poem 167

Odilia Rivera Santos

It might be too much
to eat grapes and hold your hand
while I lay in bed







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Cuando llegué a Cuba / When I arrived in Cuba

Cuando llegué a Cuba

© 2000 Odilia Rivera Santos

Cuando llegué a Cuba, se me pegó un hombre;
tenía manos fuertes y ojos agresivos
cuando llegué a Cuba, la brisa me confundió
las mujeres me miraron
se sonreían, sus sonrisas brillantes
remedidas con oro
Cuando llegué a Cuba, no me sentí triste
respiré el aire libre pero un hombre habló
de la libertad
y me enseño algo que no había visto
Cuando llegué a Cuba, encontré a un negro
con cara de niño
anda buscando; baila en las ruinas y
habla
de estar
siempre
en los márgenes
en su casa, no es un hombre completo

Cuando llegué a Cuba, vi que en la calle
había juegos y reglas
entendí un poco

cuando llegué, no me perdí fácilmente
fue un gran esfuerzo perderme

Cuando llegué, repartí lo que tenía
vi como la gente acepta el favor, el regalo, la mano
sin preguntas
cuando llegué, pregunté si había ardillas

Cuando llegué, soñé que salí al balcón a mirar
las estrellas
y no había balcón
me caí por un rato
no fue una experiencia incómoda

muy pronto vi que no era extranjera
he pasado hambre
he hecho mucho con poco
sé cantar y discutir
me quiero quedar
en casa
y ver el mundo
también.

When I arrived in Cuba

©2000 Odilia Rivera Santos

When I arrived in Cuba, a man attached himself to me
his hands were strong; his eyes aggressive
When I arrived in Cuba, the breeze confused me
women stared with contempt
smiles patched with gold
when I arrived in Cuba, I did not feel sad
I breathed in the free air, but a man spoke
of liberty
he taught me what I had not seen.
When I arrived in Cuba, I found a man
with the face of a boy
he searches; he dances in the ruins; he speaks of
being
always
on the margins
in his house, he is not a complete man
When I arrived in Cuba, the streets had games
and rules
I understood a little
When I arrived in Cuba, I did not get lost easily
it was with great effort that I got lost
When I arrived, I distributed gifts
I saw people accept a favor, a gift, a hand
as they do in my home town
When I arrived, it was an island, a city, a barrio
When I arrived, I asked if they had squirrels
When I arrived, I dreamt of standing
on a balcony to admire the stars
there was no balcony

I fell for a little while --

it was not an unpleasant experience

Soon I saw I was not foreign
I have been hungry
I have accomplished much with little
I how to sing and argue
I want to stay in my home
and see the world too.

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Latinalogue

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poem 166 I dedicate to my country, Puerto Rico

Odilia Rivera Santos

I sing the blues as I refuse
to accept your demise,
thinking instead my country is
in a dormant state soon to awaken,
at the rooster's call as always,
refreshed and spirited.
I speak of my Puerto Rico,
my love, my origin of being,
the source of memory and dreams
and all matter of things.
These words might be deemed
clichés were they not true --
true to my soul and marrow.

I sing the blues as I refuse
to accept you've gone too far
from home to find your way back.
My country, my island, my barrio
will return to her rightful place,
and call out for her children
spread thin throughout stranger's lands.

I sing the blues as I refuse
to accept words which attribute
my intellect or beauty to another race
and remind you I am not up for adoption.
This self originated and renews itself,
despite travel to faraway places
and educations in Spanish and English
and diasporic fragmentation,
from one source --
the country of my origin from which
genius and virtuosity was born before.
You say I look, seem, could be, speak as though and
I say no, I could not be anything but
Puerto Rican.

poem 165

@2011 Odilia Rivera Santos

In summer,
I walk through woods,
my white dress gets caught,
and I continue down this path
without caring if the linen tears.
The sky turns a darker shade of blue as
I reach out, my hand behind me, without looking.
Confident you will notice but mistaken because you've
strayed, your self and ideals entangled on another branch;
it was a skirmish lost but I refuse to play at detective and
do not pick up the forensics kit to see if our love was real or if it is
dead or if there was foul play; I choose to have a choice and a say in the matter,
and wipe my tears, as I run down these stairs in a cleared path and find myself alone and free.

poem164

Odilia Rivera Santos

Seeking to be ambitious,
I move past inventing the wheel and
on to finding a new word for wheel;
then, just as quickly,
I gather my language
as one would a bouquet of spray roses
and dilute the moment to make it last.
I watch your hand fall to your side
as sleep takes you, temporarily, away.
I trace the veins of your hand
with my lips, quiet and as light
as a butterfly's daydream.

poem163

Odilia Rivera Santos

In a field not far from summer,
a moment drifts illuminated and sound;
with no noise, music nor speech,
we sit alone in the depths,
pondering some thing or another --
flowers strewn and stale bread left,
tea cooled and reheated its purpose lost.
We hide from the real:
a sun with too a brash a light,
a neighbor with too brash a jibe.
Somehow, we land in a stream
carried and carried away
and carried apart