5 Poemas de Kate Rushin

The Bridge Poem

I’ve had enough
I’m sick of seeing and touching
Both sides of things
Sick of being the damn bridge for everybody

Nobody
Can talk to anybody
Without me Right?

I explain my mother to my father my father to my little sister
My little sister to my brother my brother to the white feminists
The white feminists to the Black church folks the Black church folks
To the Ex-hippies the ex-hippies to the Black separatists the
Black separatists to the artists the artists to my friends’ parents…

Then
I’ve got the explain myself
To everybody

I do more translating
Than the Gawdamn U.N.… Leer más

6 Poemas de Chrystos

I walk in the history of my people

There are women locked in my joints

for refusing to speak to the police

My red blood full of those arrested in flight shot

My tendons stretched brittle with anger 

do not look like white roots ofpeace

In my marrow are hungry faces

who live on land the whites don’t want

In my marrow women who walk 5 miles every day for water
In my marrow the swollen hands of my people who are not allowed

to hunt

to move

to be


In the sdirs of my knees you can see

children tom from their families

bludgeoned into government schools

You can see through the pins in my bones

that we are prisoners ofa long war

My knee is so badly wounded no one will look at it

 The pus ofthe past oozes from every pore

This infection has gone on for at least 300 years

Our sacred beliefs have been made into pencils

names of cities gas stations

My knee is wounded so badly that I limp constantly

Anger is my crutch  I hold myself upright with it 

My knee is wounded

 see

How I Am Still Walking

Camino entre la historia de mi pueblo


Hay mujeres encerradas en mis nudillos

por haberse negado a hablar a la policía

Mi sangre roja llena de esas

arrestadas, escapadas, balaceadas

Mis tendones estirados frágiles del coraje

no se miran como las raíces blancas de la paz

En mi médula hay caras hambrientas que viven

en los terrenos que los blancos no quieren

En mi médula hay mujeres que buscan el agua

por 5 millas todos los días

En mi médula llevo las caras hinchadas de mi pueblo prohibido

a cazar
a moverse
a ser

3 Poemas de Cherríe Moraga

For the color of my Mother

I am a white girl gone brown to the

blood color of my mother

speaking for her through the unnamed

part of the mouth the wide-arched

muzzle of brown women

at two

my upper lip split open

clear to the tip of my nose

it spilled forth a cry that would not

yield

that travelled down six floors of

hospital

where doctors wound me into white

bandages

only the screaming mouth exposed

the gash sewn back into a snarl

would last for years

I am a white girl gone brown to the

blood color of my mother speaking for

her

at five,

her mouth pressed into a seam

a fine blue child’s line drawn across her

face

her mouth, pressed into mouthing

english

mouthing yes yes yes

mouthing stoop lift carry

(sweating wet sighs into the field

her red bandana comes loose from

under the huge brimmed hat

moving across her upper lip)

at fourteen, her mouth

painted, the ends drawn up

the mole in the corner colored in darker

larger mouthing yes

she praying no no no

lips pursed and moving

at forty-five, her mouth

bleeding into her stomach

the hole gaping growing redder

deepening with my father’s pallor

finally stitched shut from hip to

breastbone

an inverted V

Vera

Elvira

I am a white girl gone brown to the

blood color of my mother speaking for

her

as it should be dark women come to me

sitting in circles I pass through their

hands

the head of my mother painted in clay

colors

touching each carved feature swollen

eyes and mouth

they understand the explosion the

splitting open contained within the

fixed expression

they cradle her silence

nodding to me

De: MORAGA,C.,&ANZALDÚA,… Leer más

5 Poemas y un Texto de Cheryl Clarke

To younger black lesbians in love

enjoy it—
‘in love.’

it won’t be the last time.

it will happen repeatedly.

and conveniently,

it won’t last forever.

would you want to go through your life obsessing

about the next time you will be with the one you’re ‘in

love’ with?

(you may have a job or school or children, or another

lover

needing your consideration.)… Leer más

Harriet Tubman

Esta página es de poesía pero también queremos dar presencia a algunas mujeres que, aunque no escribieron poesía, o no destacaron por ser poetas, su voz como mujeres, pioneras, pensadoras y/o escritoras es tan importante en la historia que creemos deben ser incluidas.… Leer más

15 Poemas de Kenneth Rexroth

Mi cuerpo está dormido. Sólo
mis ojos y mi cerebro están despiertos.
Las estrellas me rodean
como pupilas de oro. Yo no sabría
decir dónde comienza mi ser o dónde acaba.
La suave brisa en los oscuros pinos,
y en la hierba invisible,
la tierra que se inclina, las estrellas titilantes
tienen un ojo que se ve a sí mismo.… Leer más

Poemas de Margaret Mead


Esta página es de poesía pero también queremos dar presencia a algunas mujeres que, aunque no escribieron poesía, o no destacaron por ser poetas, su voz como mujeres, pioneras, pensadoras y/o escritoras es tan importante en la historia que creemos deben ser incluidas.… Leer más

Te Ata

Esta página es de poesía pero también queremos dar presencia a algunas mujeres que, aunque no escribieron poesía, o no destacaron por ser poetas, su voz como mujeres, pioneras y/o escritoras es tan importante que creemos deben ser incluidas.

Este es el caso de la grandísima Mary Frances Thompson conocida como Te Ata.… Leer más

6 Poemas de Marnie Pomeroy

Snow Down South

This transmutation which you sadly call

Temporary, shallow, merely local,

Comes upon the woodlands white and crystal

Overnight as wrought by sleet and snowfall.

(Fragmento de uno de los tres poemas publicado en New World Writing, 1958)

The Queen of lights

There is a queen of lights within me

jewelled all over with fire.… Leer más

13 Poemas de Philip Lamantia

The Islands of Africa

to Rimbaud

Two pages to a grape fable

dangles the swan of samite blood

shaping sand from thistle covered fog

Over sacred lakes of fever

(polished mouths of the vegetable frog

rolling to my iron venus)

I drop the chiseled pear

Standing in smoke filled valleys

(great domains of wingless flight

and the angel’s fleshy gun)

I stamp the houses of withering wax

Bells of siren-teeth (singing to our tomb

refusal’s last becoming)

await the approach of the incendiary children

lighting the moon-shaped beast

Every twisted river pulls down my torn-out hair

to ratless columns by the pyramid’s ghost

(watered basin of the temple stink)

and all the mud clocks in haste

draw their mermaid-feather swords

(wrapped by Dust) to nail them

into the tears of the sea-gull child

The winter web minute

flutters beneath the spider’s goblet

and the whores of all the fathers

bleed for my delight

There

on that chain of Ohlone mountains
shafts of light on a bobcat
through the thick madrones
first seen emblems that endure cupped my nine years
the great booming voice of nature
in the red bark’s sloping labyrinth
who called my name
fetishes of pebbles and tabac in a redwood pouch
secret house of bark between the branches
these lights never die whose embers glow wilder
than wilderness at the beginning of words
to catch the ring of stars
at the still point
of infinite sur-rational flight
all was bathed in red
according to the perfection of temporal mirrors
elastic time in the gape of memory
visionary recitals in the exultant spring oblivious to the sea

Blue Grace

                             crashes thru air

where Lady LSD hangs up all the floors of life for the last time

Blue Grace leans on white slime

Blue Grace weaves in & out of Lüneburg and ‘My Burial Vault’ undulates

from first hour peyote turnon

Diderot hand in hand with the Marquis de Sade

wraps himself up in a mexican serapé

at Constitution Hall, Philadelphia, 1930

Blue Grace turns into the Count of Saint-Germain

      who lives forever

            cutting up George Washington

dream of pyramid liquefactions from thighs of Versailles

Blue Grace intimidates Nevil Chamberlain

feels up Fillippo Marinetti

and other hysterics of the phallic rose

Blue Grace dressed up as automobile sperm

      My Claw of the future

      and the almond rose Rich the Vampire wears

                                            over the US Army

— flags !… Leer más

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