Carlos Manuel Rivera is a Puerto Rican poet, performer, actor, Full Professor of Spanish at Bronx Community College, CUNY, and researcher. He won the First Prize in the International Contest of the Puerto Rican Institute of Culture, 2013 in the Essay category with the book Para que no se nos olvide. Ensayos de interpretación sobre un teatro puertorriqueño marginal (So we don’t forget: Essays of interpretation of Puerto Rican marginal theater). Among his book's publications are: Popular Theater:The New Poor Theater of America by Pedro Santaliz. (Gestos, 2005) and Soplo mágicos disparates. (Magical Non-Senses) (Orbis Press, 2003). In addition, he recorded a CD of his Spoken Words ASI MI NATION (2010). Recently, he published the book Bululú. Perfume y veneno (Bululu.Parfum and Poison) (Editora Educación Emergente, 2020).
Elegía a Luisa Ramírez Lefebre
“no asesines mis ídolos con cinismo, intolerancia, incomprensión,
burla y envidia
porque uno de ellos, eres tú”.
Luisa Ramírez Lefebre
Tengo que detenerme,
flor de maravilla,
alma de la rosa.
Que de amores
han recorrido
las alas de mi lontananza
Ave de memoria,
beduina de las algas, ¿con qué fuerza y con qué
lamento
he mirado de las sombras tus palabras?
¿Qué laberinto
de soledad
me une a tus latidos?
Aquí,
desde mi conciencia
capturo de admiraciones
nuestros porvenires infinitos.
Hada de mi ruido,
mano de mi sino,
si fuera tu adoquín adolorido
me reiría con ansias
hasta alcanzar tus adelantos.
Puerta
que me cierro,
vuélveme a exhalar
y bautízame
desde los inicios
con tus manantiales.
Vuelos de elementos giratorios,
álzame
para ser como tú
la firmeza
que como los lirios sin tropiezos
busca de su huerto
el horizonte
para calentarse.
Elegy to Luisa Ramírez Lefebre
“do not assassinate my idols with
cynicism, intolerance, incomprehension,
ridicule and envy
because one of them is you”. Luisa Ramírez Lefebre
I must pause
flower of wonder,
soul of the rose.
That of loves
have traversed
the wings of my distance.
Bird of memory,
Bedouin of the alga, with what force and with what
sorrow
I have seen the shadows of your words.
What labyrinth
of solitude
unites me with your heartbeat?
Here,
out of my conscience
I capture with admiration
our infinite destinies.
Fairy of my bellow,
hand of my fate,
if I were your suffering dunce
I would laugh with anguish
until reaching your advances.
Door
that I close on myself
exhale me again
and baptize me
from the beginnings
with your springs.
Flights of whirling elements,
lift me
to be like you
the firmness
that like lilies without obstacles
seeks of its orchard
the horizon
to warm itself.
Cercanía
“Como dulce de nudo
que se pierde en el minuto
solo bucal entre las manos”.
Carboinael Rixema
Allá más lejos
que este desierto
donde se ata el nudo de serpiente
nos encontramos una vez a la semana
y nos perdemos de nieve
como el erizo presente que ríe por la diana.
Allá en aquel instante,
cual abejas
marcan los segundos,
tu moho enaltece las paredes
e imagina rocíos
como silencio de huecos
que relatan los heraldos.
Allá más que de pasos,
pan de nubes,
sólo aquietamos espaldas
y el terco humor
se nos vacía
hasta llorar de apolos
sin palabras.
Allá no muestran
ruedos sin límites de pajas
rasgando el himno,
mientras soñoliento
navego como lámpara callado
entre salivas.
Allá vierto mis pasos;
muevo pínceles
a tu ceniza.
Allá no más me siento
con cejas de caracoles
que nutren y soplan
nuestros porvenires.
Allá con sal de cárceles,
máquinas amplias, espérame
hasta que el círculo cuadrado
nos amontone.
¡Fiebre de lluvia!
¡Seca fragancia!
Aquí no me sencillees,
tienta mi sombra
cuando el pétalo se consuma,
cielo sin lamentos
al misterio incesante de la ausencia.
Nearness
“Like a twisted sweetness
that is lost in the minute
alone oral between the hands”.
Carboinael Rixema
There, more distant
than this desert
where the serpentine knot is tied
we find ourselves once a week
and we lose ourselves in snow
like the present sea urchin that laughs at the reveille.
There, in that instant,
as bees
counting the seconds,
your mold extols the walls
and imagines the dew
like silence of voids
that the heralds recount.
There, more than of footsteps,
pan of the clouds,
we only sooth backs
and the stubborn mood
empties itself
until it cries like apollos
without words.
There, they do not show
limitless borders of straw
ripping the hymn,
while lazily
I navigate like a lamp silenced
between salivas.
There, I shed my steps;
I move paintbrushes
to your ashes.
There, only there I sit
with brows of snails
that nurture and inflate
our futures.
There, with the salt of prisons,
ample machines, wait for me
until the rectangular circle
heaps us up.
Fever of rain!
Dry fragrance!
Here, do not make me simple,
probe my shadow
when the petal consumes itself,
heaven without regrets
for the incessant mystery of absence.
A BORICUA SINGS FOR
THE CHILANGO WARRIOR GÜERO
To Arturo Aldama
Warrior's Body in the desert.
Runs away…
Runs away…
Grounds, walks
on nopales
of the borders.
He doesn’t know
about speed,
cross the border
and his northern
goes away
runs away
runa güey…
This Blondie Warrior
doesn’t have word,
his tongue
was cut
by enemies
unknown of silences.
But he runs
a way,
runs away ,
a way
freeway,
pinche güey,
way,
rum pinche,
wait Ron,
Güerón.
His moving
Hyphen confusion,
highway.
He doesn’t matter
the borders
no coffee is drinking.
The Indian girl
is not making it.
Borden,
borde,
front era,
run away,
Güey,
a way,
rum,
El pinche ron boricua güey…
The tequila,
runs away,
Ron
run,
a way,
pinche güey,
Taíno,
run away,
Azteca,
Bor-tera,
Bandera,
away,
güey,
way,
run,
rum,
Ron.
I know I am Boricua
and before I was
a pinche güey.
A boricua,
runs away.