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Critical Poetry—Luis
Cuauhtémoc Berriozábal
(West Covina, CA)
For more highly critical verse, see
Critical Poems.
Born and raised in Cuernavaca, I haven't been back to Mexico since I left at age 12. When I was a kid in East L.A. the gringuitos and Mexican-Americans would call me “wet back” and “TJ” (Tijuanero pejoratively). But I've never been to T. J. in my entire life and those little bastards who'd call me those names probably go there regularly these days, getting drunk, etc… Anyhow, I write from the heart, from what I feel-fuck going to a workshop. I do not believe someone can teach you how to write a poem…
El Presidente
El único presidente
Que vale la pena
Es el Presidente
Que viene en botella
No es tan caro
Como el presidente humano
El presidente humano
Toma millones
El Presidente botella
Es usted el que lo toma
Los dos te pueden matar
El Presidente botella
Te mata despacito
El presidente humano
Manda su ejercito
Y te mata más rápido
El único presidente
Que vale la pena
Es el Presidente
Que viene en botella
Bienvenido Extranjero, Revolucionario, a la montaña*
Manden sus papitas
Su cerveza malísima
Todas sus porquerías
McBasurero.com
Les mandaremos
"Espaldas mojadas"
Mano de obra barata
Para sus trabajos humillantes
La mitad del territorio
Ahora es suyo, la otra mitad
Está de venta, apúrense
Que solo faltan cinco años
Que venga el subcomandante*
Para el debate
Con toda la raza
A la capital
Los oídos estarán tapados
El camino no es seguro
El ejercito ciego
Solo espera la señal
De nalgas se venden
A los extranjeros
Los revolucionarios
A las montañas
..............................................................................
["Welcome Stranger, Revolutionary, Run to the Hills." Send your potato chips and fries/ And your lame beer/ All of your trash/ McGarbage.com/ We will send you/ "Wetbacks"/ Cheap labor/ For the most humiliating jobs/ Half of our territory/ Is already yours/ The other half, for sale, but hurry/ There's only five years left/ Let the subcommander come*/ For the debate/ With all of the raza/ To the capital/ All the ears will be deaf/ The road is uncertain/ The blind army/ Awaits the signal/ They'll bend over/ To foreign interests/ And chase the/ revolutionaries/ Into the mountains] Trans. LCB
*Recently, Subcomandante Marcos led his Zapatista revolutionaries from Mexico's southern-most state, Chiapas, all the way to Mexico City, risking their lives. The evident power of martyrdom (Che!) kept the corrupt politicians from massacre and assassination.
El Hijo de Villa*
Su voz ronca, con verso de bestia, adolorido
Quejándose del conquistador cincuenta estrellas
El viejo poeta compone en el aire
Lo que los maestros de la literatura jamás entenderán
Castrado, vencido, la angustia se le escapa
Soy hijo de la chingada, confesa con lagrimas
Que ignore la gente en el camión
Pobre loco dicen unos, hablándose así mismo
Estoy con usted le quiero decir al hombre
Pero escribo como loco lo que dice el señor
Estoy aprendiendo, perdido
En su angustia y su triste historia
Su voz resona, clavos se entierran entre
Cada palabra, soy hijo del General Villa
Vengo a reclamar la cabeza decapitada
Que el conquistador cincuenta estrellas llego a robar
Tengo pan para los que tengan hambre
Les ofrece a los hombres trajeados y
A las mujeres maquilladas, el pan invisible
Que el conquistador cincuenta estrellas invento
["Son of Pancho Villa" His hoarse voice, with verse of a beast, in pain/ Complaining about the fifty-starred-conquistador/ The old poet composes in the air/ What the academic professors will never comprehend/ Castrated, beaten, his anguish escapes/ I'm a son of a bitch, he confesses, crying The people on the bus ignore his tears/ Poor crazed man, speaking to himself/ I'm with you I want to say to him/ But I write every word he says like a crazed man/ I am learning, I am lost/ In his anguish and his sad story/ His voice resonates, nails are lodged in/ Each of his words, I am the son of General Villa/ I have come to reclaim his decapitated head/ Which the fifty-starred-conquistador stole/ I come with bread for the hungry/ He offers the suited-men and made-up women/ The invisible bread which the fifty-starred/ Conquistador invented ] Trans. LCB
*Villa has always been my father's hero. The poem is about a guy on a bus, who said he was "El Hijo de Villa." He was stocky, in his sixties, gray hair and white moustache, big eyes, gray stubble, serious looking, not friendly, but not menacing. He wore a white sombrero, and the first time I saw him, it was raining, and he wore a transparent-plastic bag covering his entire body, from the hat to his shoes, and it was dripping wet. When he went into his monologue-this man was talking to himself out-loud, an African-American female was sitting next to him reading a paper. She ignored the man, as if he weren't there, as if he weren't talking aloud. This man did not appear menacing, and he was a regular on the bus. People must be used to him by now. However, I did catch him say things such as "si no estás conmigo, te saco y te mato..." If you're not with me, I will take you out and kill you. He said he had a blade, "un cuchillo.” If some of these people on the bus understood Spanish, they may have taken notice of him. But like I said he did not appear menacing. He seemed like a troubled soul. I often wondered if this man has a destination.
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