"Puerto Rican Obituary"
They worked
They were always on time
They were never late
They never spoke back
when they were insulted
They worked
They never took days off
that were not on the calendar
They never went on strike
without permission
They worked
ten days a week
and were only paid for five
They worked
They worked
They worked
and they died
They died broke
They died owing
They died never knowing
what the front entrance
of the first national city bank looks like
Juan
Miguel
Milagros
Olga
Manuel
All died yesterday today
and will die again tomorrow
passing their bill collectors
on to the next of kin
All died
waiting for the garden of eden
to open up again
under a new management
All died
dreaming about america
waking them up in the middle of the night
screaming: Mira Mira
your name is on the winning lottery ticket
for one hundred thousand dollars
All died
hating the grocery stores
that sold them make-believe steak
and bullet-proof rice and beans
All died waiting dreaming and hating
Dead Puerto Ricans
Who never knew they were Puerto Ricans
Who never took a coffee break
from the ten commandments
to KILL KILL KILL
the landlords of their cracked skulls
and communicate with their latino souls
It goes on, of course, it's a rather long poem but an amazing, affecting piece of poetry. Sometimes I think I'm not smart enough to "get" poetry (much like modern art) but other times I think that it's just because a lot of poetry is poetry for elitist's sake. They say that poetry is the poor man's prose because it's compact, can be spoken and easily passed on... and also, paper is expensive. I don't know how true it is, but for me, poetry is most enjoyable when it's accessible and about the quotidien. All right. I've got a 6:30 am wake up call.
nite, t
1 comment:
That's a classic. Here is another poem by Pedro Pietri's friend and fellow Puerto Rican poet Giannina Braschi:
Escúchenlo. Cabrones. No crean ni por nada ni por nadie que habrán de matarme. No, las aceitunas del vinagre. No, los postrecillos de la más amarga esperanza. Cuando después de todo es demasiado tarde. ¿Qué es el hambre? El hambre que me devora. El hambre. No, no les diré a las aceitunas. No, no les diré a los vinagres de las ensaladas. No, no les diré a los bosques de espesuras. No soy vegetariano. No, no a las legumbres. No, no a los gigantes verdes. No, no a los licores de la ensoñación. Y a los postrecillos del sentirme bien. Y a la barriga inflada. Ya conozco bien el cuento. Ya sé de qué se trata. Conozco de memoria todo su argumento. Y por todo el oro del mundo juro que No, que No, y que No. No, no, no, me podré quedar sentado y al cabo sentirme lleno o colmado cuando la misma mierda de siempre se repite. Y los aperitivos y los postres me dan asco. Asqueado me despido. Asqueado. Y no me resigno. Ni renuncio. No, y no, y no...
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