The Beauty of Iztaccihuatl Rough Draft
Before Revision
Buttery clouds collide with the rigid terrain
of a warrior’s scarred back,
and as hoarse winds howl, his cries
become whispers - faded by the laughter of children.
The children race the clouds to the summit,
longing to be swallowed by Earth’s white comfort,
they plan to ride the beastly clouds into battle.
Popocatepetl, once dormant now weeps
a sticky ash that turns its once bright snow tops into tar.
A tribute to his lover, his ice freezes clear
to create mirrors in each of the Earth’s crevices
displaying the neighboring beauty, Iztaccihuatl.
As the children attempt to rein the gray fog,
his summit reveals, to them, her spellbinding beauty.
Once a daughter to an Aztecan chief,
she is now nothing but a silhouette that lays silent,
shaped by a thin sheet of snow.
Ripples in the mountain mimic her once lively
curls, and trees line the hills of her breasts
and curve through the valley of her navel.
The children watch her through the vapor
of their breath, hoping not to blink in case she moves.
But she will never move - death brought upon her
by sorrow and grief, she was told the Popocatepetl
was slain in battle, his honorary blood made war paint.
The truth, her lover lived - fighting for her hand.
And so he carried Iztaccihuatl, his embrace soft
as the feathers he wore, and as careful as she had loved him.
The children make their descent, their worn shoes
nearly sliding across the slick ice, frozen tears.
They watch silent snakes glide through yellow grass
and climb carefully down the back of the warrior.
The thrill has gone, and a ponder has taken place.
They watch the volcano, as his ash settles,
and the clouds grow gray above him.
Forever mourning, he often wakes and rumbles
remembering his one love, Iztaccihuatl.
By Natalia Martinez
They Ran Out Of Schmear At The Local Bagel Shop Rough Draft
Before Revision
They ran out of schmear at the local bagel shop when the man ahead of me
ordered a mountain of it on his poppyseed slice.
He held his greasy prize like a rosary and prayed that it would not fall.
But the longer he walked, the taller it got. Squirrels ran up the sticky sides,
and sand in the wind made the onion spread grainy.
Pedestrians who weren’t paying attention walked straight up it and pulled
at their jackets when they reached the summit, where the texture of the top half of the bagel
was like a too-hard pear, and the air became brittle.
So I asked for my bagel toasted, I figured there was plenty of schmear in the clouds to share.
The cook behind the counter scrubbed the shiny dough with his calloused
fingers and punched three magic beans into it which were hidden
underneath his sour tongue.
His fingers moved fast as he hole punched my bread and threw it
up into the purple flames of the tall, starving oven.
The Schmear Man was halfway up the hill by then. A town had been started
in the mountain he carried, and children skied
across icy peaks of caramelized cream cheese.
The champagne sky bubbled as the substance climbed to the pale moon.
And when the peak reached the stars,
no brave advocate volunteered to knock on the Moon Man’s glass door.
I reached in my back pocket for some change and handed the cook three
fresh leeks and a handful of crumpled tea bags. He huffed disappointedly
and handed me my sprouting breakfast.
I ran out the door to catch up with the Schmear Man, hoping he’d let me ask the Moon
Man my questions. But he would not listen, nor slow down.
The longer he walked, the skinnier he got. His ribs could be played like a xylophone,
and his face could be worn as a thin mask. I begged him
to stop but he could not hear me.
The bagel in my hand rumbled and leaped courageously in front of the Schmear Man.
The sprout was squished by his iron boots, and a grassy smell
leaked from the ground. Thick grass broke through the dirt below us
and a waterfall of green flowed up, parallel to the man’s mountain.
I closed my eyes and reached for the spine of the growing beast.
Its stringy arm grabbed me first and lifted me up into the sky.
I waved at families having picnics in the spread and
bared my teeth at cave dwellers in its divots.
I curled up in the blades as the air became cool, and watched the moon grow closer.
Through the moon’s back window, a man with the face of a frog
watched me. He turned quickly to open the door. The blades of grass
left me gently at the Moon Man’s feet. The frog-faced man greeted me,
wearing a red fleece robe, and invited me in.
I knew what I wanted to ask all my life, but the smell of onions in the atmosphere
evoked a greater question.
His answer was simple, and he churned a large jug of ice melt
before opening the double doors to pour his concoction onto the glorious mountain.
The ice turned to slush and the slush turned to rain,
and soon the whole mountain had turned into a thunderstorm, raining down families
and their pets. The Schmear Man’s weight had been lifted,
and he finally slowed his feet to a steady stop.
He looked up at the forgiving sky and cried to the Moon Man.
Freed, he watched people settle into town, doubling the population.
He opened his mouth and let the cream cheese rain mingle with his tastebuds.
It was then, that the Schmear Man was finally full.
Your Market Rough Draft
Before Revision
The first time I saw your smile, it pulled me by the sleeve into a crowded market, where the muddied floors were slick and light blue hues in the rain illuminated a hundred bouquets of flowers. Your smile pulled me by the collar into the bright lush petals, and begged me to fill my lungs with every color that has ever existed. At that moment, it felt as if every gray corner of the world could be corrected by those inviting tulips. And your lips, soft as the seasonal persimmons piled high in your winter market, moved slow and certain when you spoke.
Today, your eyes are my favorite hangout place. I fall into them the way pyramids of fruit are destined to fall, suddenly and irreversibly. I watch the tumbling honeydew, wondering if they will bruise the way green apples do - creating pockets of honey under dark green imperfections. Your green eyes could never hold imperfections, they glow like the soft reflections of a neon market sign at night, illuminating street performers playing songs for themselves as crowds disappear and rain puddles become still.
Tomorrow, I will visit your market again. I will roam through the music of your laughter, and feel the warmth of your gaze. I want to know you, like a vendor’s regular, I want to see your face light up when I walk in the room. Market lover, I hope one day we will wander your storefront hand in hand, to smell the flowers and taste the candied persimmons.
Blanket Rough Draft
Before Revision
I always keep my blanket over my toes
I cover my belly, cover my nose
I tuck in my ankles, tuck up my knees
So none of me shows, not one single piece
Why do I do this?
Well, my blanket shields me
From all of the monsters running free
No vamperites, nor things that bite
Not even baby whistlermites
Can get to me when I’m in here
In my sheets I have no fear
I don’t need a weapon
I don’t need a shield
Here in bed, I am concealed
So come in, you sneaky beasts
You terrible ghouls,
You rusty dusty howlermules,
Try your best, please go ahead
But I’ve got blankets on my...
Wait! Actually don’t come tonight
It’s laundry day, forget the invite
Go back to your dens,
Crawl back to your grotto
Leave tonight, come back tomorrow!
Ode To Grief Rough Draft
Before Revision
You grew a forest around me,
watered it when I cried and
nurtured it while I slept,
until I woke up one day tangled
in your variety of vines.
You feel like a hug,
like the embrace I’ll never feel again
from the person I’ll never see again,
so I sleep away under the shield
of your lush, forgiving leaves.
You comfort and cradle, grow
moss around my waist,
a blanket for under your canopy
where you’re quick to drown out the sun
with evergreen trees.
Why would I leave this jungle?
It’s your finest work of art.
Cicadas lull me to sleep and when
I wake, I’m covered in fallen leaves and
a veil of flowers born from lonely tears.
You say the sun will blind me
but Grief, we both know,
your darkness leads me astray.
It you that comforts as you take
because the darkness can blind me too.
Delano Grapes
2 Previous Versions
1)
(In the shape of the UFW flag)
An immortal grape sits tempting, glistening in boiling blood, on a table as tattered as a bracero’s thin shoes and as old as oppression. And a wine stained sign on the table reads “Don’t eat the grape to save a people”,
a plea so humble yet so crucial, the words smudged by many dirt caked hands who gave
up everything to grow the bleeding grape. But people squeezed its immortal body to drink the sweat
off of farmworkers burnt necks, reborn as an enemy wine. They wrapped their rasping
tongues around the pumping veins of the grape, not out of hunger, no. Instead out
of curiosity. People poked and prodded the grape that imprisoned the
lives of the growers, and some pierced its skin with their cuspids, just
because they could. It takes vulnerability and hope to lay
down a life and pray that people will see all the suffering.
How evil of the wine to be so sweet, so
amnesic, so tempting to those who don’t
know of the fields, where threats
are as common as injuries and the
word ‘huelga’ can kill you.
But the worst part about this delicate table is the abundance of farm grown, imported, and exotic food, which
surrounds this immortal green fruit, yet the only thing people touched was the forbidden and fate sealing grape.
2)
The year is 1965.
Bunches of grapes sit tempting,
glistening in boiling blood
in supermarkets all across America.
Delano wine, part blood part sweat,
lines the shelves of every busy liquor store.
A wine so sweet, so amnesic, so tempting
to those who don’t know
of the grower’s fields, where threats are
as common as injuries and
saying the word ‘huelga’ could kill you.
Outside of markets during the day
on TV at night,
marchers, boycotters, protesters
carry signs as tattered
as a bracero’s thin shoes, and repeat their
message - a humble yet crucial plea:
“Don’t eat the grape to save a people”.
Thousands of farmworkers ask for a living wage,
basic rights, and a future where their children
can choose play over grape-picking,
school over labor.
Yet buyers continue to poke and prod the grapes
that imprison the growers.
Many drink the enemy wine,
not out of thirst, no, but out of hatred
for the immigrant workers.
What more could the farmers give?
Their hands, cracked like dry mounds of soil
their necks, beaten and bruised by the sun
their hearts, full of fear for the future.
The year was 1965,
and thousands of farmworkers
put their lives out on picket lines,
entrusting strangers,
with the hope that people would
think twice before buying the forbidden
and fate-sealing grapes.
With the hope that Delano growers,
their buyers, and the world,
would finally see and respect
The American Farmworker.
Facing The Fear Rough Draft
Before Revision
Will I fall, face first into what I fear?
Or will courage catch me when I cower-
Is it true, only the dauntless persevere?
It’s when I’m alone that the monsters reappear,
Alone with my thoughts, their growls grow louder-
Alone I fall, face first into my own fears.
Will this jungle behind my eyes ever clear?
Weeds of worry grow stronger by the hour.
I wish I was dauntless - then I could persevere.
Perhaps salvation is closer than it appears;
It’s in a crowd that I feel a sense of power,
Surrounded, I'm forced to jump into what I fear.
My heart races, yet I want to disappear.
How could what scares me also empower?
They say only the dauntless persevere.
My jungle of unease is no longer watered by tears,
And in the belly of the beast, I no longer cower.
To grow stronger, we must first face what we fear.
I am not dauntless, and yet I will persevere.
Major Decisions Rough Draft
Before Revision
Picture a place with two monarchs at war,
fire and ice destroy the land before them,
two opposites, both armed to settle scores.
Alive they claw, inside my mind - their realm.
To dream or think - only one can survive.
A love for symbolism or symbols?
Study diction or learn how to derive?
Are there multivariable metaphors?
Forget the trail, I’ll walk between them both,
create a place and open up the gate,
theories and thoughts together as I’d hoped.
Questions still asked - what is it I’ll create?
With love for literature and problem-solving…
Good thing this world is ever-evolving.
Ask A Poet Rough Draft
Before Revision
Don’t ask a meteorologist about the wind.
They’ll sigh a few words about pressure, and breeze
through scattered pages of information.
They’ll flaunt a Ph.D when you ask about degrees.
Ask a poet
and they’ll tell you that when angels whistle
love songs, their soft breath travels to Earth.
A poet will tell you that the winds only whisper
when great-grandmothers smile
and roar loudest when lonely children cry.
Don’t ask a mathematician about infinity.
They’re bound to bore with talk of limits,
(as if a place so bold could have any)
but they’ll claim that it’s no number nor place.
They don’t know
that infinity is a number of places.
It’s where people go when they first kiss,
the land of daydreams where moments hide; the place
we float through when we laugh with closed eyes.
And never ask a biologist about love.
They categorize connections into boxes and bins
dissecting the meaning of those stolen glances.
They’ll insist it’s instinct that pulls us like string,
as if it has ever been that simple.
But I know,
that love can only be defined by a poet.