Carlos Manuel Rivera



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.




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