda Cárdenas

(in memory of José Antonio Burciaga, 1947-1996)

                     We are chameleons. We become chameleon.
                             —José Antonio Burciaga

We are space between—
the black-orange blur
of a million Monarchs
on their two-generation migration
south to fir-crowned Michoacán
where tree trunks will sprout feathers,
a forest of paper-thin wings.
Our Mexica cocooned
in the membranes de la Madre Tierra
say we are born zacuanpapalotls,
mariposas negras y anaranjadas
in whose sweep the dead whisper.

We are between—
the flicker of a chameleon’s tail
that turns his desert-blue backbone
to jade or pink sand,
the snake-skinned fraternal twins
of solstice and equinox.
The ashen dawn, silvering dusk,
la oración as it leaves the lips,
the tug from sleep,
the glide into dreams
that husk out mestizo memory.

We are—
one life passing through the prism
of all others, gathering color and song,
cempazuchil and drum
to leave a rhythm scattered on the wind,
dust tinting the tips of fingers
as we slip into our new light.