With a Star in My Hand Page 5

  by enduring

  a long voyage on the ocean.

  No matter how beautiful and musical

  the waves are, I’ll still be seasick

  and isolated.

  The mere thought

  of such a challenging journey

  makes me wistful for my childhood home

  in León.

  Wanderlust

  is a powerful force

  that leaves the eager traveler

  longing to live

  two lives

  at the same time,

  one of adventure,

  the other

  peace.

  PREPARATIONS

  A friend presents me

  with letters of introduction

  to a poet in Valparaíso

  and a rich man in Santiago.

  A collection is taken up,

  until I hold a handful

  of old Peruvian

  gold coins.

  I’ll arrive in Chile with nothing

  but paper, a pen, this bit of money,

  and the star of hope that still

  warms my hand . . .

  but there will be no way

  to make a living

  if my flawed poems

  are rejected

  by editors

  who expect

  perfection.

  WAR

  Just when I’m finally ready to leave—

  shouting

  gunfire

  rebellion!

  All the separate republics

  of Central America

  launch a chaotic

  jumble of battles.

  New rulers

  seize power.

  Every moment of delay

  is dangerous.

  The journey I planned as an adventure

  now turns into a desperate attempt

  at escape . . .

  but I’m too slow,

  and before I have a chance

  to flee

  from this violent

  man-made disaster,

  nature reclaims

  her absolute

  authority.

  EARTHQUAKE

  Walls

  of a house

  where

  I am visiting

  crumble

  tumble

  fall.

  Hopes in the mind where I thrive

  give way to a crushing vigil

  of

  waiting

  to find out

  if I

  will

  survive.

  But I’m not the only one trapped

  by destruction.

  A small child!

  Instinctively,

  I lift

  my friend’s daughter

  and carry her

  to safety

  an act

  that will forever

  cause others to call me a hero

  even though all I am is a weak man

  who happens to be just a tiny bit bolder

  than this thankfully smiling

  five-year-old

  girl.

  My heart is changed

  by the experience of helping.

  None of the books I’ve read by Spanish, Cuban,

  French, Greek, and North American poets

  ever prepared me for the depth

  of my new gratitude

  to heaven

  and earth.

  VOLCANO

  The era of natural disasters has not ended!

  Fiery

  rivers

  of rolling

  lava

  flow

  down

  from

  heights

  burying forests

  farms

  villages

  dreams.…

  Gray ash rains over the city, a torment

  of horrors.

  THE SUN DISAPPEARS

  Lanterns are needed even at noon.

  People move through a dusty gloom

  of ashes and soot, our prayers rising

  as we sing in the streets, all together,

  everyone expecting sudden doom.

  If this combination of war

  followed by earthquakes

  and a volcanic eruption

  is not the end of the world,

  then it must be a new beginning

  of brotherly love, as everyone joins

  our united effort to find survivors.

  We succeed, but the government’s print shop

  has been destroyed.

  There will be no published book of my poems,

  just these scribbled papers, my treasury,

  a battered suitcase

  filled with verses.

  YEARNING FOR LIGHT

  If I were a bird

  I’d rise above volcanic ashes

  and soar far beyond this burning earth . . .

  but I’m human,

  so I use my shaky legs

  to stumble through dark streets

  searching for survivors

  other poets

  my friends.

  Go to Chile,

  they urge me

  when we finally

  locate each other.

  Go, they repeat, flee, niño poeta,

  try to reach the end of the earth,

  even if you

  have to swim,

  even if you drown.

  FLIGHT

  After saying farewell to Bernarda,

  I rush

  to the docks

  see a boat

  buy a ticket

  climb on board

  steam away!

  Am I really the only passenger?

  The vessel turns out to be a German cargo ship.

  No one on board speaks my language.

  When I glance back at the shore

  I see my homeland

  vanishing

  beneath swirling clouds

  of dense

  smoke.

  WONDERING

  Am I a coward for leaving?

  It will take my nation

  and my family

  many years

  to recover

  from so much damage.

  I imagine these feelings

  as one drop in a river,

  the endless stream

  of disasters,

  both natural

  and man-made.

  Survivor’s guilt

  must always be

  part of this rolling

  wave of relief

  felt by every

  escaping

  refugee.

  LANGUAGE BARRIERS

  An immense sorrow settles over me.

  No one on the ship speaks Spanish

  and I don’t know any German, so I try

  to communicate by using bits of English

  that I’ve learned by reading translations

  of North American poetry,

  but the crew members don’t

  understand me, so we fall

  into a pattern

  of silence.

  This loss of words

  must be the first shock

  faced by every immigrant.

  A TRAVELER’S MIND

  The sea is peaceful

  and my dreams are invisible,

  both future and past hidden

  by distance.

  Waiting

  is the only way of life that exists now,

  slow days spent watching waves,

  then

  endless nights

  gazing up at starlight.

  Each shorebird that soars above us,

  leads my old pen toward new verses.

  TRAVELING WITH INVISIBLE MENTORS

  I love the writing of Cuba’s José Martí

  and France’s Victor Hugo,

  but I need

  my own style, so I scribble

  aboard this ship of daydreams,

  steaming alone
<
br />   toward my future.

  UN AMIGO

  One friend is enough.

  The captain smiles,

  wordlessly inviting me

  to play dominoes.

  We eat in his cabin.

  I learn a few words of German.

  When we stop at ports, I see how little is needed

  to make poor people happy.

  In forests, there are clearings where children play.

  In stark deserts, the only trees and flowers

  are painted on walls, lush green murals

  that create a satisfying illusion

  of abundance.

  WHEN I WRITE POETRY

  Time on the ship passes slowly and swiftly

  at the same time, a mystery of syllables,

  silences,

  and rhyme.

  I discover the beauty of waves

  that come

  and then go again, in patterns of long

  and short

  tidal rhythms.

  When I experiment with a variety of styles

  certain verses end up seeming as wide as the ocean

  which pulls seawater back and forth so furiously

  that even the brave

  restless moon

  follows.

  I’ve given up the idea of home—all I have now

  are dreams, and this need to roam.

  NINETEEN YEARS OLD

  I’m like the roaming moon,

  ready to face anything,

  such a wealth of wonders

  and painful frustrations

  that the strange future

  of every wanderer

  brings.

  IMAGINARY ORCHARDS

  Quietly, I remember my childhood

  of peaceful days spent reading

  between the gourd tree

  and the pomegranate.

  Then I think of Easter week, and the way

  a single, gleaming golden fruit exploded,

  releasing seeds for the growth

  of my smallest poems.

  If I don’t find a publisher in Chile,

  then I’ll just keep writing anyway,

  serving as my own audience

  for honest verses.

  I feel like a hunter of daydreams,

  armed with nothing but hours

  vowel rhymes

  and truth.

  A FOREIGNER AT THE END OF THE EARTH

  The ship finally steams

  into the glorious port of Valparaíso.

  The first thing I do is buy a newspaper,

  feeling stunned by the reality

  of arrival.

  The leading story of the day

  is about the death of a famous historian

  whose books I know well, so I spend

  twenty minutes

  scribbling my own

  analysis of his work.

  With this article and my suitcase

  full of poems, I have all the luggage

  I’ll ever need.

  FINDING MY WAY

  Which hotel?

  It’s the same dilemma I faced

  when I was exiled to El Salvador.

  A shabby room is all I can afford,

  but a pianist who is staying at the same inn

  makes our surroundings seem elegant

  as he sends festive music

  rising up into the air.

  Creativity is the best fuel

  for every poor man’s future.

  As soon as I’m settled,

  I take my article about the historian

  to a newspaper office, where the friendly editor

  accepts my work, and pays me generously.

  Even the tiniest bit of encouragement

  is enough to make an ordinary poet

  feel truly heroic!

  JUDGED

  A new friend from the newspaper

  helps me send my letter of introduction

  to the rich man in Santiago,

  the biggest city in Chile.

  Soon I’m on my way, seated on the train,

  wondering why so many gentlemen and ladies

  frown and whisper, glaring at me

  with disgust.

  Un indio.

  I hear the murmurs.

  My brown skin.

  Long hair.

  Mended clothes.

  Broken shoes.

  Bursting suitcase.

  Dream-filled gaze.

  REFUSING TO BE JUDGED

  In my homeland, I was just one

  of thousands of mestizos, but here

  so many people have only Spanish blood,

  and anti-indigenous racial hatred

  strikes my life

  for the first time.

  Los indios are the conquered,

  while descendants of colonial Spaniards

  continue to think of themselves as superior,

  even though many decades have passed

  since the hero Simón Bolívar

  freed everyone

  equally.

  Let these pale people who think

  they’re so much better

  judge me by my words

  and actions

  not

  my skin.

  ACCEPTING MY SELF

  I become determined

  to mix the ancient myths of Greece

  with native Aztec and Maya images

  from various nations of las Américas.

  Chile has other aspects

  that are new to me too,

  such as seasons of cold,

  not just the equally hot

  wet and dry months

  that I know

  from the tropics.

  I’m the only one on this train

  without a warm jacket.

  Let them stare at me.

  Pretty soon I’ll freeze

  and all they’ll see

  is an icy skeleton.

  ANGER IS NATURAL

  It’s easy to speak of defiance, but the truth is

  that I feel defeated and desperate.

  Inside my old suitcase,

  a storm of verses is hidden.

  With paper as my sky, words

  are the wind that should help my mind fly.

  If only my heart could follow,

  celebrating any chance to transform

  life’s hardships

  into rhythmic artworks,

  like the desert people

  who paint murals

  of flowering green forests

  on barren

  adobe walls.

  For now, this drumbeat of rage

  will be my only poetry.

  BUZZING BEES OF HOPE

  At the train station in Santiago, I turn away

  from the disdainful faces of those who judge me,

  while all around us, families embrace, reunited.

  Joyful cries, food vendors, the rush of porters

  carrying luggage . . .

  I stand alone, waiting, until finally I see a carriage

  with fancy horses, a driver in his elegant uniform,

  and a valet who helps a wealthy man

  step down

  to search

  for the person

  he’s meeting.

  He’s wrapped in luxurious furs.

  Could this be the rich man who received

  my letter of introduction?

  When we are the only two people left

  on the platform, he approaches me

  and asks if I might happen to be

  the famous Rubén Darío,

  el niño poeta.

  Yes, I’m the celebrated Poet Boy

  but what does that even mean

  now that I’m a grown man of nineteen?

  My childhood verses were just practice

  for the way I plan to write now, whenever

  a stranger judges me as anything less

  than an angry hive filled

  with the hopeful b
ees

  of equality.

  A ROOM AT THE END OF THE EARTH

  I enter my new life

  with a wealth of ideas

  instead of money and clothing.

  I have a place to stay, and I’m given a job

  at a newspaper, but I feel so timid

  each time I’m surrounded

  by wealthy men

  who think of me

  as a poor indio.

  Is envy part of the problem?

  Does the fame that precedes me

  lead them to expect someone who looks

  powerful, wearing the latest fashions

  from Paris, and writing in a more

  conventional style?

  WHEN I’M ASKED TO DESCRIBE THE PROCESS OF WRITING

  I simply tell the truth,

  even though so many skeptics

  don’t find it easy to believe.

  My poems are born whole

  after long moments of concentration,

  the first drafts unwritten, hidden deep within

  the silent confines

  of my mind.

  POETRY WINGS

  Eventually, I meet a few friendly people

  who understand my shyness.

  There is a young man my age

  who is often ill, so he has sympathy

  for my homesickness.

  His father turns out to be

  the president of Chile,

  who invites me to lunch,

  where I’m treated