One of the joys of this country is its diversity. Except for a few, we are all immigrants, whether newly arrived, or in families long established. We have countless languages and cultures, cuisines and customs, that come together in what should be glorious harmony. Sadly, some among us choose to divide and exclude. In honor of our diversity, today’s poem, by María José Zubieta, appears in English translation, followed by its Spanish original. All our voices, in whatever language, will be heard in these #100Days100Poems.
The Angel I walked down Fifth Avenue in this raucous city full of tourists that incessantly come and go. Street lamps were on. Holiday decorations became more noticeable as night fell. I was surrounded by people walking in the same direction absorbed, amazed at so much luxury. The light around us made their faces look ghostly. These people surely believed -and still believe- in this land's hospitality. They know nothing. I'm not a tourist here and I know well how cruel the Big Apple can be. This apple is a triangle like the Bermuda Triangle where we inadvertently lose our identity. Then I saw her smiling peacefully as I imagine angels smile. Completely alone in her determination. Her sign a powerful instrument. I was struck by an arrow of joy startled out of my stupor. I read her sign out loud: "Not My President" and started to chant with her. We looked at each other and smiled united in the chant united in the condemnation of the dirty trick of which we are victims of this fallacy they call democracy.
El ángel Caminaba por la Quinta Avenida de esta ciudad estrepitosa llena de turistas que vienen y van incesantemente. Las farolas prendidas las decoraciones navideñas se hacían más notorias al caer la noche. Estaba rodeada de personas que caminaban en la misma dirección ensimismadas, asombradas con tanto lujo. La luz que nos rodeaba hacía que sus rotros se vieran fantasmagóricos. Esta gente seguro creía –y sigue creyendo- en la hospitalidad de estas tierras. Nada saben. Yo no soy turista y sé bien cuán cruel puede ser la Gran Manzana. Esta manzana es un triángulo como el Triángulo de las Bermudas donde perdemos nuestra identidad involuntariamente. Entonces la vi sonriendo, pacífica como imagino a los ángeles. Completamente sola en su determinación. Su cartel un instrumento poderoso. Una flecha de alegría me atravesó me despertó del estupor. Leí su cartel en voz alta: “Not My President” Y comencé a cantar con ella. Nos miramos y sonreímos unidas en el canto unidas en el repudio de la artimaña de la que somos víctimas de esta falacia que llaman democracia.
© María José Zubieta – 2017
You can find María on Twitter: @majozub
For the first 100 days of the Trumpet administration, this blog will feature a new poem of protest, by my own hand and by others. They will be polished gems, or rough cut drafts of rage, or in process pieces searching for peace. They may be haiku or tanka, limericks or lyrics, verses free or fettered. If you would like to submit to this endeavor, please send an email, with poem saved as a word document (.docx) to waxyandpoetic AT gmail DOT com. All rights remain with the author. VISUAL ARTISTS ! Do you have something visually poetic that you’d like to submit? GO FOR IT!
Please address any formatting preferences in your email. I will post submissions time permitting, with at least one per day. Editing will be limited to obvious errors of spelling and the like.
Read, follow, share, re-tweet, submit, live, love, spread light! Don’t forget to use #100Days100Poems !