95 Immigration poems

Not like the brazen giant of Greek fame, With conquering limbs astride from land to land; Here at our sea-washed, sunset gates shall stand A mighty woman with a torch, whose flame Is the imprisoned lightning, and her name Mother of Exiles. From her beacon-hand Glows world-wide welcome; her mild eyes command The air-bridged harbor that twin cities frame. “Keep, ancient lands, your storied pomp!” cries she With silent lips. “Give me your tired, your poor, Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free, The wretched refuse of your teeming shore. Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me, I lift my lamp beside the golden door!”

“Who are you to tell us how to live or why, et cetera?”   No Man, of course, and not so tall as is the current fashion, nor smart enough in the acceptable modern way, to enthrall the crowd with stories of my life among the savages where I was home and growing baffled day by day, raging through the night as if it were new music I made, groaing. It came to me today at lunch, the sound of women in the next booth, a voice like Aunt Odile’s—whom I never knew well nor did I like her, but not her spite but her voice like home-grown fame, a touch gravelly, a considerable groan itself, it seemed. They spoke outmoded French around me, never to me, except to taunt, I thought.   She leaned above me, on those visits, speaking to Mother in their private French, laughing.   A boy surrounded by the sound of foreign tongues knowing what wasn’t meant for him:   toy temptations, suggestive coils of syllables. I learned Latin, for Mass, and did love its terrific laddered randomness: The Blessed hovering Virgin above every station of a boy’s new path, hormonal disharmonies, her praises sung into hundreds the first Tuesday of every month: and yet Latin could not expose such shreds of glittering flesh as I found in French, not like the living tongue whose tip twined into an Uncle’s mustache as he leered at the wrong Aunt and winked and a fine distance crystallized loud there, then gone. Crashing like German. Father’s family spoke clear English among the bayous, boys and girls of immigrants accentless happily German through two wars, not counting Civil.   I had the tongue for arithmetic and spoke it beautifully.   I loved to count: precision’s a tempting career, clicking into a future like an abacus ignoring all those accents around. I never learned the luck of any but English, bland and bound. But only yesterday I heard a word the mechanic said in Czech to his cousin—shop rag—clearly centered in a welter of incomprehension, the wreck of my car at their wretched mercies:   shop rag.   And he wiped his hands and cried for me, shrugging like a cousin would. I wrote a check. I drove home, or tried. So does it count?   Am I a man of passion or child of comprehension?   “Father of little lusts driving myself home who thinks:   Buy some sentiment, a little like love and she must speak French this time. She longs for you, you know; it isn’t just the money. America loves you for yourself alone” and so I go for professional help, honey- blond hair and a disposition like a happy banker, whose French for dear sounds like dog; the cost of living is going up, loving her here.

THERE ARE HILLS LIKE SHARKFINS and clods of mud. The mind drifts through in the shape of a museum, in the guise of a museum dreaming dead friends: Jim, Tom, Emmet, Bill. —Like billboards their huge faces droop and stretch on the walls, on the walls of the cliffs out there, where trees with white trunks makes plumes on rock ridges. My mind is fingers holding a pen. Trees with white trunks make plumes on rock ridges. Rivers of sand are memories. Memories make movies on the dust of the desert. Hawks with pale bellies perch on the cactus, their bodies are portholes to other dimensions. This might go on forever. I am a snake and a tiptoe feather at opposite ends of the scales as they balance themselves against each other. This might go on forever.

Water rocks the hull of the ship and the dark night comes on the waves against the dark wood taken from the forests on the island the people sleep or fight to sleep or smoke the coarse-leaved tobacco with cans of saltwater at hand nearby for threat of fire the people dream of rich goods and silk and land and sea slender bars of chocolate hidden in the trunk with jewelry stuffed below the bed the people dream of fire and awake to the damp air salt in the throat and cough to awake to the dark night that comes on the waves against the dark wood taken from the hands of the people from the forest on the Island as the ship moves East leaving the water of the Islands bays rocks and close current into open sea along the Black Current the Black Sivo the current that runs along the Islands of the North and takes the ship into the waters of open sea On the boats come the goods that cross the waters like veins and blood rushing the goods cross the waters raw silk in bundles the fineness of two strands thin untwisted silk white scarlet blue mustard wound in small skeins quantities of velvets gold embroidered with gold woven and brocades silver thread upon silk in patterns detailed and rich damasks satin taffetas linen from the grass called lencesuelo musk benzoin ivory metal basins copper cast iron pots bed ornaments hangings coverlets tapestries of different shades horse-trappings finished with glass beads seed-pearls rubies sapphires crystals nails sheet-iron tin lead salt petre gunpowder wheat flour preserves of orange peach pear nectarine plums cherries nutmeg pepper ginger salt pork chestnuts walnuts chicueyes thread needles thimbles cushions pins boxes writing cases engraved with scenes of bamboo and waves moons and mist beds chairs gilded benches buffalos geese swans horses males asses caged birds that sing birds that talk birds the color of ash the color of sunrise rum is the cane’s sugar water invented from smart mouths of slaves discarded impurities boiled to a bitter blackness rough as gravel so unwanted they lined the lips of rain ditches calcium rich tips of animal hooves mixing with rain dirt and mud old leaves fiber and mangrove the unwanted collected yet in the rich dirt purity of need a sweetness beyond sweetness the seven o clock sweat of an unwashed neck hair fibers and cane pulp the foaming rush of juice and song beaten into barefoot psalms the simple chemistry of this distillation of a kiss thirst and a word like rum and a word like rum and a word like… achuete atole avocado balsa banqueta cachuete calabaza camachile camote calachuche chico chocolate coyote nanay tatay tiangui tocayo zacate zapote On the boats come the blood that cross the waters like veins and goods the blood comes crossing the waters Blanco y India = Mestizo Mestizo y Mestiza = Mulato Blanca y Mulata = Terceron, Morisco Indio y Torna-atras = Lobo Indio y Negra = Zambo Indio y No te entiendo = Ahi te estas Indio y Coyota = Chamiso Indio y Loba = Grifo Negro y Mulato = Galfaro Negro y Zamba = Zambo prieto Mulato y Barzina = Coyote Mulato (o Chino) y Loba = Jibaro Mulato y Tente en el aire = No te entiendo On the boats come the blood the blood the blood a shadow of water dampens the curling script of graffiti a swirling necklage of smooth-abdomened ants carry blond eggs on their backs the plumb jaws of larvae undulating green tufts of grass shoulder concrete exhaling in small shatterings the day’s weightlessness the sky the revolting face of an enraged and tender lover promises a flashing echo and wind when the rain comes again you will remember a certain origin a canopy of molecules and mist you will forget to want yourself a different shade a different shape instead another bed of injury and faith a quiet quiet some thing no stronger than a leaf or a wave taking shape Water rocks the hull of the ship and the dark night comes on the waves against the dark wood taken from the forests on the island the people sleep or fight to sleep or smoke the coarse-leaved tobacco with cans of saltwater at hand nearby for threat of fire the people dream of rich goods and silk and land and sea slender bars of chocolate hidden in the trunk with jewelry stuffed below the bed the people dream of fire and awake to the damp air salt in the throat and cough to awake to the dark night that comes on the waves against the dark wood taken from the hands of the people from the forest on the Island as the ship moves East leaving the water of the Islands bays rocks and close current into open sea along the Black Current the Black Sivo the current that runs along the Islands of the North and takes the ship into the waters of open sea

The whit’ning ground In frost is bound; The snow is swiftly falling; While coldly blows the northern breeze, And whistles through the leafless trees, In hollow sounds appalling. On this cold plain, Now reach’d with pain, Once stood my father’s dwelling: Where smiling pleasure once was found, Now desolation frowns around, And wintry blasts are yelling. Hope’s visions wild My thoughts beguil’d, My earliest days delighting, Till unsuspected treach’ry came, Beneath affection’s specious name, The lovely prospect blighting. With many a wile Of blackest guile Did Henry first deceive me: What winning words to him were giv’n! He swore, by all the pow’rs of Heav’n, That he would never leave me. With fondest truth I lov’d the youth: My soul, to guilt a stranger, Knew not, in those too simple hours, That oft beneath the sweetest flow’rs Is couch’d the deadliest danger. With him to roam I fled my home; I burst the bonds of duty; I thought my days in joy would roll; But Henry hid a demon’s soul Beneath an angel’s beauty! Shall this poor heart E’er cease to smart? Oh never! never! never! Did av’rice whisper thee, or pride, False Henry! for a wealthier bride To cast me off for ever? My sire was poor: No golden store Had he, no earthly treasure: I only could his griefs assuage, The only pillar of his age, His only source of pleasure. With anguish wild, He miss’d his child, And long in vain he sought her: The fiercest thunder-bolts of heav’n Shall on thy guilty head be driv’n, Thou Disobedient Daughter! I feel his fears, I see his tears, I hear his groans of sadness: My cruel falsehood seal’d his doom: He seems to curse me from the tomb, And fire my brain to madness! Oh! keenly blow, While drifts the snow, The cold nocturnal breezes; On me the gath’ring snow-flakes rest, And colder grows my friendless breast; My very heart-blood freezes! ‘Tis midnight deep, And thousands sleep, Unknown to guilt and sorrow; They think not of a wretch like me, Who cannot, dare not, hope to see The rising light to-morrow! An outcast hurl’d From all the world, Whom none would love or cherish, What now remains to end my woes, But here, amid the deep’ning snows, To lay me down and perish? Death’s icy dart Invades my heart: Just Heav’n! all-good! all-seeing! Thy matchless mercy I implore, When I must wake, to sleep no more, In realms of endless being!

V. A. There are no doors between the rooms. The archways bore through the house like a tunnel through a mountain. The room one falls into after my parents’ is the largest and serves as two bedrooms divided by an invisible wall. Half of it is my brother’s and the other half my sister and I share, but not at first. Earlier, I have a bed to myself on the side of the room nearest the kitchen. My bed is low and on one side a wooden rail can be dragged up noisily and clicked into place. It is here my little goat wakes me, grabbing the covers off me with her teeth. We play in the empty pig shelter at the far end of the patio while my mother washes clothes in a palangana and throws the soapy water across the concrete, where it steams. But my father is a butcher by profession, and my family has other plans for my goat: a Sunday picnic at the zoo in Havana. The day is huge and blue and breezy. My sister teases me for not eating and says my goat is delicious. I stray away to watch the monkeys. I give one of the monkeys near the fence my banana. As it finishes peeling it meticulously, another monkey appears behind it and shoves the banana into its own mouth. The first monkey turns around, slaps it in the face with the empty peel, but that monkey isn’t sorry and starts jumping and screeching and showing its yellow teeth. For many years, those monkeys are all I can remember about the picnic at the zoo. B. Later, when my sister and I share a bed on the other side of the room, I can see the tall narrow cabinet right inside my parents’ room. My father always puts his hat on top of it as he walks in. And at night, through the mosquito netting, it is a tall thin man wearing a straw hat, lurking just outside the door, watching me in a sinister way. The dead weight of my sister’s habitual leg thrown across my body is no talisman. I have to keep waking myself up, sweaty and tense, to make sure he hasn’t moved any closer.

Before devising, your chicken you do not have to count. As for the penny which is rescued it is the penny which is obtained. The girl and the spice has become entirely from the splendid sugar. The boy has consisted of the tail of the slug and the snail and the puppy. As for the place of the woman there is a house. One basket your egg everything does not have to be made. The idiot hurries being about you fear because the angel steps on. Your cake cannot do possessing and is eaten thing. There is no wastefulness, unless so is, we want. The safe which is better than regrettable. Living, you have lived, permit.

I have two daughters. They are all I ever wanted from the earth. Or almost all. I also wanted one piece of ground: One city trapped by hills. One urban river. An island in its element. So I could say mine. My own. And mean it. Now they are grown up and far away and memory itself has become an emigrant, wandering in a place where love dissembles itself as landscape: Where the hills are the colours of a child's eyes, where my children are distances, horizons: At night, on the edge of sleep, I can see the shore of Dublin Bay. Its rocky sweep and its granite pier. Is this, I say how they must have seen it, backing out on the mailboat at twilight, shadows falling on everything they had to leave? And would love forever? And then I imagine myself at the landward rail of that boat searching for the last sight of a hand. I see myself on the underworld side of that water, the darkness coming in fast, saying all the names I know for a lost land: Ireland. Absence. Daughter.

¿Cómo es posible que me llamen extranjero?* A large plastic bag will keep you dry during the heavy rain storms. In Tapachula, you have a safe place to rest; ** it might be your last chance to call home. You know there are killers and thieves who are setting their traps along the way, and when you are riding on top of it, watch for the wasps living in the trees. Don’t fall asleep inside it—you might disappear. If you are exhausted, jump off and rest. Follow its tracks until you feel it returning. The faster it advances, the stronger its pull is. Don't be fooled—at first it will lure you in with its steady prowess, but it can slit a leg off or two, so don't be fooled by its hum. If you jump off, don't just stand there. And don't run beside its belly either— No, run away from the pounding. Run like a ceiling is falling, like people are falling on you. As for routes, go through Matamoros for getting into Texas, and for California, get to Tijuana, but if you cross Nogales into Arizona, be very careful. You will find discarded shoes and gutted suitcases in fields. There are graveyards without names. No one carries an ID. For others and you, we give offerings to our clandestino priest who was killed during the Cristero War. *** Always watch out for the white vans—they are full of policemen. They drive very slow. It takes up to six days to cross the desert. Always carry plenty of water. Ranchers carry guns. Everything has thorns. At first sight, think twice before trusting even a good omen.

because it has no pure products because the Pacific Ocean sweeps along the coastline because the water of the ocean is cold and because land is better than ocean because I say we rather than they because I live in California I have eaten fresh artichokes and jacaranda bloom in April and May because my senses have caught up with my body my breath with the air it swallows my hunger with my mouth because I walk barefoot in my house because I have nursed my son at my breast because he is a strong American boy because I have seen his eyes redden when he is asked who he is because he answers I don’t know because to have a son is to have a country because my son will bury me here because countries are in our blood and we bleed them because it is late and too late to change my mind because it is time.