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>> We are going to read -- Two poems or three?

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Two. Ok. The first one is probably the only
poem I've ever written that says something

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about the fact that I'm Mexican because there's
no Mexican that you can identify in my person.

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There's a person that belongs in the Spanish
language, merely in that, in the country

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or in a way of conceiving things that is
typically Mexican, anything like that.

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Perhaps I'm just an outsider that
belongs in the Spanish language.

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This poem, as the other one that we're going
to read, oscillates between a lyric tempo

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and what could be called prose poetry
that tends to blend the autobiography

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into what is strictly a revelation.

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And Prism is the first one and it
talks about pilgrimage that goes

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to the city of Chalma every year.

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And it goes exactly in front of the
place where I live nd I've always desired

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to be part of that pilgrimage, you know?

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As an outsider, I can't be part of it.

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So --

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>> One other thing about the form that
I really love is because it alternates

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between this lyric mode and it's a prose poem.

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You feel these two movements, the
pilgrimage is the horizontal mode,

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you feel through the march sideways,
horizontally across this landscape.

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And then there's the spiritual vertical
mode and they're intersecting all the way

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through in a way that seems
profoundly functional.

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>> Prisma.

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Ansias de bienestar, las vi
recorrer el camino de costumbre,

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el que va de la ciudad a alguna parte, parte
del mundo, parte de mi adolorida humanidad,

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grata aparición para quien me aguarda, quien
vive dentro de mi sin ser yo misma, en mi sed,

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mis oscilantes momentos de tribulación y paz.

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Fui ellas.

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Me fui. Suben a Chalma los peregrinos.

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Los que saben que la rama seca que van cargando
echará flores a lo largo del trayecto.

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Son jóvenes en su mayoría.

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Llevan agua, un petate en que dormir y
la cotidianidad de sus vidas a la vista.

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Hay viejos también.

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Niños sobre los hombros.

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El santuario avanza en busca de su sitio.

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De golpe, con una pregunta
despertó su antigüedad.

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¿Qué le piden al Señor
a quien veneran, es decir,

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a su cuerpo mortificado por la
fatiga de hoy y la miseria de ayer?

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Poder seguir llorando de rabia o de
impotencia, poder enfermarse más o excederse,

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poder presenciar, vivir la aterradora falta
de, al centro del cuerno de la abundancia,

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poder olvidar, sí, al fantasma de los siete,

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ocho años que arrebatado vuela sin
cola o cuerda que lo regrese a tierra,

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olvidar la futura historia,
las nulas entregas amorosas.

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¿Eso? Oh, cuerpo, amo y Señor, muéstrame
un árbol creado a imagen tuya, sinagogas,

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basílicas, mezquitas cubiertas
todas de ti siendo.

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Se ha establecido el campamento.

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Es de noche.

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Grupos de hombres por aquí, mixtos por allá,
de mujeres con bebés y niños más lejos.

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En torno a las fogatas, de pie, en cuclillas.

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Comparten no el alimento ni el
café , cada quien trae su itacate,

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sino la razón de y la celebran
sentándose en el suelo vil,

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dejando que las piedras se
les entierren en los muslos,

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dando de mamar al niño delante de quien sea.

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El calor proviene de la cercanía
de brazos, espaldas, cuellos,

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senos; no del fuego, de la sangre.

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Hay quien cae dormido, quien
cabecea, quien vela.

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Ninguna necesidad de techo.

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Todos estamos destinados al compás
respiratorio con que cantan las estrellas.

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Comunión de astros es ésa, recé con
terror o envidia, una cierta rotación,

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una cierta traslación, el
gozo de lo indispensable.

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Nada más.

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Al día siguiente, llena de admiración
y arrobo, regresé a esos lugares,

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deseando aspirar los últimos olores de lo
que ahí se había soñado y compartido.

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Como quien vuelve a tocar la piedra votiva,

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los pies o las manos de la imagen
gastada de algún santo milagroso.

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No hallé sino basura, la gran
boca del Señor, su mal aliento.

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>> Prism. Those coveting health.

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I saw them making their way along the worn
path, the one trailing away from the city,

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a part of the world, a part of my own
wounded humanity, a sweet apparition

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for whomever awaits me, living within
but apart from me, in my thirst,

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in my shifting moments of trouble and peace.

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I was them.

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I was myself.

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They ascend toward Chalma, the pilgrims.

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Knowing that, on the way, their
dry branch will break into blossom.

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Most are young.

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They carry water, a sleeping
pallet, their daily lives.

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A few elders.

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Children on their shoulders.

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The sanctuary in search of its premises.

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At once, with a single question,
their old age woke up in them.

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For what do they petition the Lord they
worship, a Lord whose body is mortified

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by today's exhaustion and yesterday's misery?

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To be able to go on crying in fury or impotence,
to be able to sicken or go beyond sickness,

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to be able to testify to, to endure the
terrifying absence of at the very core

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of the horn of plenty, to
be able to forget, yes,

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the seven or eight year old ghost
impetuously flying without tail or string

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by which it might be tugged back to
earth, to forget the future history,

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the missing relinquishments to love.

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That? Oh, body, Lord and Master, show me a
tree made in your image, synagogues, shrines,

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mosques, filled out with your being.

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They've made camp.

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Night. Groups of men over
here, mixed groups over there,

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women with babies and children farther off.

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Around the campfires, standing, squatting.

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They share neither food nor coffee,
each bringing out their own dinner,

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without making excuse for and
celebrating by sitting on the hard ground,

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the rocks bruise their thighs, nursing
the baby in front of strangers.

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The warmth whelms from the nearness of
arms, backs, necks, breasts; not from fire.

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From blood.

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There are those falling asleep, those
about to, and those keeping vigil.

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None needs a roof.

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All our fates are measured out
as breath in the songs of stars.

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A communion of luminous bodies, I prayed
in terror or envy, a particular sequence,

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a particular translation,
the joy of the indispensable.

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Nothing more.

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The next morning, full of admiration
and rapture, I returned to those places,

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hoping to breathe in the last smells
of what had been dreamt and shared.

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Going back as though to touch the votive stone,

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the feet or hands of the worn
image of some miraculous saint.

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I found nothing but garbage.

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The Lord's mouth agape, his stinking breath.