Yo soy nicoya
con mis memorias
te contare la historia
de mi gente
trabajadora y decente
que lleva en la mente
siempre ir hacia al frente

Muchos pinoleros
dejaron nuestra tierra
buscando la manera
de brillar en su carrera
otros huyeron de la Guerra
y la miseria
refugieándose bajo la bandera
de las barras y las estrellas
tratando de olvidar todas sus tragedias

Aunque digan que estoy loco
que me patina el coco
yo no me desenfoco
y sigo poco a poco
tu conciencia te toco
por eso yo te pido no dejes
en el olvido a tu suelo querido

No importa la posición social
aquí todos debemos ser igual
que si estoy lleno de cal
o si visto traje casual
si me baño en un manantial
o solo tengo agua de sal
hoy busco lo que es real

y salirme del mundo artificial
una nueva vida comenzar
sin olvidar ningún familiar
en aquel hogar que deje atras

Recuerdo los amigos, la familía,
los besos en la mejilla
los paseos con mi tía
y hasta la vende tortilla
los juegos en armonía
seguido por una dulce sandia
y mis padres pensando en el pan de cada día
preocupados por el trabajo y el dolor en las costillas
asi pasaron tres años entre sueños y pesadillas

La corrupción y la traición
agarrados de la mano acaban con mi nación
los presidentes creen que la gente son sus juguetes
y llenan su expediente de engaño hacia los creyentes
entonces miro a los niños inocentes que viven como indigentes
no tienen ropa decente, bien sucio de la frente y algunos hasta sin dientes

Los poderosos hablan de sinceridad
para ganar mas popularidad
pero al hora de la verdad
se olvidan de la realidad
aunque en nuestra actualidad
no es ninguna casualidad
que el pueblo supero cualquier calamidad
pues estamos llenos de amabilidad
y poniendo aparte toda la maldad
tenemos la seguridad
que nuestro trabajo es de calidad
y con toda tranquilidad
forjaremos una tierra de estabilidad

History

I am Nicoya
from my memories
I’ll tell you the history
of my people
hard-working and decent
who knew how to keep moving forward

Many pinoleros
left our land
seeking a way
to succeed in their careers
Others fled war
and misery
found refuge under
the star-spangled banner
and tried to forget their tragedies

Even if they say I’m crazy
that I have a screw loose
I don’t loose focus
I keep on, little by little
Your conscience I reach
That’s why I ask,
don’t forget your beloved foundation

Social position doesn’t matter
Here everyone is equal
If I’m covered in soot
or dressed in business casual
If I bathe in a tiled shower
or only have salt water
Today I seek what is real

I step away from the artificial world
A new life begins
without forgetting my family
or the home I left behind

I remember friends and family
kisses on cheek
the outing with my aunt
Even the tortilla stand
and the games played in harmony

Followed by sweet watermelon
while my parents thought about our daily bread
preoccupied with their jobs and the pain in their ribs
Like this they spent three years between dreams and nightmares

Corruption and treason
hold hands to undo my nation
Presidents think the people are toys
and fill their speeches with deceit towards the believers
Then I see innocent children who live like beggars
They don’t have decent clothes, their foreheads are dirty, some without teeth

The powerful speak of sincerity
to gain more popularity
But in the hour of truth
they forget reality
In actuality
it’s not a casualty
that our people survive all calamities

We are full of humanity
And putting aside all cruelty
we can be confident
that our job is quality
And with some tranquility
we will achieve stability.

– Jorge Aburto

This poem is featured in the exhibition This Place Called Poetry.

I am Lateefah
      a woman, a mother
      a survivor of my experiences.

I am a believer
     of GOD, of miracles,
     of picket fences and little league games.

I am insightful
     able to look at and analyze
     my prejudices, my troubles,
     my world.

I am everything that they don’t want me to be.

I am working, I’m articulate
I love books, I watch the news.
I am able to prove them wrong.
I am smart.
I am Black.
     I am Black, I am Black

I am struggling,
     hungry at times
     striving for my own space.

I am a winner who continues to lose.

– Lateefah Simon

This poem is featured in the exhibition This Place Called Poetry.

I know style
I am style
I was born around style
So go on, get your surround sound
and listen up
I’m about to tell you the truth
It’s not that you got to listen to me
You got to listen to the things that you read
Take the truth
From what you don’t see
Call me your third eye
I’ll never show you a lie
Freedom is what you make it
It lives in a man’s pride
I live everyday to die
That’s my style
Now let me show you how
I said freedom lives in a man’s pride
So if I kill my pride, everyday,
You’ll never take me alive
You can attack my flesh
But my soul will survive
And hit you like the idiot’s guide to chess.

– Dubb

This poem is featured in the exhibition This Place Called Poetry.

Praise my window bringing in morning light
And the click of the door when I open it
Praise my soft pillow
The radio with its chime of voices to help me wake up
Praise the cup of tea
The warmth heating the palms of my hands

Praise the silence
My mother’s chatter on the phone
Praise the music
Filling up my room with sound

Praise the cookie jar
A solid holder of sweets
The sky with shifting clouds
And the package from a place far away
Finally landing by the door

After the day is done
And the doors are closed shut
After my mother and I eat dinner
After I read on my bed until I close my eyes
Praise comes for another day

– Annie Yu

This poem is featured in the exhibition This Place Called Poetry.

i can’t give you that poem, the one about
love being the most valuable thing in the world
the poem with clever similes sprinkled through it
an ingenious rhyme for the word “cupid”.

i can’t give you that poem, the one about
a modern day hamlet as soldier
and claudius as his corrupt general.

i can’t give you that poem, the one about
a butterfly and its complex simplicity,
the one that makes me famous.

i can’t give you that poem, the one about
the electric chair that washes up on the beach
the one that people misunderstand and
conclude that it’s about overthrowing the government.

nevertheless
one of the attack dogs guarding the junkyard
has six puppies outside the gate.

– Robin Black

From the WritersCorps anthology “Tell the World,” published by HarperCollins. This poem is also featured in the exhibition This Place Called Poetry.

Poem of the Month: September 2008