by enduring
a long voyage on the ocean.
No matter how beautiful and musical
the waves are, I’ll still be seasick
and isolated.
The mere thought
of such a challenging journey
makes me wistful for my childhood home
in León.
Wanderlust
is a powerful force
that leaves the eager traveler
longing to live
two lives
at the same time,
one of adventure,
the other
peace.
PREPARATIONS
A friend presents me
with letters of introduction
to a poet in Valparaíso
and a rich man in Santiago.
A collection is taken up,
until I hold a handful
of old Peruvian
gold coins.
I’ll arrive in Chile with nothing
but paper, a pen, this bit of money,
and the star of hope that still
warms my hand . . .
but there will be no way
to make a living
if my flawed poems
are rejected
by editors
who expect
perfection.
WAR
Just when I’m finally ready to leave—
shouting
gunfire
rebellion!
All the separate republics
of Central America
launch a chaotic
jumble of battles.
New rulers
seize power.
Every moment of delay
is dangerous.
The journey I planned as an adventure
now turns into a desperate attempt
at escape . . .
but I’m too slow,
and before I have a chance
to flee
from this violent
man-made disaster,
nature reclaims
her absolute
authority.
EARTHQUAKE
Walls
of a house
where
I am visiting
crumble
tumble
fall.
Hopes in the mind where I thrive
give way to a crushing vigil
of
waiting
to find out
if I
will
survive.
But I’m not the only one trapped
by destruction.
A small child!
Instinctively,
I lift
my friend’s daughter
and carry her
to safety
an act
that will forever
cause others to call me a hero
even though all I am is a weak man
who happens to be just a tiny bit bolder
than this thankfully smiling
five-year-old
girl.
My heart is changed
by the experience of helping.
None of the books I’ve read by Spanish, Cuban,
French, Greek, and North American poets
ever prepared me for the depth
of my new gratitude
to heaven
and earth.
VOLCANO
The era of natural disasters has not ended!
Fiery
rivers
of rolling
lava
flow
down
from
heights
burying forests
farms
villages
dreams.…
Gray ash rains over the city, a torment
of horrors.
THE SUN DISAPPEARS
Lanterns are needed even at noon.
People move through a dusty gloom
of ashes and soot, our prayers rising
as we sing in the streets, all together,
everyone expecting sudden doom.
If this combination of war
followed by earthquakes
and a volcanic eruption
is not the end of the world,
then it must be a new beginning
of brotherly love, as everyone joins
our united effort to find survivors.
We succeed, but the government’s print shop
has been destroyed.
There will be no published book of my poems,
just these scribbled papers, my treasury,
a battered suitcase
filled with verses.
YEARNING FOR LIGHT
If I were a bird
I’d rise above volcanic ashes
and soar far beyond this burning earth . . .
but I’m human,
so I use my shaky legs
to stumble through dark streets
searching for survivors
other poets
my friends.
Go to Chile,
they urge me
when we finally
locate each other.
Go, they repeat, flee, niño poeta,
try to reach the end of the earth,
even if you
have to swim,
even if you drown.
FLIGHT
After saying farewell to Bernarda,
I rush
to the docks
see a boat
buy a ticket
climb on board
steam away!
Am I really the only passenger?
The vessel turns out to be a German cargo ship.
No one on board speaks my language.
When I glance back at the shore
I see my homeland
vanishing
beneath swirling clouds
of dense
smoke.
WONDERING
Am I a coward for leaving?
It will take my nation
and my family
many years
to recover
from so much damage.
I imagine these feelings
as one drop in a river,
the endless stream
of disasters,
both natural
and man-made.
Survivor’s guilt
must always be
part of this rolling
wave of relief
felt by every
escaping
refugee.
LANGUAGE BARRIERS
An immense sorrow settles over me.
No one on the ship speaks Spanish
and I don’t know any German, so I try
to communicate by using bits of English
that I’ve learned by reading translations
of North American poetry,
but the crew members don’t
understand me, so we fall
into a pattern
of silence.
This loss of words
must be the first shock
faced by every immigrant.
A TRAVELER’S MIND
The sea is peaceful
and my dreams are invisible,
both future and past hidden
by distance.
Waiting
is the only way of life that exists now,
slow days spent watching waves,
then
endless nights
gazing up at starlight.
Each shorebird that soars above us,
leads my old pen toward new verses.
TRAVELING WITH INVISIBLE MENTORS
I love the writing of Cuba’s José Martí
and France’s Victor Hugo,
but I need
my own style, so I scribble
aboard this ship of daydreams,
steaming alone
toward my future.
UN AMIGO
One friend is enough.
The captain smiles,
wordlessly inviting me
to play dominoes.
We eat in his cabin.
I learn a few words of German.
When we stop at ports, I see how little is needed
to make poor people happy.
In forests, there are clearings where children play.
In stark deserts, the only trees and flowers
are painted on walls, lush green murals
that create a satisfying illusion
of abundance.
WHEN I WRITE POETRY
Time on the ship passes slowly and swiftly
at the same time, a mystery of syllables,
silences,
and rhyme.
I discover the beauty of waves
that come
and then go again, in patterns of long
and short
tidal rhythms.
When I experiment with a variety of styles
certain verses end up seeming as wide as the ocean
which pulls seawater back and forth so furiously
that even the brave
restless moon
follows.
I’ve given up the idea of home—all I have now
are dreams, and this need to roam.
NINETEEN YEARS OLD
I’m like the roaming moon,
ready to face anything,
such a wealth of wonders
and painful frustrations
that the strange future
of every wanderer
brings.
IMAGINARY ORCHARDS
Quietly, I remember my childhood
of peaceful days spent reading
between the gourd tree
and the pomegranate.
Then I think of Easter week, and the way
a single, gleaming golden fruit exploded,
releasing seeds for the growth
of my smallest poems.
If I don’t find a publisher in Chile,
then I’ll just keep writing anyway,
serving as my own audience
for honest verses.
I feel like a hunter of daydreams,
armed with nothing but hours
vowel rhymes
and truth.
A FOREIGNER AT THE END OF THE EARTH
The ship finally steams
into the glorious port of Valparaíso.
The first thing I do is buy a newspaper,
feeling stunned by the reality
of arrival.
The leading story of the day
is about the death of a famous historian
whose books I know well, so I spend
twenty minutes
scribbling my own
analysis of his work.
With this article and my suitcase
full of poems, I have all the luggage
I’ll ever need.
FINDING MY WAY
Which hotel?
It’s the same dilemma I faced
when I was exiled to El Salvador.
A shabby room is all I can afford,
but a pianist who is staying at the same inn
makes our surroundings seem elegant
as he sends festive music
rising up into the air.
Creativity is the best fuel
for every poor man’s future.
As soon as I’m settled,
I take my article about the historian
to a newspaper office, where the friendly editor
accepts my work, and pays me generously.
Even the tiniest bit of encouragement
is enough to make an ordinary poet
feel truly heroic!
JUDGED
A new friend from the newspaper
helps me send my letter of introduction
to the rich man in Santiago,
the biggest city in Chile.
Soon I’m on my way, seated on the train,
wondering why so many gentlemen and ladies
frown and whisper, glaring at me
with disgust.
Un indio.
I hear the murmurs.
My brown skin.
Long hair.
Mended clothes.
Broken shoes.
Bursting suitcase.
Dream-filled gaze.
REFUSING TO BE JUDGED
In my homeland, I was just one
of thousands of mestizos, but here
so many people have only Spanish blood,
and anti-indigenous racial hatred
strikes my life
for the first time.
Los indios are the conquered,
continue to think of themselves as superior,
even though many decades have passed
since the hero Simón Bolívar
freed everyone
equally.
Let these pale people who think
they’re so much better
judge me by my words
and actions
not
my skin.
ACCEPTING MY SELF
I become determined
to mix the ancient myths of Greece
with native Aztec and Maya images
from various nations of las Américas.
Chile has other aspects
that are new to me too,
such as seasons of cold,
not just the equally hot
wet and dry months
that I know
from the tropics.
I’m the only one on this train
without a warm jacket.
Let them stare at me.
Pretty soon I’ll freeze
and all they’ll see
is an icy skeleton.
ANGER IS NATURAL
It’s easy to speak of defiance, but the truth is
that I feel defeated and desperate.
Inside my old suitcase,
a storm of verses is hidden.
With paper as my sky, words
are the wind that should help my mind fly.
If only my heart could follow,
celebrating any chance to transform
life’s hardships
into rhythmic artworks,
like the desert people
who paint murals
of flowering green forests
on barren
adobe walls.
For now, this drumbeat of rage
will be my only poetry.
BUZZING BEES OF HOPE
At the train station in Santiago, I turn away
from the disdainful faces of those who judge me,
while all around us, families embrace, reunited.
Joyful cries, food vendors, the rush of porters
carrying luggage . . .
I stand alone, waiting, until finally I see a carriage
with fancy horses, a driver in his elegant uniform,
and a valet who helps a wealthy man
step down
to search
for the person
he’s meeting.
He’s wrapped in luxurious furs.
Could this be the rich man who received
my letter of introduction?
When we are the only two people left
on the platform, he approaches me
and asks if I might happen to be
the famous Rubén Darío,
el niño poeta.
Yes, I’m the celebrated Poet Boy
but what does that even mean
now that I’m a grown man of nineteen?
My childhood verses were just practice
for the way I plan to write now, whenever
a stranger judges me as anything less
than an angry hive filled
with the hopeful b
ees
of equality.
A ROOM AT THE END OF THE EARTH
I enter my new life
with a wealth of ideas
instead of money and clothing.
I have a place to stay, and I’m given a job
at a newspaper, but I feel so timid
each time I’m surrounded
by wealthy men
who think of me
as a poor indio.
Is envy part of the problem?
Does the fame that precedes me
lead them to expect someone who looks
powerful, wearing the latest fashions
from Paris, and writing in a more
conventional style?
WHEN I’M ASKED TO DESCRIBE THE PROCESS OF WRITING
I simply tell the truth,
even though so many skeptics
don’t find it easy to believe.
My poems are born whole
after long moments of concentration,
the first drafts unwritten, hidden deep within
the silent confines
of my mind.
POETRY WINGS
Eventually, I meet a few friendly people
who understand my shyness.
There is a young man my age
who is often ill, so he has sympathy
for my homesickness.
His father turns out to be
the president of Chile,
who invites me to lunch,
where I’m treated