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Ten Women Poets On Being Nuyorican: Part Two
Ysabel Y. Gonzalez I first started sharing my work in college at Rutgers University. I specifically remember a student reading in 2001, right after 9/11, where I first read one of my poems aloud. I'm first generation born in the states, with my mom being raised between Cayey and Chicago; and my dad being born in Guanica and raised in the South Bronx. My parents were Aspirantes, and naturally, I...
Neither from Here nor There: A Transfiguring American Genre
"I am the link between the shores, […] I am what joins your left hand to your right. I join the world of the living and the world of the spirits. I join the past with the present." —Ella from Free Enterprise by Michelle Cliff In a patriarchal society regardless of race, culture and language women inhabit a borderland. So that not only is it an act of transgression to cross its boundaries but...
On Belonging to the Nuyorican Literary Movement
If I was asked whether as a poet I belong to the Nuyorican literary movement or not, my answer to that question is: yes and no. Most of the persons that make up that movement were born and/or raised in New York City. I was born in Puerto Rico but migrated to New York during the early 1970’s; therefore I have been living here longer than in Puerto Rico and, in that respect, I belong to the...
This Black Mass of Hair is Revolution
This Black Mass of Hair is Revolution The soldiers are coming to Recovering from that Negro-ism Recovering from stolen truths Recovering from fire chemicals Scorching roots of the motherland This black mass of hair is revolution Soldier hold tight to the afro pic in holster When they fire bullets Of gray-haired tales of too nappy Pull out your weapon - start pickin' Block blows with the flare of...
This One Bowl (A Zuihitsu)
This One Bowl (A Zuihitsu) This is the beginning of sadness (B.Collins) This one bowl Home to small bites Saltless stews And purees of the oldest kind It is the new black For the silver streaked Shriveled and parched Like summer hot dogs Left out to cool in picnic trays Last night In honor of me A liquefying celebration Three faces India, Negra, Española Busied themselves One recipe, one whisk...
Abuelita’s Kitchen
Abuelita's Kitchen Smells like the mixing of sugar, honey, milk. Like Abuelita’s kitchen. She wasn’t the greatest of cooks, But I loved watching. Her soft, fleshy hands, Red polished fingernails, preparing meals. Humming melodies, accompanied by a much too loud television show. She never asked me for help. I was too involved in watching to offer. She use to call me “linda”, Said I was beautiful,...
Cleanse
Cleanse I will remove just slept in sheets, I will wash them, I will dust, sweep, mop, burn sage, Remove your leftover energy. I will bathe with intention, wash away the traces of your caresses from my skin. Remembering the rare moments when we were truly present. When we were laughter,shared breaths. One day I will barely remember you at all. You presented your indifference wrapped with kisses...
HISTORY
HISTORY She is a living record of what can’t be found in history books. Not even the most skilled artist can capture the layers of life that she wears on her face like armor. Each crease, sculpted by the love for her children. No nip and tuck to help erase the bitter winters that pierced through her skin like daggers. Or the nights she laid her head against bare floors that bore blisters on her...
ROOTS
ROOTS I carry history in my hair. Generations of thick tangled tresses colored with shame at the roots. Stripped, dyed, burned, fried trying unsuccessfully to alter its DNA. Since birth, my hair has danced violently to a beat of its own. Tautly twined coils stretched like the goatskin that cover djembe drums each lock relentlessly rebelling. Defiant like sugar cane trying to make its way through...
TO THE BEAT OF THE DRUM
TO THE BEAT OF THE DRUM I was born to the beat of the drum in the wilds of Nigeria to Yoruba swaying hips where my lineage began. Warrior woman like Anacaona or Yuisa Taino cacique descendent of Queens though many would have me believe otherwise. As if I can ever deny the ran kan kan rhythm of Tito or the sweet azúcar of Celia that runs through my veins life inducing spirituals sung in foreign...

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