Love for Poetry Revisited: A Small List of Poems
Tajos son de mis propias entrañas, –mis guerreros. – Ninguno me ha salido recalentado, artificioso, recompuesto, de la mente; sino como las lágrimas salen de los ojos y la sangre sale a borbotones de la herida
- José Martí
In the prologue of José Martí’s Versos Sencillos, the Cuban poet referred to his verses as coming well from within himself, comparing the process of writing them to the way that “tears come out of the eyes and blood gushes from wounds.”
Writing is a very intimate act, and according to Martí, only the words that come from the soul will reach the heart. Whether he means reaching the heart of the author or of the reader I have no clue, but it is hard to deny that there are certain writers whose words will affect us forever. More than once, I have caught myself in this exact position.
A specific poem my aunt sent me over the summer has sent me into a spiraling contemplation of my relationship with reading and poetry over the past few months. Titled La Mujer de Humo (The Woman Made of Smoke) and written by Dulce María Loynaz, we read from the perspective of a woman that - as implied by its title - is literally made of smoke.
Throughout the verses, she places emphasis on the absence of her body and her being, a rough translation of one of the stanzas reads,
I am what does not remain
nor returns. I am something
that dissolved in everything
is nowhere…
The woman describes her absence when kissed or hugged (Man who kisses me,/ there's smoke on your lips./ Man who girdles me,/ there's wind in your arms), and as I re-read each line I couldn’t help but feel a sense of acknowledgement, of being seen.
In the months of July and August I started reading through Loynaz’s poetry collections like a maniac, the words from her poem Si Me Quieres, Quiereme Entera resonate in my head to this day.
If you love me, love me whole,
not by zones of light or shadow…
If you love me, love me black
and white. And gray, and green, and blond,
and mixed…
Love me day,
love me night…
and in the morning with the open window!
If you love me, don’t break me in pieces:
love me all… Or don't love me at all!
Why I felt so identified by these poems I will maybe touch on later, but it’s not really relevant. What is the most peculiar about this encounter with her writing for me, is that it was in fact not the first encounter.
Poems I had once read in my early teens without a second thought were now reaching out to me from the page. I found myself encapsulated in a world of words that, although familiar, felt as if I was experiencing them for the first time. But if I had read Loynaz’s poetry multiple times before, why was it that I hadn’t been as obsessed with her writing until now?
I will start off by saying that I am the farthest thing from a poetry expert, I wouldn’t even dare to call myself a poetry fanatic. My knowledge of poets and authors of the sort is very much limited to those I have been exposed to by members of my family growing up. The poems I have written - a number closer to zero than double digits - have all been for personal reflection, never meant for anyone else to hear, and my explanations for liking a poem beyond the words “because I enjoy it” are very vague.
Regardless, it is true to say that for my entire life I have been surrounded by poetry. I have already previously written about Cuban culture’s connection to Martí’s poetry, but beyond that boxes under my bed filled with poems authored by my mother also live to tell the story. Whether I like it or not, poetry has always been a big part of my life. And as I sit and reflect on all of these years, I come to realize that in all phases of my life, and all facets of my personality, there have been different authors and poems that accompanied me along the way. Today, I wanted to share some of these with you all.
Sandra Cisneros, a Mexican-American author from Chicago, was with me through the last years of high school. And it makes sense that she did, described as a rite of passage for many Latinxers by the New Yorker: her writing spoke to parts of my identity I sometimes struggled to grasp.
Using both English and Spanish in writing, common themes of her writing include femininity and sexuality as well as growing up amongst cultural hybridity.
Likely her most acclaimed work, and the one which I first encountered wasn’t a poem, but a semi-biographical novel by the name The House in Mango Street. Told in a series of vignettes, the novel covers a year in the life of Esperanza, a twelve-year-old Mexican-American girl.
I want to be
like the waves on the sea,
like the clouds in the wind,
but I’m me.
One day I’ll jump
Out of my skin.
I’ll shake the sky
like a hundred violins.
– Poem read by Esperanza in The House on Mango Street
A book that to date I have gifted already three times, I urge anyone willing to go and read it. An easy read full of meaning, you never know what piece of writing or art will be the next one to change your life forever.
Make love to me in Spanish.
Not with that other tongue.
I want you juntito a mi,
tender like the language
crooned to babies.
I want to be that
lullabied, mi bien
querido, that loved.
I want you inside
the mouth of my heart,
inside the harp of my wrists,
the sweet meat of the mango,
in the gold that dangles
from my ears and neck.
Say my name. Say it.
The way it’s supposed to be said.
I want to know that I knew you
even before I knew you.
– Dulzura by Sandra Cisneros
William Carlos Williams too wrote a poem that has stayed with me since high school, it goes:
I have eaten
the plums
that were in
the icebox
and which
you were probably
saving
for breakfast
Forgive me
they were delicious
so sweet
and so cold.”
– This Is Just To Say
