in a city of drumbeats

the drum dream girl

dreamed

 

of pounding tall conga drums

tapping small bongó drums

and boom boom booming

with long, loud sticks

on bit, round, silvery

moon-bright timbales.

 

But everyone

on the island of music

in the city of drumbeats

believed that only boys

should play drums

 

so the drum dream girl

had to keep dreaming

quiet

secret

drumbeat

dreams.

 

At outdoor cafés that looked like gardens

she heard drums played by men

but when she closed her eyes

she could also hear

her own imaginary

music.

 

When she walked under

wind-wavy palm trees

in a flower-bright park

she heard the whir of parrot wings

the clack of woodpecker beaks

the dancing tap

of her own footsteps

and the comforting pat

of her own

heartbeat.

 

At carnivals, she listened

to the rattling beat

of towering

dancers

on stilts

 

and the dragon clang

of costumed drummers

wearing huge masks.

 

At home, her fingertips

rolled out their own

dreamy drum rhythm

on tables and chairs…

 

and even though everyone

kept reminding her that girls

on the island of music

have never played drums

 

the brave drum dream girl

dared to play

tall conga drums

small bongó drums

and big, round, silvery

moon-bright timbales.

 

Her hands seemed to fly

as they rippled

rapped

and pounded

all the rhythms

of her drum dreams.

 

Her big sisters were so excited

that they invited her to join

their new all-girl dance band

 

but their father said only boys

should play drums.

 

So the drum dream girl

had to keep dreaming

and drumming

alone

 

until finally

her father offered

to find a music teacher

who could decide if her drums

deserved

to be heard.

 

The drum dream girl’s

teacher was amazed.

The girl knew so much

but he taught her more

and more

and more

 

and she practiced

and she practiced

and she practiced

 

until the teacher agreed

that she was ready

to play her small bongó drums

outdoors at a starlit café

that looked like a garden

 

where everyone who heard

her dream-bright music

sang

and danced

and decided

that girls should always

be allowed to play

drums

 

and both girls and boys

should feel free

to dream.

BY FRANCISCO X. ALARCÓN

some say

I'm now almost

extinct in this park

but the people

who say this

don't know

that by smelling

the orchids

in the trees

they're sensing

the fragrance

of my chops

that by hearing

the rumbling

of the waterfalls

they're listening

to my ancestors'

great roar

that by observing

the constellations

of the night sky

they're gazing

at the star spots

on my fur

that I am and

always will be

the wild

untamed

living spirit

of this jungle

Francisco X. Alarcon, "Jaguar" from Animal Poems of the Iguazu. Copyright © 2008 by Francisco X. Alarcon.  Reprinted by permission of Lee & Low Books.
 

Source: Animal Poems of the Iguazú (Lew & Low Books, 2008)

I love your lips when they’re wet with wine 

And red with a wild desire; 

I love your eyes when the lovelight lies 

Lit with a passionate fire. 

I love your arms when the warm white flesh 

Touches mine in a fond embrace; 

I love your hair when the strands enmesh 

Your kisses against my face. 

Not for me the cold, calm kiss 

Of a virgin’s bloodless love; 

Not for me the saint’s white bliss, 

Nor the heart of a spotless dove. 

But give me the love that so freely gives 

And laughs at the whole world’s blame, 

With your body so young and warm in my arms, 

It sets my poor heart aflame. 

So kiss me sweet with your warm wet mouth, 

Still fragrant with ruby wine, 

And say with a fervor born of the South 

That your body and soul are mine. 

Clasp me close in your warm young arms, 

While the pale stars shine above, 

And we’ll live our whole young lives away 

In the joys of a living love. 

 

                              Guilty of dust and sin.

But quick-eyed Love, observing me grow slack 

                             From my first entrance in,

Drew nearer to me, sweetly questioning,

                             If I lacked any thing.

 

A guest, I answered, worthy to be here:

                             Love said, You shall be he.

I the unkind, ungrateful? Ah my dear,

                             I cannot look on thee.

Love took my hand, and smiling did reply,

                             Who made the eyes but I?

 

Truth Lord, but I have marred them: let my shame

                             Go where it doth deserve.

And know you not, says Love, who bore the blame?

                             My dear, then I will serve.

You must sit down, says Love, and taste my meat:

                             So I did sit and eat.

Spawning snow and pink roses against it

Soundlessly collateral and incompatible:

World is suddener than we fancy it.

World is crazier and more of it than we think,

Incorrigibly plural. I peel and portion

A tangerine and spit the pips and feel

The drunkenness of things being various.

And the fire flames with a bubbling sound for world

Is more spiteful and gay than one supposes— 

On the tongue on the eyes on the ears in the palms of one's hands—

There is more than glass between the snow and the huge roses.

Supremely ironic, lighting fires,

Laying golden eggs in the midst of squalor,

Its outer garments, in the latest version,

Sumptuous, its linens more than shoddy,

Drunk, moreover, at a seedy party

The discriminating shunned, and, later, bawdy

In a run-down neighborhood, with whores and sailors

Chosen as companions while the queen went needy.

Now that everything about it is known,

Why does it come up purple or threadbare,

Thrashing all its sunsets in a fit of pique,

Or stripped, in the seamiest hayloft, ready

To repeat dull anecdotes the millionth time,

Its poise unquestionable, its voice unsteady?

It is brilliant, androgynous, and stultifying

With its threats and tears, dissembling always

Its mad obsession with the blurred distinction.

And yet who else

Is so elementary and badly needed

That fifty cultures rise at the merest rumor

Of its presence, and, finally, punctually fall

Whenever it departs, as if on schedule?

Interviewed, Monday, in the city dump,

Which turned, by magic, into a hotel tower,

Shedding poems and paintings for its bath

(It takes ten centuries of running water

To wash it clean), it then emerged, all dirty

Again, in a costume of ferocious splendor,

A hat some milliner in old Vienna

Sweated over, its pumps exchanged for sneakers,

And raced across the city, breaking records,

Just to prove its powers of endurance.

It lies down anywhere, and loves the country,

But is so unassuming it can even flourish

Beneath electric signs and in railroad stations

It goes to for the summer, estivating,

It says, near fountains that escape our notice,

And comes back in the fall, its ribbons flying,

Wheeling through the leaves, singing all the voices

Of every opera in the repertoire

Plus one no one has ever dreamed of writing.

Going about its gigantic business,

It masks itself as any shape or hope,

Appearing as a vicious telephone call,

Or a flat, disturbing message in an envelope.

It praises calmness but adores upheaval,

Is most to be desired when it apes composure,

And much to be distrusted when it boasts it has

The only fingerprint that can be changed at will.

And red with a wild desire; 

I love your eyes when the lovelight lies 

Lit with a passionate fire. 

I love your arms when the warm white flesh 

Touches mine in a fond embrace; 

I love your hair when the strands enmesh 

Your kisses against my face. 

Not for me the cold, calm kiss 

Of a virgin’s bloodless love; 

Not for me the saint’s white bliss, 

Nor the heart of a spotless dove. 

But give me the love that so freely gives 

And laughs at the whole world’s blame, 

With your body so young and warm in my arms, 

It sets my poor heart aflame. 

So kiss me sweet with your warm wet mouth, 

Still fragrant with ruby wine, 

And say with a fervor born of the South 

That your body and soul are mine. 

Clasp me close in your warm young arms, 

While the pale stars shine above, 

And we’ll live our whole young lives away 

In the joys of a living love.