"bachata" poems
Sometimes, I am in love with myself.
I force them to witness my love for my melanin
because they would love for me to hate my melanin.
I know that I am seen, but I want to be heard,
The first amendment allows me to speak, but they refused to hear a word-
that comes from my mouth.
My lips stereotyped as too black.
My diction too proper to act like this,
yet my slang is too ghetto to act like that...
Sometimes, I wonder what it's like to be white.
I hate being stared at when I speak in Spanish.
I never know if it's in disgust or in comfort,
because the sound of the double "r" rolling off of my tongue
sounds like the ricochet of the bullets they fire from their guns.
Since they no longer can enslave us like animals, they slaughter us
because, "if I can't have you no one can."
I refuse to be put down.
I refuse to shutdown.
My brown skin threatens,
and you all should be afraid.
Because I will banish your negativity with my Latin American flow,
speaking in Spanish with the Bachata tempo filling my veins.
My Ebonics is iconic,
and I refuse to be put in a box when the world is a sphere.
I... am more... than this.
Jul 8, 2016
Jul 8, 2016 at 2:16 AM UTC
I am from VapoRub,
From Goya
And morisoñando.
I am from the traffic
And loud horns,
From the Caribbean heat,
And the city lights,
From the buildings
And the towers.
I am from the palm trees
And the coconut trees,
Dancing bachata
And merengue
In the beach,
From yaniqueque
Y plátano,
From tostones
And fish.
I am from Sunday gatherings
And loud family members,
From Jose, Maria, and Primos,
And the hardworking
Payamps clan.
I am from the
Madera’s baseball team,
From Canó, Sosa, y Ortiz,
From the long summer rides
To ***** Cana
And Samana’s beach.
From “work hard
Cause life is not easy”
And “family before friends.”
From Christianity
And Saturday morning sermons,
From God is good
And He brings joy.
I am from Santo Domingo
And Monción,
From Santiago
And Spanish ancestors,
From mangú con salami,
From rice and beans.
From the grandpa
Who owns the village
Surrounded by
Chickens, cows, and bulls,
From the business owner
And the well known uncles
In my hometown.
I am from the only flag
With a bible.
From the red, blue
And white.
From the most beautiful
Island in the Caribbean,
From Quisqueya y
Libertad.
I am from the
Dominican Republic,
The country that holds
The people I love and
Miss the most.
I am from the
Little Paris box
I keep next to my bed,
Filled with precious
Gifts and letters
That make me feel
A little closer
To them.
Aug 18, 2017
Aug 18, 2017 at 11:54 AM UTC
What is the versatile autobiography
of this bountiful of rice
boiling in my American kitchen?
This crop of microscopic slabs of grain
that was the one edible source
of preventing my ancestors' emaciation
One of such few things
connecting me
to my roots,
those things I can't help but bleach
in whitewashed and rebellious peroxide.
I will valiantly hang my head down low in shame
at the examples of my flesh and earth,
"those National Geographic cavemen,"
all the time being the zoo animal,
being blindfolded and caged by
these "secular, American liberals."
I love this food
that I consume like a vacuum,
this merengue and bachata
that I so happily shake my *** to;
but nowhere did I sign up
for these commandments
that I was appointed
based on the location
that I popped out onto.
Apr 29, 2010
Apr 29, 2010 at 10:51 AM UTC
His first love should've been basketball and his second, girls
because his name was Juan and he represented the white, red
and blue bandera, *Dominicano puro cien porciento del capital
entiendes compai?* understand homie?
and that label meant that he threw empty beer bottles
at abandoned houses and smoked second hand ****
because he was too broke to buy from the good dealers
and he hollered at girls with wide hips and short skirts that walked by
(oye mama tu si eres linda ven aquí!)
they would giggle and roll their eyes at him but of course
because he was one of those light skinned boys, the type
with light eyes and smooth brown hair that every girl dreamed
about, they would holler at him back the very next day
//
His first love was basketball and his second, was not
girls, his second love was words; it was the craziest ******* thing
in the world, to be a boy and not be crazy over women is one
thing, but to be Dominican and not in love with every muchacha
en el Barrio es una cosa de los maricones! as his best friend
would say as he shook his head disappointedly, muthafucka had
the finest beauties the Caribbean had to offer swooning as he
spoke, and he was in love with palabras de los gringos? but it didn’t
matter, he loved words like the junkies loved drugs and like
his best friend loved women, and while every other sin verguenza
on his block would dance to the hypnotizing beat of merengue and
bachata, he would watch by on the roof of the abandoned building
nearby and he would write it all down: how the lights of the neighborhood
had never seen more alive and how old man Victor looked youthful
dancing next to the neighborhood ***** and how his mother
looked happier than she had in a long time, swaying her body to the
calming voice of the old music she hadn't head in a while and
yes he was still the boy that threw beer bottles at abandoned windows
and smoked second hand **** because he was too broke
to afford the real stuff and he still hollered at girls who wore
shirts too low but in the shadow of all the happiness up on the roof,
he was not Juan, best basketball player on the team,
Dominicano cien porciento y no te lo olvides,
repping the white, red and blue bandera
instead he was Juan, the light skinned boy who liked the
palabras de los gringos because of the way they rolled off his tongue
and he had decided that he liked it better that way
(h.l.)
Sep 18, 2015
Sep 18, 2015 at 6:28 PM UTC
* * *She is my spark of life
She is my burned dinner
That she's making me eat
Because I never learned how to cook
She is my silly costume on Halloween
That she made me wear
To go out with her to her work party
She is what makes me want to dance
When I have two left feet
And I can't pronounce the word "bachata"
She is my comfort
But she pushes me out of the nest
Out of my comfort zone
To do things I didn't know I could do
She is my spark of life
She pours herself over me
Like water over ice
And she keeps me warm like a fire
With her skin at night
She puts the smile on my face
When our lips touch, and she bites
She is my spark of life* *
Dec 1, 2021
Dec 1, 2021 at 11:11 PM UTC
I like to think that sitting in a diamond
with these women,
spitting tongues and
spicy hot
that I can follow.
that I hear their every word
and know it's meaning, context.
I pretend there isn't a
|barrier|.
Because of their sun-kissed skin,
thick strands like a horses tail,
burly eye protectors
and long eyebrows.
The way their hips snap
and sway
to the beat of a bachata song.
the way they aren't afraid of the
fire that formed the minute they sprung
from the womb.
Hot (Caliente),
fire (fuego),
sacrifices and (sacrificios y)
respect (respeto).
I will sit here and listen
read their quick bodies
show my teeth as they do.
Because I want to learn
of that strength.
Jan 23, 2013
Jan 23, 2013 at 12:09 AM UTC
Hello poetry has talent
Countless poets write share and allow repost
Three were faithful followers to mine art through time
Only one broke my wall
one danced me on the floor of his art he loves my craft.
I call that brave poet dancing with his two Z's
My Kizombo Bachata
He's the one with elastic passionate moves.
Our innercore for love is
like rubber bands, we bend flex and break if love
pulls on us too hard.
We found the perfect theme songs we share two now
With poets who know our ink
our craft is similar to theirs, called love.
~~~~
By Karijinbbba.
Jul 12, 2021
Jul 12, 2021 at 4:27 PM UTC
Sweat rolls down my back in a hot white room.
A very large fan that blows nothing but more hot air.
My lights are off and into my t.v I stare.
i'm restless.
I cant sleep...
...I didn't eat...
....did some laundry...
why don't I feel clean....
I shower...
...the dirt on my head
...on my chest...
...on my arms...
...travel with the water to the trunks that be mine legs...
..naked...wet..
...free...
...content...
satisfied?
...I am.
I begin to sing...
...random words that a warm shower can bring.
my soap; My mic.
my shower head; My camera man.
my bathtub; My Stage
reluctant to turn the *** of my shower, I am.
but I do.
I step through the thick layer of steam,
that makes it slightly difficult to breath.
but I wanted to stay with my heat.
the heat of moisture and steam.
I sit on my toilet and enjoy the tropical atmosphere in my bathroom.
I begin to whistle an exotic tune.
I tap my feet to the rhythm of my hands.
now I've become a one man band playing for kicks amongst an island in the Caribbean.
salsa,
merengue,
bachata,
all of a sudden I noticed how warm and calm I was.
how happy and jolly I was.
how I felt so "irishy" and "springy"
I dress myself without drying my body and I stare into the mirror with a smile on my face.
I open the door, everything became dark again.
I put my dirt caked clothes inside my hamper.
my clothes felt damp.
I took off my shirt.
I turned off my lamp.
popped in a dvd.
and stared into the portal of entertainment intently.
Sweat rolls down my back in a hot white room.
A very large fan that blows nothing but more hot air.
My lights are off and into my t.v I stare.
i'm restless.
I cant sleep...
Jul 10, 2014
Jul 10, 2014 at 11:53 AM UTC
we are an enigma
like a jigsaw
& i
am perplexed
by our movements
in this dance we do
its so
tango like
i run
&
you chase
until i turn
wanting to get caught
but you
pull back
the way a long distant
night waltzes
into obscurity
only deciding
to reappear
the next morning
yelling "wait!"
but
the track star
that i am
has sprinted
so far gone
with heart in hand
that i don't hear you
or at least maybe
i pretend not to
tell me
how long will we
continuously swerve
away from each other
like two cars colliding
too afraid of wrecking
each others emotional walls?
this waltz
in which we dance
around each other
has become
an unpragmatic
silent torment
to us both
lets meringue
or even bachata
baila
baila
conmigo now
spice it up a bit
lets salsa
come on
pull
me
close
cause at some point
all music changes
&
dances eventually
come to an end
Feb 14, 2016
Feb 14, 2016 at 6:21 PM UTC
I'm starting to think Saturday's are supposed to be late mornings because breakfast lasts longer that way. Leaving around 4 to catch a settled sun. Hundreds of merchants in the park as the live music goes from the close bluegrass bop to the distant rock drums. Saturday's have become ears filled with Spanish noises you've learned to ignore because the pain of dancing still in your toes from your night of bachata speak louder. Walking to the ferria as the sun settles and since you're alone you finally get to listen and watch without being interrupted bites of alfajores sweeter with the solitude. Finding your love in each couples palms as they hold hands, remembering how much you miss your boyfriend as you walk in the direction of the sun. So settled and strong it looks as if it's rising like your hips used to do as you felt loved. Steps feel lighter and your shirt blows with the wind and for once you start to think this is what You always wanted out of this. Finding your face in the rips of a passerbys jeans, feeling your muscles as you wonder where the stairs lead to. Today you had time. Watching backflips that demanded applause and handcrafts that merchants hope you'll take off their hands. All the while it's only 6 o clock on a Saturday and you feel as if the day won't be as perfect as it is right then. Feeling like the first kiss on the Friday night, you waited and it finally came. Saturdaze.
Mar 29, 2015
Mar 29, 2015 at 10:28 AM UTC
Yesterday I thought about you
El Taxi was played at the gay bar
And I thought of you
I was your first kiss
You weren't out to your parents.
I'm drunk.
I can't believe you left, that you chose to leave.
Im sorry that you felt you had to die.
I'm so so sorry..
I'll never forget how you taught me how to dance bachata.
You were beautiful.
You were so smart and kind.
I miss you and I'm sorry you felt like you needed to die.
I'm so sorry Icel
Aug 19, 2017
Aug 19, 2017 at 3:51 AM UTC
It wasn't
important
that he was
doing
the waltz
and I,
bachata
All that
mattered
in the
moment
was that
our hearts
followed
...
each other's rhythm
Sep 9, 2017
Sep 9, 2017 at 8:03 AM UTC
Here is a list of things that are bigger,
greater than all of the world's oceans,
bigger than the storms in the seas,
than all the islands in the Pacific,
connecting all of us together,
being one great channel of culture...
Telenovela, chismes, galeones,
teleserye, chismis, galleon.
𝘚𝘪𝘣𝘢𝘵 𝘯𝘪 𝘓𝘢𝘱𝘶-𝘓𝘢𝘱𝘶, 𝘣𝘢𝘭𝘢𝘵 𝘯𝘪 𝘔𝘢𝘨𝘦𝘭𝘭𝘢𝘯.
𝘌𝘴𝘱𝘢𝘥𝘢 𝘯𝘪 𝘔𝘢𝘨𝘦𝘭𝘭𝘢𝘯? 𝘒𝘢𝘩𝘶𝘭𝘶𝘨𝘢𝘯 𝘯𝘨 𝘬𝘢𝘸𝘢𝘭𝘢𝘯.
Sangría? No, sangre de Magallanes.
𝘕𝘪ñ𝘰𝘴, 𝘲𝘶𝘦𝘥𝘦𝘯𝘴𝘦 𝘦𝘯 𝘤𝘢𝘴𝘢 𝘦𝘯 𝘷𝘦𝘻
𝘥𝘦 𝘭𝘢𝘯𝘻𝘢𝘳 𝘤𝘪𝘯𝘤𝘰 𝘨𝘢𝘭𝘦𝘰𝘯𝘦𝘴.
And believe it or not;
Bulerías, danza, bachata, habaneras.
How do you like your coffee, bebe?
Con leche? Bueno.
Evaporada and condensada?
Tequila, San Miguel, Mezcal, Corona,
Cerveza, Serbesa, Cerrado, Sarado.
𝘈𝘯𝘨 𝘣𝘢𝘴𝘰 𝘯𝘨 𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘮𝘨𝘢 𝘴𝘦𝘳𝘣𝘦𝘴𝘢,
𝘢𝘵 𝘢𝘯𝘨 𝘭𝘶𝘮𝘶𝘭𝘶𝘵𝘢𝘯𝘨 𝘯𝘪𝘵𝘰𝘯𝘨 𝘺𝘦𝘭𝘰.
Actually, how do you like your coffee?
𝘛𝘦 𝘨𝘶𝘴𝘵𝘢 𝘴𝘪𝘲𝘶𝘪𝘦𝘳𝘢 𝘦𝘭 𝘤𝘢𝘧é?
𝘚𝘪 𝘯𝘰, 𝘯𝘰 𝘤𝘳𝘦𝘰 𝘲𝘶𝘦 𝘱𝘶𝘦𝘥𝘢 𝘴𝘦𝘳 𝘵𝘶 𝘢𝘮𝘪𝘨𝘰.
So do you like it hot or con hielo?
And of course;
Canciones, c/kanta,
And nowㅡreggateon, budots.
Gasolina? Aserejé? Macarena?
Bad Bunny, being our new Columbus.
Playitas, islas, karagatan, nuestro paraíso.
Mas chismes, mas tazas de cafe.
How do you think we're so far yet so alike?
Of all these things? Con chisme? Claro.
So which one first? The juiciest or latest?
Jul 22, 2024
Jul 22, 2024 at 4:20 AM UTC
Mamacita
Coke-bottle figures are motivation
to get close to you.
I arrive to Spain clinging Molotov
Cocktails
(it’s not Spanish but least it’ll do)
to see blossoming tulip dresses
I bend kneecaps to Barcelona, Medellin,
Buenos Aires, Santiago, Puerto Rico
Mexico City, Madrid to get
a sense of your flower-nightlife
Swallow Iquitos, hills of white
rice fields.
Conquistador I bachata-bachata
love you gyrating exoskeletons to
Reggeton
Jun 18, 2018
Jun 18, 2018 at 4:58 PM UTC
Floating in the air is the delicious smell of alcapurrias, pastelios, morcilla... home, laughter, long nights...
Echos of different radios playing Willie Colon, Celia Cruz, Marc Anthony, Bad Bunny, Karol G... which fiesta you tryna go to.
Viejitos sit together, reflect on how long its been, the neighborhood is changing..
playing dominoes by the trucks.
funny to hear them yelling over eachother,
a game of who's louder.
Pero never tell them "you're yelling!" tho , por que "no mama THIS IS HOW I TALK".
You don't just walk down the streets. You dance. To the rhythm. Hips start to sway. Bachata takes over and you're dancing with 3 others. 1..2..3..hip 1..2..3.. hip 1…2…3… hip 1…2…3… hip
"MY PUERTO RICAN QUEEN. If you can dance infront of everyone you can anything in this world. Never stop dancing."
I love them. Feels safe here. It's home.
The machismo never phased me. It lifted me up.
Faded memories of climbing the rusted bleachers, always daring to catch up with the boys of the block. taking breaks to eat my cherry piragua. These Memories hold me warm as a knitted blanket. Carrying with me, never forgetting.
The closest thing to remembering you.
Laughter strikes cause it was so long ago. I was so young, yet I miss the opportunity I could've had. Wish we had a chance. MY viejo. My abuelo. The prettiest princess in the land. The real Cinderella. (Only a joke he would know)
Oct 4, 2023
Oct 4, 2023 at 10:30 PM UTC
I.
Life is easy, really.
Poetry should be as straightforward
As the click of a 9-5 timecard approval.
Harry had a real tough week--
Fell in love with an exhibitionist, poor son of a *****
II.
One minute you’re dancing bachata
To the full eight count,
Trying to ****** a woman in Chinese--
Not. Easy.
Waking up to a cold ******* shower
In God knows where Brisbane.
III.
And then in the blink of an eye. Click.
Mary Sou had a hemorrhage and you swear
Eileen just flew the bird in cahoots
With Ida. East, West, trump four of hearts,
Absolute ********
Roll me back pronto, Heidi.
I don’t surround myself with cheaters.
Apr 11, 2020
Apr 11, 2020 at 1:03 PM UTC
Me gusta poesía en español
me recuerda a los momentos en mi adolecía cuando my madre y yo íbamos solas a la playa
cuando mojadas nos acostábamos sobre la arena leyendo Sor Juana o Neruda
Me gustan las guitarras
me calman
siempre ha ávido músicos en la familia
para mi no es casa sin música
sin que alguien cante o toque algo
Segovia, Metallica, Violeta Parra, Led Zeppelin, Caetano, Ry Cooder, Pedro Infante
baladas, corridos, salsa, bachata, samba, cumbia
no hay alegria hasta que se libera el cuerpo sobre la pista de baile o en la cocina con una cuchara de palo batiendo el mole poblano
mi sangre mixta a heredado tantos sabores
y tanta riqueza de ideas y colores
que no cambiaria nada
me gusta a mi quien soy
y quiero seguir creciendo
y amando ser una ser humano
Feb 8, 2021
Feb 8, 2021 at 9:44 AM UTC