Alma Luz Villanueva
Poesía chicana
Alma Luz Villanueva (1944, Lompoc, California). Es una poeta mexicana-estadounidense y escritora de relatos cortos y novela. Entre su numerosa obra publicada se encuentra Weeping Woman: La Llorona and Other Stories (Bilingual Press, 1994); Desire (Bilingual Review Press, 1998); Soft Chaos (Bilingual Press/Editorial Bilingüe, 2009). Ha publicado recientemente la novela Song of the Golden Scorpion (Wings Press, 2013) y está prevista próximamente la publicación de su último libro de poemas Gracias.
Más información en su página web y en su blog.
OBRA:
Song of the Golden Scorpion. Wings Press. 2013. ISBN 978-1-60940-346-1
Soft Chaos. Bilingual Press/Editorial Bilingüe. 2009. ISBN 978-1-931010-37-5.
Luna's California Poppies. Bilingual Press/Editorial Bilingüe. 2002. ISBN 978-0-927534-99-4.
Vida, poetry. Wings Press. May 2002. ISBN 978-0-930324-66-7.
Desire. Bilingual Review Press. September 1998. ISBN 978-0-927534-76-5.
Weeping Woman: La Llorona and Other Stories. Bilingual Press. 1994. ISBN 978-0-927534-38-3.
Naked Ladies. Bilingual Review Press. January 1994. ISBN 978-0-927534-30-7.
Planet with Mother, May I?. Bilingual Review Press. July 1993. ISBN 978-0-927534-17-8.
The Ultraviolet Sky, republished with Doubleday, 1993. ISBN 0-385-42014-5
The Ultraviolet Sky. Bilingual Review Press. June 1988. ISBN 978-0-916950-85-9.
Life Span (Place of Herons Press, 1985)
Blood Root (Blue Heron Press, 1977)
ANTOLOGÍAS:
Terry Beers, ed (2012). "Califlora, A Literary Field Guide." Excerpt from novel, "Luna's California Poppies." Heyday Books. ISBN 978-1-59714-161-1
Robert Shapart, James Thomas, Ray Gonzalez, eds (2010). "Sudden Fiction Latino." Short story, from book, "Weeping Woman, La Llorona," "People of the Dog." W.W. Norton. ISBN 978-0-393-33645-0
J. Sterling Warner, Judith Hillard, eds (2009). "Visions Across the Americas: Short Essays for Composition." Wadsworth Press. ISBN 978-1428263772
Jose Gurpegui, ed (2009). Camino Real. Universidad de Alcala- Madrid, Spain. ISSN 1889-5611
"Pembroke Magazine, Number 40" (University of North Carolina, 2008)[5]
Mary Frosch, ed. (2008). Coming of Age In The 21st Century. New Press. ISBN 978-1-59558-055-9. Story from "Weeping Woman, La Llorona."
Stephanie Fetta, ed. (2008). "To Jesus Villanueva, with Love; I Was a Skinny Tomboy Kid; There Were Times". The Chicano/Latino literary prize: an anthology of prize-winning fiction, poetry, and drama. Arte Publico Press. ISBN 978-1-55885-511-3.
Cris K A DiMarco, ed. (2007). Solamente en San Miguel. Windstorm Creative. ISBN 978-1-59092-691-8.
Susan Koppelman, ed (2003). Between Mothers and Daughters: Stories Across Generations. The Feminist Press. ISBN 978-1-55861-459-8
J. Excerpt from novel, "Naked Ladies". H. Blair, ed. (2002). Caliente: The Best Erotic Writing in Latin American Fiction. Berkley Books. ISBN 978-0-425-18466-0.
Rick Heide, ed. (2002). "La Llorana / Weeping Woman". Under the fifth sun: Latino literature from California. Heyday Books. ISBN 978-1-890771-59-1.
Constance Warloe, ed. (May 1, 2001). From Daughters and Sons To Fathers. Story Line Press. ISBN 978-1-58654-003-6.
Neil Philip, ed. (2001). It’s a Woman’s World: A Century of Women’s Voices in Poetry. Dutton.
Lauri Umansky, Michelle Plott, ed. (2000). "Blood Ties". Making Sense of Women's Lives: An Introduction to Women's Studies. Rowman & Littlefield. ISBN 978-0-939693-53-5.
Elizabeth Roberts, Elias Amidon, ed. (1999). Prayers For A Thousand years. HarperSanFrancisco. ISBN 978-0-06-066875-4.
Burleigh Muten, ed (1999). Her Words: Anthology of Poetry About The Great Goddess. Shambhala. ISBN 978-1-57062-473-5
Manuel de Jesús Hernández-Gutiérrez, David William Foster, ed. (1997). "Trust". Literatura chicana, 1965-1995: an anthology in Spanish, English, and Caló. Taylor & Francis. ISBN 978-0-8153-2077-7.
Burleigh Muten, ed (1997). Return of The Great Goddess. Stewart, Tabori, Chang. ISBN 978-1556706080
Constance Warloe, ed. (1997). I've Always Meant To Tell You, Letters To Our Mothers. Pocket Books. ISBN 978-0-671-56324-0.
Adrienne Rich, David Lehman, ed. (1996). The Best American Poetry 1996. Scribner. ISBN 978-0-684-81455-1.
Lillian Castillo-Speed, ed. (1995). Latina: Women's Voices from the Borderlands. New York: Touchstone Press. ISBN 978-0-684-80240-4.
Roberta Fernández, ed. (1994). "An Act of creation; Trust; Indian Summer Ritual". In other words: literature by Latinas of the United States. Arte Publico Press. ISBN 978-1-55885-110-8.
Erica Bauermeister, Jesse Larsen, Holly Smith (1994). 500 Great Books by Women. Penguin Books. ISBN 978-0-14-017590-5.
Annie Finch, ed. (1994). A Formal Feeling Comes. Story Line Press. ISBN 978-0-934257-98-5.
Unsettling America. Penguin Books. 1994. ISBN 978-0-670-85170-6. (reprint 2008)
Ray González, ed. (1992). Mirrors Beneath The Earth. Curbstone Press. ISBN 978-1-880684-02-3.
Janine Canan, ed (1989). She Rises Like The Sun: Invocations of the Goddess by Contemporary American Women. Crossing Press. ISBN 978-0-89594-353-8
Five Poets of Aztlan, Epic poem, "La Chingada." editors=Alfonso Rodríguez, Santiago Daydí-Tolson. Bilingual Press. 1985. ISBN 978-0-916950-41-5.
Florence Howe, Ellen Bass, ed. (1973). No More Masks!. ISBN 978-0-385-02553-9. (reprint HarperPerennial, August 1993, ISBN 0-06-096517-7)
SANGRE DE BRUJA
Fuerza de mi sangre, tu secreto
envuelto en lenguas antiguas
habladas por hombres que se consideraban
dioses y curas y oráculos – ellos
crearon complejos rituales
cánticos secretos
y alabaron los ciclos, llamando
a las mujeres impuras.
Los hombres mataron
hicieron la guerra
para que la sangre fluyera naturalmente,
como la de una mujer,
una vez al mes–
Los hombres deambularon por la Tierra para encontrar
la paciencia del embarazo
el júbilo del nacimiento–
La renovación de la sangre
(el terrible, sangriento secreto: Oh, mujer,
tú que osas nacer
en ti).
Llámame bruja
llámame arpía
llámame hechicera
llámame loca
llámame mujer.
No me llames diosa.
No quiero esa posición.
Prefiero contemplar asombrada,
una vez al mes,
mi sangre de bruja.
Traducción de Beatriz Viol
WITCHES' BLOOD
power of my blood, your secret
wrapped in ancient tongues
spoken by men who claimed themselves
gods and priests and oracles – they
made elaborate rituals
secret chants and extolled the cycles,
calling women unclean.
men have killed
made war
for blood to flow, as naturally
as a woman’s
once a month–
men have roamed the earth to find
the patience of pregnancy
the joy of birth–
the renewal of blood.
(the awful, bloody secret: O woman
you dare birth
yourself)
call me witch
call me hag
call me sorceress
call me mad
call me woman. Do not
call me goddess.
I do not want that position.
I prefer to gaze in wonder, once
a month at my
witches’ blood.
CANCIÓN DEL YO: LA ABUELA
Rodeada por mis escudos estoy.
Rodeada por mis hijos estoy.
Rodeada por el vacío estoy.
Soy el vacío.
Soy la matriz de la memoria.
Soy la oscuridad floreciente.
Soy la flor, carne primera.
En la oscuridad total habito-
-allí, contemplo el despliegue de la creación allí,
sé que empezamos y acabamos-
-sólo para empezar, una y otra vez-, otra vez.
En esta oscuridad estoy volviéndome,
volviéndome hacia un nacimiento:
el mío -una abuela recién nacida soy, mamando luz.
La serpiente del arco iris me cubre, de la cabeza a los pies,
en círculos sin fin -me cubre,
para que pueda yo vivir siempre, en esta forma u otra.
La piel que deja atrás resplandece con la pregunta,
con la respuesta, con la promesa:
«¿Te acuerdas de mí?»
«Siempre soy mujer.»
«La carne es flor, para siempre.»
Entro en la oscuridad, para entrar en el nacimiento,
para vestirme con el arco iris,
para oírla sisear con fuerza, claramente,
en mi oído interior: amor.
Estoy girando en espiral, estoy dando vueltas,
estoy cantando esta Canción de la Abuela.
Estoy recordando para siempre, de donde somos.
Poema tomado del libro "Espejo del yo" de Christine Downing
Imagen: Abuela Margarita, fotografías tomadas de la Web.
Kuwanlelenta- To make beautiful surroundings...
Even when I was very poor as
a child of eight, when I finally
went to the store to steal
food for my grandmother and
me, curling my hands into fists,
to fight, I always brought
back a small flower for her
altar, and we’d laugh as we
ate the stolen Spam, bread,
jam, milk. My grandmother’s altars
were always beautiful, finding small
stones, seashells, flowers on
the way, her favorite red roses,
so when I found a flowering bush
I picked four quickly, bleeding from
shy thorns, she praised me for
their beauty- and when I
lived with my children, we always
had flowers at the center of
our table, as well as food,
the poetry my grandmother taught
me, the beauty of red roses,
the beauty of singing words,
she taught me always
to create beauty as
I go, and if you
bleed, don’t cry,
laugh, at the sheer
luck of finding
perfect red roses
for free, watch
beauty
disappearing over
flowers, Siyamtiwa,
it will return soon, kissing
your open hand.
*Siyamtiwa- Object disappearing over flowers...
San Miguel de Allende, Mexico- October 2009
RED ROSES, 6:30 in the evening
The first bull, Mexican
matador, the overweight
lancers on horseback
pierce el toro’s spinal
column deeply, over
and over, taking his strength,
his power, bringing him to
his knees after two half
hearted passes with the
cape, just wanting to
die- TORO TORO
TORO TORO we scream,
enraged by this cowardice of
lancers, simpering matadorMATALO
we yell,
KILL HIM, el
toro on his knees
begging for death- an older
man yells to the young, Mexican
matador, “Sin pasión te haces viejo...
Without passion, you become old!”
We BOOOO the coward, his
dragging red cape, out
of the ring, the circle
where death came as
sword, metal, thrust,
el toro suffering, bleeding,
families of the poor will
eat tonight, the best cuts for the
rich. The second bull claims the
ring, chasing junior bullfighters with
fuchsia capes behind wooden
barricades, full of power, death
laughing at the tips of his twin
horns- the smug lancers enter,
lances poised to take his
power, we go wild
BOOOO BOOOO
Only one superficial thrust,
someone signals as we
BOOOOOOOO
confused, they leave the
circle as we stand to
cheer TORO TORO TORO
The Spaniard strolls in with power
and grace, his red cape held at hip
level, he faces el toro, an equal, respect
in his bearing, and they begin to
dance, and they begin to dance
an ancient dance of hunter/prey,
prey/hunter, death to death, and
in the last light, the great sun
showers light and shadow equally,
the circle where they dance, toro,
matador, death joins this graceful
dance of equals, twin
horns skimming the Spaniard’s
slim body, so intimately,
death is his lover, his
mother, those powerful twin
horns, and el toro
knows this, we can
see that he knows
this, as he gives himself
(his immense strength,
power) to the dance of
equals, each one could
die, yet each one dances
so gracefully, so intimately,
horn to hip, horn to groin,
sword in hand, sweeping
the red cape, human and
bull breathe the same
sky, feel the fading sun’s
light, shadow of moon,
equally, they dance
as we shout OLE
endlessly, they dance,
equals in death, in
love, they dance. The
Spaniard rises on his
tip-toes, every muscle
visible, tense, his suit
of lights sparkling at
6:30 in the evening, sword
drawn, ready, as his lover
passes so intimately, twin
horns caressing his thighs,
el toro passes beautifully, dancing,
death finds him dancing,
swift death, no suffering,
dancing- his lover’s tender
ear in his raised hand, he
circles the ring, holding it
tenderly, not a prize, tenderly,
someone throws him una bota de
vino, he gulps as the crowd
counts UNO DOS TRES
to twelve, he drinks at 6:30
in the evening, smiling,
shouting GRACIAS as the
moon swallows the circle,
as el toro is butchered for
hunger. I want to
dance with my death
gracefully, equally, at
6:30 in the evening, the
hour of my birth, as
Venus rises spilling her
erotic light, vowing to
meet the great Sun at
dawn, facing Moon and
shadow, I want to dance
with el toro, my lover, so
intimately, human, bull,
light, dark, life, death,
those twin horns, swiftly.
Next time I’ll bring red
roses for the circle, if
such a dance is dancedor
I will scatter them as
I walk, petal by petal by
blood-red-petal,
these roses
are to honor
light and shadow,
bull and human,
the dance, equally,
at 6:30
in the
evening, as
Venus rises
spilling her
erotic light
on us all
equally.
To the Spaniard, Antonio GasparSan
Miguel de Allende, Mexico
December 31, 2007
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