"cumbia" poems
Vi en las costas de Trinidad
conchas nereidoasirenadas
tejer sus cabellos ,
cantar Rege los peces
en Jamaica
al amor en Carthagena ,
madurar como mango
a los poetas del Sur bailar
Cumbia
Y vi en sus ojos la revolucion
alrededor de la estatua de Bolivar .
19.10.2000
Feb 27, 2012
Feb 27, 2012 at 10:38 PM UTC
she cried on a day that should have been celebratory
and I did not have words
she danced an ode written to cumbia
she danced it out with grace
with verbs so fine
you knew she held the present
at every sway
she did not have words
we walked to food joint next to the bar
rolled out the English language
in exchange for sustenance
“what are words?”
I picked up our food
drunkenly shook out some lingo
and the grey-haired man on the other side of the counter
took a deep breath and stayed silent
“Are words needed ?”
the Kamikaze shots and the tequila made our tongues soft
and our upper palates dry
pouring only thirst, into our youth
and there,
eyes soaked in meaning
in a circus of incertitude,
the cold wind turned divine flurried our hair
“we do not have words.”
Feb 25, 2017
Feb 25, 2017 at 4:57 AM UTC
Que viva Colombia!
Que viva el vueltiao
Que viva el tamal tolimense
Que viva mi machete
Que viva la ruana
Que viva la cumbia
Que viva el guarapo
Que viva Peñaranda
Que viva la sabana, el monte, el llano y el mar
Que viva mi abuelita ******
Que viva el M.A.N., mi papá
Aug 21, 2018
Aug 21, 2018 at 11:58 PM UTC
Tengo olor de tierra.
Tengo sabor de café y miel en la lengua,
Tengo un saxofón, un acordeón y un par de teclas que caminan.
Que se mueven despacio,
que también saben violentarse, jadeándose entre pasos
al ritmo de un guaguancó.
Se liberan al ritmo de un son cubano,
Se rompen la espalda en una quebradita, pues soy chaparrita.
Un Merengue suavecito de mi adorada Quisqueya.
Mi patria bella, con sus mulatas, y azúcar en la cintura.
Llevo a Puerto Rico en una Salsa o una Bomba y Plena que espante la monotonía,
y en una Cumbia Colombiana, me conecto a todos mis paisas.
Llevo un gaucho argentino con un Mate, un Gardel y un buen Tango en el corazoncito.
Entre doble pasos va saliendo mi espíritu gitano.
Voy moviendo el piso al sonido de un Flamenco.
y si llegan a sentir una Zamba se transportan mis pies a Brasil
y bailo y hablo en portugués.
No, yo no tengo patria, llevo la música en el alma.
No, yo no soy bailarina.
Si, voy viajado el mundo en sonidos de artistas con sueños.
Yo soy negra y a puro orgullo,
fluye por mi cuerpo el sonido del pueblo,
Los tambores de África percutan por mis pies.
Yo soy del sonido que alegre mis pies.
Yo soy del país que me acoja en su ritmo.
Yo soy del mundo,
Yo soy música.
Yo soy los pies que bailan por la paz,
por la justicia,
por la igualdad.
Yo soy música y no más!
LeydisProse
6/9/2017
https://m.facebook.com/LeydisProse/
Jun 9, 2017
Jun 9, 2017 at 2:10 PM UTC
i said goodbye to the desert
spit out a few grains of rust and sand
as i sat in the back of my mother's grand marquis
i was bidding farewell to the long plaid skirt i wore to school every day
the school that was mercifully unmarred by bullets
the glitter on the popcorn ceiling of my grandparents' home
the smell of an overwhelming saturday evening
which stank of discarded waste and cigarettes
we were going somewhere special
goodbye nuevo laredo
eight years later
i said goodbye again
to a neat little home
nested tightly amongst the bricks of others
a hilly backyard
bluebonnets sashaying on the side of the highway
mexican restaurants every three blocks
that could never replicate what i once had
stars and stripes holding steady in the shade of a sycamore tree
a glittering city in the distance
i was in love
and i was going somewhere special
i was elated to escape
both of my previous lives
always finding myself awash with uncertainty
adrift as i committed and uncommitted to a series of distractions
from the beastly recesses of my pruned little brain
that snarled about hopelessness
abandonment
a lack of worth
and motivation
maybe i knew i was meant to run
since the moment of implantation
my new neighborhood is impeccably silent at night
no hollers to strain my ears for
no ominous pop-pop-pops
(was that a firework or could it be...)
no jovial music with thundering basses and large round drums
i eat pork drenched in teriyaki sauce
and drink green tea in the evenings
on the train, i gaze at the empty stares of other passengers
my gaze is also unreadable
i practice the strokes of a kanji
one, two, three...
my husband and i meander through temples
heavy and groaning with the weight of a thousand years
of life
benevolent buddhas and Cheshire-grinned demons
i can't help but think of the message of a western God
that my mother recited to me every night in the black of our room
sometimes i shuffle my feet in the square space of my living room
to the tune of cumbia
i used to think that i didn't have an identity
no confinement to a culture conceived by the likes of men
but i am what i am
and i never actually escaped
Nov 29, 2021
Nov 29, 2021 at 5:00 AM UTC
La Kumbia Kalvinista no es ritmo vaticano
se baila todo libre con la biblia en la mano
La Kumbia Kalvinista es la onda reformada
las sectas sí prometen—pero no entregan nada
Esta cumbia trascendente, pero poco conocida
es la cumbre de verdad, y predestina pura vida
La Kumbia Kalvinista es la nueva nueva onda
se la cantan las iglesias y ofrecen otra ronda
La Kumbia Kalvinista no lo bailan los de Roma
si un padre lo intenta terminará caído en coma
es un baile teológico que es absurdo mientras lógico
lo baile cada tribu, cada etnia y antropólogo
el papa mismo, y su esposa
bailan esta cumbia fabulosa
tu estado de animo no es nada
sino gracia predestinada
lo bailan los sajones con cojones
lo bailan las alemanas si le dan la ganas
este baile está basado en un ritmo luterano
apetece a los gringos, a los indios, y a fulano
no bailaban los franceses aunque Calvin era suya
si bailaban los escoceses y gritaban aleluya !
Apr 23, 2017
Apr 23, 2017 at 8:44 PM UTC
Bubba and Cedric, fire up the pit,
throwin’ shade and talking ****
Javier shows up with fajita,
mesquite smoke runs off **** mosquitos.
Red hots sizzle and skins wide split,
beer so cold, my hands frostbit,
chicken thighs, marinated in dill,
next to it onions and peppers grill.
Thin strips of beef, crackle, and pop
Bill pulls up, he's a cop,
grins and says we’re being too loud,
opens up a beer and joins the crowd.
Music pumping, Master P, and Hank Jr.
everybody is dancing, even Aunt Petunia,
walking a circle when the cumbia plays,
this is turning into a hell of a day.
It's time to eat, **** forgot tortillas,
no, we didn’t here comes Maria,
brought some for us, all homemade,
washing it down with moonshine lemonade.
Time for dessert, what do we got?
apple cobbler, in the crock ***
Kita made cake, better than ***
moon pies in a box, brought by Dex.
The sun dips low but not the tunes,
too much fun, nobody leaving soon,
drinking and dancing and telling jokes,
cigars come out, time to smoke.
Sun coming up, it’s time to go,
night never stopped its awesome flow,
bleary eyed and sleepy as hell,
let's go home and sleep a spell.
Sep 6, 2017
Sep 6, 2017 at 12:19 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