by Pa Rock
American
For more than a decade I have tried to place a poem a week in this space, usually on Mondays. Sometimes other things came up that needed the space, and other times I found myself unintentionally (or sometimes with malice aforethought) repeating a piece that I had used previously. Over the years, I have selected a few that I felt were so good as to bear repeating.
Today's selection is one of those. In fact, I can easily declare that "Running to America" by Luis Rodriquez is my very favorite poem to have ever graced this space. It is honest and heartfelt and flows with the smoothness of a river - perhaps the Rio Grande. Today marks the fifth time that I have used it in this blog space.
I met the poet one morning in March of 2009 when he was speaking at the Cesar Chavez Conference in Phoenix. At that time he was billed as the "poet laureate" of Los Angeles. He spoke with care and precision - and heartfelt empathy.
This posting of "Running to America" is respectfully dedicated to the memories of Oscar Alberto Martinez Ramirez and his twenty-three-month-old daughter, Valeria, natives of El Salvador who died last week in each other's arms in a failed attempt to cross the Rio Grande River into Texas. Their goal, to share in the freedom and independence that many of us north of the Rio Grande take for granted, was cut short by senseless tragedy.
May Oscar and Valeria be at peace - and may the United States of America once again assume the mantle of being a humanitarian nation that willingly and selflessly shares its bounty with the world's less fortunate.
Running to America
by Luis Rodriguez
They are night shadows violating borders,
fingers curled through chain-link fences,
hiding from infra-red eyes, dodging 30-30 bullets.
They leave familiar smells, warmth and sounds
as ancient as the trampled stones.
Running to America.
There is a woman in her finest border-crossing wear:
A purple blouse from an older sister,
a pair of worn shoes from a church bazaar,
a tattered coat from a former lover.
There is a child dressed in black,
fear sparkling from dark Indian eyes,
clinging to a headless Barbie doll.
And the men, some hardened, quiet,
others young and loud - you see something
like this in prisons. Soon they will cross
on their bellies, kissing the black earth,
then run to America.
Strange Voices whisper behind garbage cans,
beneath freeway passes, next to broken bottles.
The spatter of words, textured and multi-colored,
invoke demons.
They must run to America.
Their skin, color of earth, is a brand
for all the great ranchers, for the killing floors
on Soto Street and as slaughter
for the garment row. Still they come:
A hungry people have no country.
Their tears are the grease of the bobbing machines
that rip into cloth
that make clothes
that keep you warm.
They have endured the sun's stranglehold,
el cortito, foundry heats and dark caves
of mines swallowing men.
Still they come, wandering bravely
through the thickness of this strange land's
maddening ambivalence.
Their cries are singed with the fires of hope.
Their babies are born with a lion
in their hearts.
Who can confine them?
Who can tell them
which lines never to cross?
For the green rivers, for their looted gold,
escaping the blood of a land
that threatens to drown them,
they have come,
running to America.
American
For more than a decade I have tried to place a poem a week in this space, usually on Mondays. Sometimes other things came up that needed the space, and other times I found myself unintentionally (or sometimes with malice aforethought) repeating a piece that I had used previously. Over the years, I have selected a few that I felt were so good as to bear repeating.
Today's selection is one of those. In fact, I can easily declare that "Running to America" by Luis Rodriquez is my very favorite poem to have ever graced this space. It is honest and heartfelt and flows with the smoothness of a river - perhaps the Rio Grande. Today marks the fifth time that I have used it in this blog space.
I met the poet one morning in March of 2009 when he was speaking at the Cesar Chavez Conference in Phoenix. At that time he was billed as the "poet laureate" of Los Angeles. He spoke with care and precision - and heartfelt empathy.
This posting of "Running to America" is respectfully dedicated to the memories of Oscar Alberto Martinez Ramirez and his twenty-three-month-old daughter, Valeria, natives of El Salvador who died last week in each other's arms in a failed attempt to cross the Rio Grande River into Texas. Their goal, to share in the freedom and independence that many of us north of the Rio Grande take for granted, was cut short by senseless tragedy.
May Oscar and Valeria be at peace - and may the United States of America once again assume the mantle of being a humanitarian nation that willingly and selflessly shares its bounty with the world's less fortunate.
Running to America
by Luis Rodriguez
They are night shadows violating borders,
fingers curled through chain-link fences,
hiding from infra-red eyes, dodging 30-30 bullets.
They leave familiar smells, warmth and sounds
as ancient as the trampled stones.
Running to America.
There is a woman in her finest border-crossing wear:
A purple blouse from an older sister,
a pair of worn shoes from a church bazaar,
a tattered coat from a former lover.
There is a child dressed in black,
fear sparkling from dark Indian eyes,
clinging to a headless Barbie doll.
And the men, some hardened, quiet,
others young and loud - you see something
like this in prisons. Soon they will cross
on their bellies, kissing the black earth,
then run to America.
Strange Voices whisper behind garbage cans,
beneath freeway passes, next to broken bottles.
The spatter of words, textured and multi-colored,
invoke demons.
They must run to America.
Their skin, color of earth, is a brand
for all the great ranchers, for the killing floors
on Soto Street and as slaughter
for the garment row. Still they come:
A hungry people have no country.
Their tears are the grease of the bobbing machines
that rip into cloth
that make clothes
that keep you warm.
They have endured the sun's stranglehold,
el cortito, foundry heats and dark caves
of mines swallowing men.
Still they come, wandering bravely
through the thickness of this strange land's
maddening ambivalence.
Their cries are singed with the fires of hope.
Their babies are born with a lion
in their hearts.
Who can confine them?
Who can tell them
which lines never to cross?
For the green rivers, for their looted gold,
escaping the blood of a land
that threatens to drown them,
they have come,
running to America.
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