With a Star in My Hand Read online

  Feathers, ribbons, and strands of colorful paper,

  cut into all sorts of complicated, lacy shapes.

  The street in front of our house looks like a toy store

  imagined, and then brought to life by a magician.

  On the ground, there are carpets of pictures

  made by artists who work with sawdust—

  red cedar, mahogany, yellow mora, black ebony,

  and on top of those fragments of tumbled forest,

  a rainbow of flower petals, wheat grains,

  corn, beans, and other seeds, as if to praise

  this generous earth

  for a wealth

  of delicious growth.

  I stand outdoors

  dazzled by brilliant designs,

  especially the one that dangles right in front of my

  astonished eyes, a golden pomegranate

  instead of a natural, ruby-red fruit.

  Has a clever artist coated this granada

  with some sort of glittering metallic dust?

  Is it real gold?

  When I reach up to touch

  the shimmering sculpture,

  it cracks open, and a shower of paper

  rains down—verses, poems, all written

  by me, the ones I traded for candy!

  Are my scraps of rhyme

  really so valuable

  that the bishop’s sisters

  want to share them

  with everyone?

  Maybe all I’ll ever need

  for the rest of my life

  is this thunderous comfort,

  my own wild storm

  of explosive

  poetry!

  READING, READING, READING

  There is only one way to improve my chime of verses.

  So I read, read, read, all the carefully rhymed words

  written long before

  I ever existed.

  PRACTICING TRADITIONAL POETIC FORMS

  I am determined to write a perfect redondilla

  of four eight-syllable lines, with the rhyme pattern

  a b b a.

  I try all sorts of formal rhymes,

  a

  first a four-line redondilla,

  b

  then a brave five-line quintilla,

  b

  until I’m rhyming all the time.

  a

  CHALLENGING MYSELF

  Next, I scribble an old-fashioned octavilla

  of two redondillas, using the familiar

  rhyme pattern

  a b b a a c c a.

  Poetry keeps flooding my mind.

  a

  Soon I try long octavillas

  b

  of two attached redondillas

  b

  with rhymes that can be hard to find.

  a

  Once all the words have been entwined

  a

  I see the pleasure of knowing

  c

  that a poem can change, growing

  c

  beyond old forms with counted lines.

  a

  WHY I BEGIN TO CRAVE IMPROVISATION

  Décimas are sets of two redondillas

  linked by a two-line bridge of eight syllables each

  with a rhyme pattern

  a b b a a c a c c a,

  and espinelas are the same

  only ending with

  c d d c.

  Seguidillas have alternating lines of five

  and seven syllables, with vowel rhymes

  anywhere in the even lines (2, 4, 6), instead of

  always appearing at the ends,

  perfectly aligned . . .

  so I start to experiment with changing everything

  and just letting verses flow, finding their way

  into musical rhythms that dance on natural air

  tempest-tossed,

  wind-driven!

  Why obey such strict rhyming rules

  when poems have minds, hearts, and souls

  of their own, always loving

  freedom?

  VOWEL RHYMES

  I love

  to rhyme

  just the insides

  of syllables

  sometimes.

  This is still a verse

  even though the words

  seem to hold internal mysteries,

  these assonantal vowel rhymes that can be found

  anywhere in a line, not just at the end

  so rigidly

  final.

  EVERY SADNESS

  Lost mother.

  Dead father.

  Even the smallest

  stormy poem

  offers enough

  nearly rhymed

  room

  for all

  human

  sorrows.

  Yes, I’m angry.

  So I fill my verses with beautiful swans

  and peacocks, hoping the reader will understand

  that this contrast with hideous ugliness

  lies at the heart of my rage, because

  I feel cheated

  by abandonment

  and other human

  cruelties.

  SHARED SORROWS

  With so much fury

  disguised inside glorious verses,

  I become the object of adult attention.

  Families ask me to write poems for them to read

  at the funerals of loved ones.

  My windstorm of rhythms, both rhymed

  and nearly rhymed, turns into a strange

  sort of musical wealth, that I must spend

  to help others, even when each furious

  burst

  of verses

  hurts

  my wounded heart

  and suffering

  mind.

  ANY HAPPINESS

  Every Sunday, my family

  celebrates a children’s dance, with aunts,

  uncles, cousins, and other festive relatives.

  Some of my tías seem a bit crazy,

  all wrapped up in ruffles and wearing

  shiny red shoes, as if they think they

  are still little girls

  like their pretty daughters.

  These dressed-up aunts claim to be impressed

  with my elaborate, rhythmic sonnets

  written for funerals, so now I’m invited

  to recite completely new rhymes

  for female cousins, las primas,

  generous girls who are eager to praise

  my poetic talent, as long as their names

  are included in the titles of verses.

  I scribble on fans and in autograph albums,

  my hurricane of words always inspiring

  a whirl of smiles.

  FAMILY ADVENTURES

  Sometimes all my uncles decide

  to explore the countryside, so we ride,

  bumping and swaying in an old oxcart,

  with rough cowhides forming a cover

  to protect all my many cousins

  from the fiery blaze of sun.

  When I remember the cattle that guarded me

  after I was stranded by my mother, I think I’d rather

  be burnt by light than continue to hide

  beneath a slaughtered animal-friend’s skin . . .

  but los primos sing as we go,

  thrilled to be on our way, no matter

  how gruesome

  our shelter.

  As soon as we reach a river,

  I rush to swim and daydream,

  washing unwanted memories

  away.

  A FAMILY MYSTERY

  Tío Manuel is the only uncle

  who makes me feel uncomfortable.

  There’s something about his stare,

  as if he finds my timid gaze fascinating.

  When we’re hiking in high mountains

  on the slopes of a smoky volcano,

  I have plenty of chances
/>   to escape from him.

  I can’t stand the way he always asks

  so many questions about my mother’s

  disappearance.

  In the rainy green jungle, I try to stay far away

  from his booming rifle, and at the seashore

  I’d rather listen to my older cousins’ horrifying

  ghost stories.

  Why does this one particular uncle

  always make me feel so vulnerable?

  FAMILY CAMPING

  We sleep in huts

  made of leafy green branches,

  all the children sneaking out

  at midnight

  to chase red crabs,

  watch enormous turtles,

  and dream beneath

  glowing stars

  as they glide

  across dark sky

  forming the ancient shapes

  of magnificent constellations—

  a winged horse, a dolphin,

  a dragon, the Milky Way.

  Does that hunter made of stars

  use his arrows to shoot ordinary deer,

  or is he seeking treasures that no one on Earth

  has ever imagined?

  Maybe all he wants to chase is the glow

  of his own heavenly surroundings.

  Stories come easily

  as I combine old fairy tales

  with my own curious rush

  of new visions.

  While stargazing in the wilderness,

  I remember the tales of A Thousand and One Nights,

  and then I change them.

  Don Quixote.

  Spain’s Golden Age poets.

  Native Miskito legends.

  All are fair game when it comes to hunting

  for unwritten star wishes.

  WITNESS

  One night, I decide to leave the crowd

  of noisy cousins behind, so that I can stargaze

  alone, turning my view of the wild sky’s

  radiance

  into new rhymes.

  At the edge of a swamp, I stumble upon a scene

  so shocking that I wonder if I’m dreaming.

  Beside an oxcart, two men battle with machetes,

  until the hand of one is sent flying into the dark air,

  chopped off.

  Should I tell anyone what I’ve seen,

  or will sensible grown-ups refuse to listen

  to this tale of a violent crime witnessed by a child?

  Isn’t the role of poets to pass along truths,

  both gruesome and beautiful?

  Yes, I’ll have to tell, and maybe someday

  I’ll put the terrifying memory in writing as well.

  SUFFERING

  Those men who fought turn out to be friends,

  but they drank so much rum that they forgot

  about affection, and now the one

  who maimed the other

  must live with guilt

  for the rest of his life.

  Of all my rowdy uncles, Manuel is the only one

  who drinks so wildly that it’s easy to imagine

  violence leading to horrible crimes

  like severed hands.

  Is that why he looks at me so strangely,

  because he suspects I’ve decided to become

  the emotional sort of poet who never ignores

  injustice, but writes it into a truthful

  music of wishes?

  I’m only eleven years old,

  but that’s plenty of time

  to grow, learn, and know

  my own soul.

  HURRICANE

  Back at home, when an explosive tropical storm

  strikes the town of León, courageous Bernarda

  meets the attack of howling wind

  and torrential rain

  with peaceful palm fronds.

  All my aunts gather to arrange green leaves

  as decorations intended to protect walls and ceilings.

  Then they weave leafy crowns to be worn

  by singing children.

  Feeling like a hero in an ancient story,

  I wear my glorious leaf crown proudly,

  while chanting prayers we’ve all memorized

  precisely for these fights against the power

  of a rebellious sky.

  Words, my brave aunts insist,

  are weapons more effective

  than swords.

  SCANDAL

  Once the air is finally calm,

  people at church grow angry.

  In this city, we’ve always had a tradition

  of writing notes to God, revealing secrets

  which will be burned just as soon as the priests

  finish praying about all our private letters

  without reading a single word.

  When I see Bernarda carefully folding

  the paper that holds our family’s confessions,

  I wonder if her letter might include anything

  about my mother’s disappearance, or the identity

  of my dead father.

  We trust the priests.

  They’re kind men who give chocolates to children.

  Nevertheless, in this case they turn out to be dishonest.

  Someone catches them reading the whole town’s

  basket of notes, laughing and whispering

  about our secret lives.

  It’s an offense so serious

  that they are sent away,

  leaving the children of our town

  without chocolates

  or trust.

  I don’t know which is worse,

  my sudden awareness that grown-ups

  know all sorts of devious secrets,

  or my imagination,

  which runs wild,

  creating stories that might be

  even more horrible

  than those folded letters

  filled with hidden truths.

  When all the confessions are finally burned,

  I gaze at the basket of ashes, still wondering

  if the papery dust contains any tales

  about my parents.

  REBELLIOUS RHYMES

  If priests can break rules, so can I.

  Eleven syllables

  followed by three.

  Seven lines

  or twenty.

  I can write a poem

  in any form, just by inventing

  my own new lengths, shapes,

  and styles.

  No one can tell me how to think

  or what to believe, now that I’m

  finally

  twelve.

  ACROBATICS OF THE HEART

  I fall in love!

  Yes, I’m still just twelve, but maybe she’s

  not much older. . . .

  Her name is Hortensia, and she’s a performer

  in a traveling circus, una saltimbanqui,

  a high-wire trapeze artist

  from North America.

  I’ve always been told by teachers

  that the United States is a huge place

  filled with brutish politicians

  who want to invade all the smaller nations

  of Latin America, but Hortensia

  has conquered me

  with aerial somersaults

  instead of bullets.

  The entire circus is magnificent—magicians, musicians,

  jugglers, galloping trick riders, strange sideshows,

  bizarre animals, and Hortensia’s

  astonishing

  acrobatic flips,

  cartwheels,

  and impossible leaps,

  the high-rising flight

  of a human

  bird girl!

  WHEN YOU’RE IN LOVE, EVERY WORD IS MAGICAL

  If I don’t see my beloved’s

  acrobatic performance

  and hear her voice

  every day

  for the rest of my lif
e,

  I feel certain

  that my heart

  will crack open

  like that golden pomegranate

  during Easter week,

  and all my stormy verses

  will shower down,

  sinking into the depths

  of dry earth,

  broken,

  buried.

  TRICKSTER

  I don’t have enough money

  to go to the circus every day,

  so I have to dream up many

  sneaky ways

  to enter.

  One evening, I carry a violin,

  pretending to be one of the musicians.

  The next afternoon, I haul a stack of papers

  to make myself look like an official.

  Finally, after much trial and error,

  I discover that the clown loves poetry,

  so now I simply trade

  rhythmic verses

  for tickets.

  His favorites are the romantic rhymes,

  which I imagine he will recite as if they

  are his own heartfelt poems, whenever he

  falls as deeply in love

  as this hopeful

  twelve-year-old

  trickster.

  Unable to imagine

  life without the circus,

  I audition, but my poet’s body

  fails to pass all the tests

  for athletic talent,

  and I end up facing

  Hortensia’s unbearable

  departure.