Feathers, ribbons, and strands of colorful paper,
cut into all sorts of complicated, lacy shapes.
The street in front of our house looks like a toy store
imagined, and then brought to life by a magician.
On the ground, there are carpets of pictures
made by artists who work with sawdust—
red cedar, mahogany, yellow mora, black ebony,
and on top of those fragments of tumbled forest,
a rainbow of flower petals, wheat grains,
corn, beans, and other seeds, as if to praise
this generous earth
for a wealth
of delicious growth.
I stand outdoors
dazzled by brilliant designs,
especially the one that dangles right in front of my
astonished eyes, a golden pomegranate
instead of a natural, ruby-red fruit.
Has a clever artist coated this granada
with some sort of glittering metallic dust?
Is it real gold?
When I reach up to touch
the shimmering sculpture,
it cracks open, and a shower of paper
rains down—verses, poems, all written
by me, the ones I traded for candy!
Are my scraps of rhyme
really so valuable
that the bishop’s sisters
want to share them
with everyone?
Maybe all I’ll ever need
for the rest of my life
is this thunderous comfort,
my own wild storm
of explosive
poetry!
READING, READING, READING
There is only one way to improve my chime of verses.
So I read, read, read, all the carefully rhymed words
written long before
I ever existed.
PRACTICING TRADITIONAL POETIC FORMS
I am determined to write a perfect redondilla
of four eight-syllable lines, with the rhyme pattern
a b b a.
I try all sorts of formal rhymes,
a
first a four-line redondilla,
b
then a brave five-line quintilla,
b
until I’m rhyming all the time.
a
CHALLENGING MYSELF
Next, I scribble an old-fashioned octavilla
of two redondillas, using the familiar
rhyme pattern
a b b a a c c a.
Poetry keeps flooding my mind.
a
Soon I try long octavillas
b
of two attached redondillas
b
with rhymes that can be hard to find.
a
Once all the words have been entwined
a
I see the pleasure of knowing
c
that a poem can change, growing
c
beyond old forms with counted lines.
a
WHY I BEGIN TO CRAVE IMPROVISATION
Décimas are sets of two redondillas
linked by a two-line bridge of eight syllables each
with a rhyme pattern
a b b a a c a c c a,
and espinelas are the same
only ending with
c d d c.
Seguidillas have alternating lines of five
and seven syllables, with vowel rhymes
anywhere in the even lines (2, 4, 6), instead of
always appearing at the ends,
perfectly aligned . . .
so I start to experiment with changing everything
and just letting verses flow, finding their way
into musical rhythms that dance on natural air
tempest-tossed,
wind-driven!
Why obey such strict rhyming rules
when poems have minds, hearts, and souls
of their own, always loving
freedom?
VOWEL RHYMES
I love
to rhyme
just the insides
of syllables
sometimes.
This is still a verse
even though the words
seem to hold internal mysteries,
these assonantal vowel rhymes that can be found
anywhere in a line, not just at the end
so rigidly
final.
EVERY SADNESS
Lost mother.
Dead father.
Even the smallest
stormy poem
offers enough
nearly rhymed
room
for all
human
sorrows.
Yes, I’m angry.
So I fill my verses with beautiful swans
and peacocks, hoping the reader will understand
that this contrast with hideous ugliness
lies at the heart of my rage, because
I feel cheated
by abandonment
and other human
cruelties.
SHARED SORROWS
With so much fury
disguised inside glorious verses,
I become the object of adult attention.
Families ask me to write poems for them to read
at the funerals of loved ones.
My windstorm of rhythms, both rhymed
and nearly rhymed, turns into a strange
sort of musical wealth, that I must spend
to help others, even when each furious
burst
of verses
hurts
my wounded heart
and suffering
mind.
ANY HAPPINESS
Every Sunday, my family
celebrates a children’s dance, with aunts,
uncles, cousins, and other festive relatives.
Some of my tías seem a bit crazy,
all wrapped up in ruffles and wearing
shiny red shoes, as if they think they
are still little girls
like their pretty daughters.
These dressed-up aunts claim to be impressed
with my elaborate, rhythmic sonnets
written for funerals, so now I’m invited
to recite completely new rhymes
for female cousins, las primas,
generous girls who are eager to praise
my poetic talent, as long as their names
are included in the titles of verses.
I scribble on fans and in autograph albums,
my hurricane of words always inspiring
a whirl of smiles.
FAMILY ADVENTURES
Sometimes all my uncles decide
to explore the countryside, so we ride,
bumping and swaying in an old oxcart,
with rough cowhides forming a cover
to protect all my many cousins
from the fiery blaze of sun.
When I remember the cattle that guarded me
after I was stranded by my mother, I think I’d rather
be burnt by light than continue to hide
beneath a slaughtered animal-friend’s skin . . .
but los primos sing as we go,
thrilled to be on our way, no matter
how gruesome
our shelter.
As soon as we reach a river,
I rush to swim and daydream,
washing unwanted memories
away.
A FAMILY MYSTERY
Tío Manuel is the only uncle
who makes me feel uncomfortable.
There’s something about his stare,
as if he finds my timid gaze fascinating.
When we’re hiking in high mountains
on the slopes of a smoky volcano,
I have plenty of chances
to escape from him.
I can’t stand the way he always asks
so many questions about my mother’s
disappearance.
In the rainy green jungle, I try to stay far away
from his booming rifle, and at the seashore
I’d rather listen to my older cousins’ horrifying
ghost stories.
Why does this one particular uncle
always make me feel so vulnerable?
FAMILY CAMPING
We sleep in huts
made of leafy green branches,
all the children sneaking out
at midnight
to chase red crabs,
watch enormous turtles,
and dream beneath
glowing stars
as they glide
across dark sky
forming the ancient shapes
of magnificent constellations—
a winged horse, a dolphin,
a dragon, the Milky Way.
Does that hunter made of stars
use his arrows to shoot ordinary deer,
or is he seeking treasures that no one on Earth
has ever imagined?
Maybe all he wants to chase is the glow
of his own heavenly surroundings.
Stories come easily
as I combine old fairy tales
with my own curious rush
of new visions.
While stargazing in the wilderness,
I remember the tales of A Thousand and One Nights,
and then I change them.
Don Quixote.
Spain’s Golden Age poets.
Native Miskito legends.
All are fair game when it comes to hunting
for unwritten star wishes.
WITNESS
One night, I decide to leave the crowd
of noisy cousins behind, so that I can stargaze
alone, turning my view of the wild sky’s
radiance
into new rhymes.
At the edge of a swamp, I stumble upon a scene
so shocking that I wonder if I’m dreaming.
Beside an oxcart, two men battle with machetes,
until the hand of one is sent flying into the dark air,
chopped off.
Should I tell anyone what I’ve seen,
or will sensible grown-ups refuse to listen
to this tale of a violent crime witnessed by a child?
Isn’t the role of poets to pass along truths,
both gruesome and beautiful?
Yes, I’ll have to tell, and maybe someday
I’ll put the terrifying memory in writing as well.
SUFFERING
Those men who fought turn out to be friends,
but they drank so much rum that they forgot
about affection, and now the one
who maimed the other
must live with guilt
for the rest of his life.
Of all my rowdy uncles, Manuel is the only one
who drinks so wildly that it’s easy to imagine
violence leading to horrible crimes
like severed hands.
Is that why he looks at me so strangely,
because he suspects I’ve decided to become
the emotional sort of poet who never ignores
injustice, but writes it into a truthful
music of wishes?
I’m only eleven years old,
but that’s plenty of time
to grow, learn, and know
my own soul.
HURRICANE
Back at home, when an explosive tropical storm
strikes the town of León, courageous Bernarda
meets the attack of howling wind
and torrential rain
with peaceful palm fronds.
All my aunts gather to arrange green leaves
as decorations intended to protect walls and ceilings.
Then they weave leafy crowns to be worn
by singing children.
Feeling like a hero in an ancient story,
I wear my glorious leaf crown proudly,
while chanting prayers we’ve all memorized
precisely for these fights against the power
of a rebellious sky.
Words, my brave aunts insist,
are weapons more effective
than swords.
SCANDAL
Once the air is finally calm,
people at church grow angry.
In this city, we’ve always had a tradition
of writing notes to God, revealing secrets
which will be burned just as soon as the priests
finish praying about all our private letters
without reading a single word.
When I see Bernarda carefully folding
the paper that holds our family’s confessions,
I wonder if her letter might include anything
about my mother’s disappearance, or the identity
of my dead father.
We trust the priests.
They’re kind men who give chocolates to children.
Nevertheless, in this case they turn out to be dishonest.
Someone catches them reading the whole town’s
basket of notes, laughing and whispering
about our secret lives.
It’s an offense so serious
that they are sent away,
without chocolates
or trust.
I don’t know which is worse,
my sudden awareness that grown-ups
know all sorts of devious secrets,
or my imagination,
which runs wild,
creating stories that might be
even more horrible
than those folded letters
filled with hidden truths.
When all the confessions are finally burned,
I gaze at the basket of ashes, still wondering
if the papery dust contains any tales
about my parents.
REBELLIOUS RHYMES
If priests can break rules, so can I.
Eleven syllables
followed by three.
Seven lines
or twenty.
I can write a poem
in any form, just by inventing
my own new lengths, shapes,
and styles.
No one can tell me how to think
or what to believe, now that I’m
finally
twelve.
ACROBATICS OF THE HEART
I fall in love!
Yes, I’m still just twelve, but maybe she’s
not much older. . . .
Her name is Hortensia, and she’s a performer
in a traveling circus, una saltimbanqui,
a high-wire trapeze artist
from North America.
I’ve always been told by teachers
that the United States is a huge place
filled with brutish politicians
who want to invade all the smaller nations
of Latin America, but Hortensia
has conquered me
with aerial somersaults
instead of bullets.
The entire circus is magnificent—magicians, musicians,
jugglers, galloping trick riders, strange sideshows,
bizarre animals, and Hortensia’s
astonishing
acrobatic flips,
cartwheels,
and impossible leaps,
the high-rising flight
of a human
bird girl!
WHEN YOU’RE IN LOVE, EVERY WORD IS MAGICAL
If I don’t see my beloved’s
acrobatic performance
and hear her voice
every day
for the rest of my lif
e,
I feel certain
that my heart
will crack open
like that golden pomegranate
during Easter week,
and all my stormy verses
will shower down,
sinking into the depths
of dry earth,
broken,
buried.
TRICKSTER
I don’t have enough money
to go to the circus every day,
so I have to dream up many
sneaky ways
to enter.
One evening, I carry a violin,
pretending to be one of the musicians.
The next afternoon, I haul a stack of papers
to make myself look like an official.
Finally, after much trial and error,
I discover that the clown loves poetry,
so now I simply trade
rhythmic verses
for tickets.
His favorites are the romantic rhymes,
which I imagine he will recite as if they
are his own heartfelt poems, whenever he
falls as deeply in love
as this hopeful
twelve-year-old
trickster.
Unable to imagine
life without the circus,
I audition, but my poet’s body
fails to pass all the tests
for athletic talent,
and I end up facing
Hortensia’s unbearable
departure.