FEELING WORTHLESS
The end of first love is a high-wire balancing
challenge
without
any
training
or
a
net.
The circus won’t let me be a runaway,
so when their caravan of aerial marvels
moves on,
I’m left here with nothing
but my toppled
tumbling
earthbound
sorrow.
FEELING WORTHY
The inspiration that came from my admiration
for a dramatic and beautiful foreign acrobat
now makes my lonely poems seem to glow.
Everyone around me
agrees that I’ve grown.
The field where that circus stood
is just a scattered mass of trampled grass,
and I have to go back to school,
but while I sit motionless,
forced to listen
to rigid grammar lessons,
my mind wanders through old rhymes,
trying them over and over again
in new patterns.
Yes, broken hearts have a purpose,
writing verses to comfort
others.
THE POET BOY
People call me el niño poeta,
a nickname that follows me wherever I go.
My first publication is a poem in a newspaper
on the occasion of the death of a friend’s father.
Suddenly I’m famous
in all the nations of Central America.
So I let my hair grow long
like my indio ancestors,
and I tie it back in a ponytail,
think of myself as a rebel,
and eventually I make a point
of neglecting my studies,
especially mathematics.
I fight with boys,
flirt with girls,
and absolutely refuse
to listen to grown-ups.
How can Tía Bernarda continue to tell me
that she expects me to be an apprentice
to a tailor?
Why should I stitch
rich men’s ugly suits
when I can weave
beautiful words
into a wealth
of useful verses?
A TERRIBLE SECRET IS FINALLY REVEALED
One day, a neighbor invites me to meet
a black-clad woman who claims to be
my mother.
This lost-and-found Mamá gives me candy
and little gifts, even though I’m almost thirteen,
too old to be distracted by toys and treats.
I learn that she never died.
She simply chose to deceive me.
She didn’t want me, but now she does.
Is it because I’m famous, and she imagines
riches?
Forgiveness is a question
I can’t answer yet.
After all, how long will it take for her
to forgive herself—centuries,
millennia, eternity?
ONE SECRET LEADS TO ANOTHER
As soon as my mother vanishes again,
I ask myself how much Tía Bernarda knew,
and why she and El Bocón never told me,
and yes, of course, naturally, next I must ask
my aunt:
Is my father
alive
too?
VICIOUS NIGHTMARES ATTACK ME
Each hour of darkness
is a dreaded pit of rage,
fueled by this new knowledge
that, yes, Papá is alive
and I already know him;
in fact, I detest him!
I am the son of Uncle Manuel
the drunkard.
No wonder we’ve always looked at each other
with such utter loathing and suspicion.
By day, I go to his fancy shop just to stare.
Why confront him, what would I say?
After sunset, I suffer alone
unable to sleep
without dreaming
of a faceless
armless
footless
pale spirit
that reaches for me,
its touch just as alarming
as the zigzag embrace
of a jolting lightning ray,
scalding
sulfur-scented
with a taste
like oily candle wax
whenever I kick and bite,
trying to fight back
protecting myself
from the sadness
of an evil
dream.
AFTER BETRAYAL
At sunrise, nightmares vanish,
replaced by Bernarda’s fearsome stories
about my mother’s brothers—Ignacio,
who was shot in a duel, and Antonio, dragged
behind a horse during a revolution.
Apparently, my family’s history
was always riddled by tragedies.
Mamá married Manuel and divorced him
before I was born, because of his drunkenness,
but then he married one of my aunts, and now
I must live with his disturbing presence
as well as the hideous memory
of my mother’s absence.
Perhaps it’s better to claim no parents
than two who have no use for a son.
No matter how hard it seems,
I’ll need to find some way to forgive
Bernarda for keeping such deeply
wounding
secrets.
If she hadn’t adopted me,
I might now be
a wild child
raised by cattle.
DREAMS OF ESCAPE
Restless.
Desperate.
Something inside my mind is turning me into
a wanderer, bitter and distant.
It seems so natural now
to think of myself as homeless.
What comfort is there in the dull articles
I sell to newspapers, trying to earn money
to help the woman I thought of as a mother
for so many years, when all along, Bernarda knew
that my true Mamá
was alive and had no wish
to know me, while the father
I despise
was even
worse.
IMPERFECT POETRY IS MY ONLY REFUGE
The blue peace of sky.
Wings.
A view of passing birds.
Joy.
I try, but resentment
is determined to invade
my verses.
Forgiveness.
Not for my real parents,
no.
Maybe someday, after I’ve seen
this wide world’s wonders,
just like the wanderer, El Bocón.
In the meantime, I use my written voice
loudly, scribbling protests against every
injustice, especially crimes
of personal, emotional, selfish
betrayal.
FRAGMENTS
No sorrow
is ever great enough
to destroy
nature’s comforts,
so I manage
to salvage
slivers
of happiness
by rowing
up and down the jungled coast
alone in a small boat, passing through marshes
and tangled mangrove swamps, as I watch the ocean
where ships steam away
toward distant lands.
The sea is beautiful, and the breeze
brings a scent of forest flowers.
My horizon is vast, a limitless universe
&nbs
p; of future verses.
SONGS OF LIFE
Thirteen is an age
of anticipation.
Soon I’ll be a grown man,
ready for travel
and love.
Whenever I see a statue in the park
I imagine that it might
spring to life,
reversing the process
that preserves old soldiers
as rigid sculptures.
Then I scribble an eerie tale
at midnight—I am the block of marble
carved
and waiting
for tomorrow.
FOURTEEN
I find work teaching grammar, and writing
for a newspaper called La Verdad—The Truth.
But truth is never popular
with corrupt leaders
who rely
on lies.
So when the government disapproves
of my writing, I lose all desire to do anything
but listen.
I sit on the street beside Manuelita—a woman
who sells cigars—while she tells stories
of flying horses, magical genies,
and endless mazes
where ancient heroes
were always
wandering
ending up
lost.
Manuelita’s little dog
pays attention to these stories,
and then he listens intently
to my improvised verses
about the same myths.
The dog is called Laberinto,
even though Labyrinth sounds
like a concept too complex
for his wagging tail
and friendly eyes.
I’m already a failure
as a reporter, so how long
will it be
until I find
my own
pathway
through
life’s
tangled
mazes?
MELANCHOLY
Sorrow transforms me.
I feel as if an invisible hand
is pushing me toward
the unknown . . .
but people who come to León
for a glimpse of the famous Poet Boy
are never disappointed.
I’m always ready to entertain them
with passionate verses.
There is no greater inspiration
than sadness, but ay, Dios, my God,
how willing I would be
to trade
this sense
of uselessness
for travel, any adventure, a hopeful voyage
like the ones I used to read about in the shade
of my beloved gourd tree
and pomegranate.
AN INVITATION
Senators come to León
just to hear the Poet Boy
read a hurricane of verses.
When I finish the performance
they invite me to visit Managua,
the capital city of Nicaragua,
and now all my daydreams
of roaming
are suddenly
real!
MOVING AWAY FROM HOME
I feel winged.
Sunlight fills my breath, my lungs. . . .
I’m as blessed as one of Victor Hugo’s
desolate characters in Les Misèrables,
a poet-witness accepted by influential men
despite my vast range of past failures.
I leave with Bernarda’s blessing,
but soon, as I pass the peaceful blue waters
of Lake Xolotlán
and the fuming volcano
called Momotombo,
I begin to wonder
if my small-town rhymes
will ever be eloquent enough
for city dwellers . . .
but I’m fifteen years old, with a star
of hope clasped in my hand, so I keep my eyes
lifted toward the future’s
limitless sky.
A CELEBRITY
How could I have known
that I would already be so famous,
paraded at parties and official banquets,
where elegant ladies constantly ask me
to write original poems
on their fancy silk fans?
Sonnets about their beauty—
I imagine that’s what they expect,
and sometimes it’s the sort of verse
I’m able to produce on short notice,
but there are other days
when all I want to say
is la verdad—the truth,
serving as history’s
honest witness.
AN ACT OF CONGRESS
The senators vote about my future,
deciding to send me to France.
In Paris, I will receive
such a dreamlike education,
studying with Europe’s greatest
masters of poetry!
All those years ago during Easter week
when I saw my own childhood verses
raining down from a golden pomegranate,
there was no way to foresee
this new shower
of generous
blessings.
DISAPPOINTMENT
The president of the republic
destroys all hope for a state-funded education.
He uses his veto power to deny the act of congress
that passed in my honor.
He calls my poetry insulting,
even though the verse he objects to
is just a parable about an angry ruler
who smashes his crown against a throne.
Yes, of course I’ll continue to criticize
foolish leaders wherever I find them.
That’s a decision I made at the edge of a swamp,
when I saw a man’s severed hand flying.
Poets must speak, no matter the punishment.
We are observers with musical voices, testifying
in the courtrooms
of nature
and human life.
A WORLD OF BOOKS
Stranded in this hectic city,
I have to find a job, so I decide to apply
to the National Library, and even though
I’m so young, librarians accept me into their treasury
of ancient thoughts and modern ones.
Verses from so many nations!
Fables, myths, fantasies, translations!
Greeks and Romans
along with Aztecs and Mayas.
The wisdom of so many civilizations
swirls and blends, entering my imagination
through tangled gateways.
Why shouldn’t my poetry feature Pegasus
alongside Quetzalcoatl?
My ancestry is both Spanish
and indio,
so my mestizo mind embraces
the mixture.
INDEPENDENT THOUGHT
The library’s silence is mysterious.
Each book offers a gift of possibilities.
Soon I’m writing while I read,
combining my own endless
sense of wonder
with all the marvels
already told in astonishing stories
from history, sagas of travel, nature,
families, conflict, and love,
always love. . . .
Days pass, weeks, months.
There’s nothing to stop me
from spending a lifetime
immersed in this endless
exploration
of pages, unless . . .
FALLING IN LOVE IS A CLIFF
n
o
t
a
s
l
o
p
e.
As soon as I’ve plummeted,
I feel certain
that everyone will disapprove, because
she’s so young too, and all we want
is to be married right away.
No reason to wait.
Grown-ups can’t
stop
us.
Can they?
THIS FLURRY OF VERSES
Passionate love poems fly from my pen,
published in newspapers, so that even strangers
will know
how much I love her,
the girl with green eyes,
cinnamon skin, dazzling laughter,
and a magical voice that can sing any
enchantment.
In a garden of blue butterflies
and flowering flame trees
we stargaze
together.
Clasped hands.
Absolute silence.
First
kiss!
UNCERTAINTY
What if she doesn’t really love me enough
to accept my proposal?
How can I wait years and years to get married,
until we’re both older, wiser, and so much more
boring?
SELFISHNESS
A friend falls ill.
My beloved carries medicine
to his bedside.
Instead of sympathy for a sick young man’s suffering,
all I feel is this frenzy of envy, as if love
has changed me
into the monstrous beast
called jealousy.