This blog is a plática, a conversation, in both Spanish and English about being a Boricua, a Puerto Rican, en la luna, or on the moon (or on its metaphorical facsimile: the United States). The phrase is the title of a poem by Juan Antonio Corretjer, which was made into a song by Roy Brown and updated by Puerto Rican Spanish-rock group Fiel a la Vega.
This is Geni's bed. But as the days get sunnier and longer, the cats have claimed yet another space as their very own.
When she is exiled from her bed, Geni spends part of her day on the rug that used to be Rusty's, in the living room.
Posted by
Boricua en la Luna
at
10:33 PM
Pues según alguien me cuenta:
Because as someone tells me:
dicen que la luna es una
They say there's only one moon
sea del mar o sea montuna.
whether over the sea or the mountains.
Y así le grito al villano:
And that's why I yell at the villain:
yo sería borincano
I would be a Borincana
aunque naciera en la luna.
even if I had been born on the moon.
Poem 20
Tonight, I can write the saddest of verses.
I can write, for example: “The night is covered with stars, and the stars shiver, blue, in the distance.”
The night wind spirals in the sky and sings.
Tonight, I can write the saddest of verses. I loved her, and, sometimes, she loved me also.
In nights like this I held her in my arms. I kissed her so many times under the infinite sky.
She loved me; at times, I also loved her. How could I not have loved her large still eyes.
Tonight, I can write the saddest of verses. To think that I do not have her. To feel that I have lost her.
To hear the immense night, still more immense without her. And the verse falls on the soul like dew on grass.
What does it matter that my love could not keep her. The night is covered with stars and she is not with me.
That is all. In the distance, someone sings. In the distance. My soul cannot be content with having lost her.
As if to bring her closer, my eyes search for her. My heart searches for her, and she is not with me.
The same night that whitens the same trees. We, as we were then, are no longer the same.
I no longer love her, that is true, but how I loved her. My voice searched the wind to touch her ear.
Another’s. She will be another’s. As she was before of my kisses. Her voice, her light body. Her infinite eyes.
I do not love her, that is true, but maybe I love her. Love is so short, and forgetting so long.
Because in nights like this I held her in my arms, My soul cannot be content with having lost her.
Even if this is the last sorrow she gives me, And these are the last verses I write her.
Ay ay ay, que el esclavo
fue mi abuelo es mi pena, es mi pena.
Si hubiera sido el amo,
sería mi vergüenza;
que en los hombres,
igual que en las naciones,
si el ser el siervo
es no tener derechos,
el ser el amo es no tener consciencia.
Ay, ay, ay, that my grandfather was the slave
is my sorrow, is my sorrow.
Had he been the master,
it would be my shame;
because among men,
as among nations,
if being the slave is having no rights,
being the master is having no conscience.
1 comments:
Poor Geni, being bullied by those cats! This photo definitely captures their characters!
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