With a Star in My Hand Page 3

  FEELING WORTHLESS

  The end of first love is a high-wire balancing

  challenge

  without

  any

  training

  or

  a

  net.

  The circus won’t let me be a runaway,

  so when their caravan of aerial marvels

  moves on,

  I’m left here with nothing

  but my toppled

  tumbling

  earthbound

  sorrow.

  FEELING WORTHY

  The inspiration that came from my admiration

  for a dramatic and beautiful foreign acrobat

  now makes my lonely poems seem to glow.

  Everyone around me

  agrees that I’ve grown.

  The field where that circus stood

  is just a scattered mass of trampled grass,

  and I have to go back to school,

  but while I sit motionless,

  forced to listen

  to rigid grammar lessons,

  my mind wanders through old rhymes,

  trying them over and over again

  in new patterns.

  Yes, broken hearts have a purpose,

  writing verses to comfort

  others.

  THE POET BOY

  People call me el niño poeta,

  a nickname that follows me wherever I go.

  My first publication is a poem in a newspaper

  on the occasion of the death of a friend’s father.

  Suddenly I’m famous

  in all the nations of Central America.

  So I let my hair grow long

  like my indio ancestors,

  and I tie it back in a ponytail,

  think of myself as a rebel,

  and eventually I make a point

  of neglecting my studies,

  especially mathematics.

  I fight with boys,

  flirt with girls,

  and absolutely refuse

  to listen to grown-ups.

  How can Tía Bernarda continue to tell me

  that she expects me to be an apprentice

  to a tailor?

  Why should I stitch

  rich men’s ugly suits

  when I can weave

  beautiful words

  into a wealth

  of useful verses?

  A TERRIBLE SECRET IS FINALLY REVEALED

  One day, a neighbor invites me to meet

  a black-clad woman who claims to be

  my mother.

  This lost-and-found Mamá gives me candy

  and little gifts, even though I’m almost thirteen,

  too old to be distracted by toys and treats.

  I learn that she never died.

  She simply chose to deceive me.

  She didn’t want me, but now she does.

  Is it because I’m famous, and she imagines

  riches?

  Forgiveness is a question

  I can’t answer yet.

  After all, how long will it take for her

  to forgive herself—centuries,

  millennia, eternity?

  ONE SECRET LEADS TO ANOTHER

  As soon as my mother vanishes again,

  I ask myself how much Tía Bernarda knew,

  and why she and El Bocón never told me,

  and yes, of course, naturally, next I must ask

  my aunt:

  Is my father

  alive

  too?

  VICIOUS NIGHTMARES ATTACK ME

  Each hour of darkness

  is a dreaded pit of rage,

  fueled by this new knowledge

  that, yes, Papá is alive

  and I already know him;

  in fact, I detest him!

  I am the son of Uncle Manuel

  the drunkard.

  No wonder we’ve always looked at each other

  with such utter loathing and suspicion.

  By day, I go to his fancy shop just to stare.

  Why confront him, what would I say?

  After sunset, I suffer alone

  unable to sleep

  without dreaming

  of a faceless

  armless

  footless

  pale spirit

  that reaches for me,

  its touch just as alarming

  as the zigzag embrace

  of a jolting lightning ray,

  electric

  scalding

  sulfur-scented

  with a taste

  like oily candle wax

  whenever I kick and bite,

  trying to fight back

  protecting myself

  from the sadness

  of an evil

  dream.

  AFTER BETRAYAL

  At sunrise, nightmares vanish,

  replaced by Bernarda’s fearsome stories

  about my mother’s brothers—Ignacio,

  who was shot in a duel, and Antonio, dragged

  behind a horse during a revolution.

  Apparently, my family’s history

  was always riddled by tragedies.

  Mamá married Manuel and divorced him

  before I was born, because of his drunkenness,

  but then he married one of my aunts, and now

  I must live with his disturbing presence

  as well as the hideous memory

  of my mother’s absence.

  Perhaps it’s better to claim no parents

  than two who have no use for a son.

  No matter how hard it seems,

  I’ll need to find some way to forgive

  Bernarda for keeping such deeply

  wounding

  secrets.

  If she hadn’t adopted me,

  I might now be

  a wild child

  raised by cattle.

  DREAMS OF ESCAPE

  Restless.

  Desperate.

  Something inside my mind is turning me into

  a wanderer, bitter and distant.

  It seems so natural now

  to think of myself as homeless.

  What comfort is there in the dull articles

  I sell to newspapers, trying to earn money

  to help the woman I thought of as a mother

  for so many years, when all along, Bernarda knew

  that my true Mamá

  was alive and had no wish

  to know me, while the father

  I despise

  was even

  worse.

  IMPERFECT POETRY IS MY ONLY REFUGE

  The blue peace of sky.

  Wings.

  A view of passing birds.

  Joy.

  I try, but resentment

  is determined to invade

  my verses.

  Forgiveness.

  Not for my real parents,

  no.

  Maybe someday, after I’ve seen

  this wide world’s wonders,

  just like the wanderer, El Bocón.

  In the meantime, I use my written voice

  loudly, scribbling protests against every

  injustice, especially crimes

  of personal, emotional, selfish

  betrayal.

  FRAGMENTS

  No sorrow

  is ever great enough

  to destroy

  nature’s comforts,

  so I manage

  to salvage

  slivers

  of happiness

  by rowing

  up and down the jungled coast

  alone in a small boat, passing through marshes

  and tangled mangrove swamps, as I watch the ocean

  where ships steam away

  toward distant lands.

  The sea is beautiful, and the breeze

  brings a scent of forest flowers.

  My horizon is vast, a limitless universe

&nbs
p; of future verses.

  SONGS OF LIFE

  Thirteen is an age

  of anticipation.

  Soon I’ll be a grown man,

  ready for travel

  and love.

  Whenever I see a statue in the park

  I imagine that it might

  spring to life,

  reversing the process

  that preserves old soldiers

  as rigid sculptures.

  Then I scribble an eerie tale

  at midnight—I am the block of marble

  carved

  and waiting

  for tomorrow.

  FOURTEEN

  I find work teaching grammar, and writing

  for a newspaper called La Verdad—The Truth.

  But truth is never popular

  with corrupt leaders

  who rely

  on lies.

  So when the government disapproves

  of my writing, I lose all desire to do anything

  but listen.

  I sit on the street beside Manuelita—a woman

  who sells cigars—while she tells stories

  of flying horses, magical genies,

  and endless mazes

  where ancient heroes

  were always

  wandering

  ending up

  lost.

  Manuelita’s little dog

  pays attention to these stories,

  and then he listens intently

  to my improvised verses

  about the same myths.

  The dog is called Laberinto,

  even though Labyrinth sounds

  like a concept too complex

  for his wagging tail

  and friendly eyes.

  I’m already a failure

  as a reporter, so how long

  will it be

  until I find

  my own

  pathway

  through

  life’s

  tangled

  mazes?

  MELANCHOLY

  Sorrow transforms me.

  I feel as if an invisible hand

  is pushing me toward

  the unknown . . .

  but people who come to León

  for a glimpse of the famous Poet Boy

  are never disappointed.

  I’m always ready to entertain them

  with passionate verses.

  There is no greater inspiration

  than sadness, but ay, Dios, my God,

  how willing I would be

  to trade

  this sense

  of uselessness

  for travel, any adventure, a hopeful voyage

  like the ones I used to read about in the shade

  of my beloved gourd tree

  and pomegranate.

  AN INVITATION

  Senators come to León

  just to hear the Poet Boy

  read a hurricane of verses.

  When I finish the performance

  they invite me to visit Managua,

  the capital city of Nicaragua,

  and now all my daydreams

  of roaming

  are suddenly

  real!

  MOVING AWAY FROM HOME

  I feel winged.

  Sunlight fills my breath, my lungs. . . .

  I’m as blessed as one of Victor Hugo’s

  desolate characters in Les Misèrables,

  a poet-witness accepted by influential men

  despite my vast range of past failures.

  I leave with Bernarda’s blessing,

  but soon, as I pass the peaceful blue waters

  of Lake Xolotlán

  and the fuming volcano

  called Momotombo,

  I begin to wonder

  if my small-town rhymes

  will ever be eloquent enough

  for city dwellers . . .

  but I’m fifteen years old, with a star

  of hope clasped in my hand, so I keep my eyes

  lifted toward the future’s

  limitless sky.

  A CELEBRITY

  How could I have known

  that I would already be so famous,

  paraded at parties and official banquets,

  where elegant ladies constantly ask me

  to write original poems

  on their fancy silk fans?

  Sonnets about their beauty—

  I imagine that’s what they expect,

  and sometimes it’s the sort of verse

  I’m able to produce on short notice,

  but there are other days

  when all I want to say

  is la verdad—the truth,

  serving as history’s

  honest witness.

  AN ACT OF CONGRESS

  The senators vote about my future,

  deciding to send me to France.

  In Paris, I will receive

  such a dreamlike education,

  studying with Europe’s greatest

  masters of poetry!

  All those years ago during Easter week

  when I saw my own childhood verses

  raining down from a golden pomegranate,

  there was no way to foresee

  this new shower

  of generous

  blessings.

  DISAPPOINTMENT

  The president of the republic

  destroys all hope for a state-funded education.

  He uses his veto power to deny the act of congress

  that passed in my honor.

  He calls my poetry insulting,

  even though the verse he objects to

  is just a parable about an angry ruler

  who smashes his crown against a throne.

  Yes, of course I’ll continue to criticize

  foolish leaders wherever I find them.

  That’s a decision I made at the edge of a swamp,

  when I saw a man’s severed hand flying.

  Poets must speak, no matter the punishment.

  We are observers with musical voices, testifying

  in the courtrooms

  of nature

  and human life.

  A WORLD OF BOOKS

  Stranded in this hectic city,

  I have to find a job, so I decide to apply

  to the National Library, and even though

  I’m so young, librarians accept me into their treasury

  of ancient thoughts and modern ones.

  Verses from so many nations!

  Fables, myths, fantasies, translations!

  Greeks and Romans

  along with Aztecs and Mayas.

  The wisdom of so many civilizations

  swirls and blends, entering my imagination

  through tangled gateways.

  Why shouldn’t my poetry feature Pegasus

  alongside Quetzalcoatl?

  My ancestry is both Spanish

  and indio,

  so my mestizo mind embraces

  the mixture.

  INDEPENDENT THOUGHT

  The library’s silence is mysterious.

  Each book offers a gift of possibilities.

  Soon I’m writing while I read,

  combining my own endless

  sense of wonder

  with all the marvels

  already told in astonishing stories

  from history, sagas of travel, nature,

  families, conflict, and love,

  always love. . . .

  Days pass, weeks, months.

  There’s nothing to stop me

  from spending a lifetime

  immersed in this endless

  exploration

  of pages, unless . . .

  FALLING IN LOVE IS A CLIFF

  n

  o

  t

  a

  s

  l

  o

  p

  e.

  As soon as I’ve plummeted,
I feel certain

  that everyone will disapprove, because

  she’s so young too, and all we want

  is to be married right away.

  No reason to wait.

  Grown-ups can’t

  stop

  us.

  Can they?

  THIS FLURRY OF VERSES

  Passionate love poems fly from my pen,

  published in newspapers, so that even strangers

  will know

  how much I love her,

  the girl with green eyes,

  cinnamon skin, dazzling laughter,

  and a magical voice that can sing any

  enchantment.

  In a garden of blue butterflies

  and flowering flame trees

  we stargaze

  together.

  Clasped hands.

  Absolute silence.

  First

  kiss!

  UNCERTAINTY

  What if she doesn’t really love me enough

  to accept my proposal?

  How can I wait years and years to get married,

  until we’re both older, wiser, and so much more

  boring?

  SELFISHNESS

  A friend falls ill.

  My beloved carries medicine

  to his bedside.

  Instead of sympathy for a sick young man’s suffering,

  all I feel is this frenzy of envy, as if love

  has changed me

  into the monstrous beast

  called jealousy.