February 19, 1992, La Voz de Aztlan Page 3 |
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a Voz do Aztl
Untitled
-Jesse Ale-nan
it's shattered
the glass in the picture frame
is shattered,
but nights changer and fear
are long since gone
and you and i will sleep
Ukelovers
again. •
Poetry
requiem for a rocket
-Daniel Chacon
Aztlan
The poor are many
and for that reason
ifs impossible to forget them.
Surely
they tee
each morning
the tall buildings
where they'd
like to live with their children.
They can
carry on their shoulders *** ' .
the coffin of a star.
Theycan
destroy the air like birds of pray,
and blot the sun out
But unaware of their treasures
they come and go through mirrors of blood;
they walk and die slowly.
Listen inasin
Starring At My Botas
—EdvardoT. Perez
Taking turns to strut,
My black botas speak loudly.
and in winning
wefccgive , ' * _
rivals in their sins
of commisions;
it is harder to forgive
the ones we fight for
anddiewith
than those we fight
listen
to my apology
forgive my innocent sin
of omission
sitting at my desk
looking into sky
and pale sun
watching white birds
choke "
on dark marks of factories
fueled by sweat
Of beautiful stallion taps.
They gallop xx\ parade streets.
Solid! Rough! yet Gentle, Soft,
Broken wrinkled lea ther
Cusions the ground beneath.
In the lowest of snowing frost,
The sun lives inside them.
In the collection of pouring tears
From the heavens above.
They are Olympic swimmers.
Yes. they stand proud
Above all others "-£&
who praise their pedestal.
They always win my gratitude.
Yes, they are a happy couple,
But today I play tennis.
Thaf s why
rrom me laces ot my cousins.
if s impossible to forget them.
!
Lobos De La Vina
Tonight
—Henry Gutierrez
The gate* will sleep
Picking the eyes of a dog as
1 t
they dream, I can imagine their hate.
Yo ptsco lobos de la vina—
In the rose garden, where I
Myself: 111 ait and watch the spider.
J*** up-
cause Lorna Dee asked me to. I might
On the grounds of San Joaquin.
find the answer...if 1 think real hard.
Where the birds and spiders
1
play in the mist
5
r /
Dawn has come and still no due,
2
No due as to where the great warrior
In the distance mi abuelito
of gypsy lands finds the power to sur/ive.
hurls mounds of dirt mom his shoveL
His skin is bronze, like the
But I must stop and ask myself—Will the
was, i lor that he is—flghtlng,
buffalos and butterflies still
darscing-laughing
fly and cry when he's gone
Fighting my way through figs,
6
\
I meet with the man who raised me.
Ncm*aslp4ckwc4vwfromti\evine.
jTogetl*«wewatchtrjelnxffalosfly
and the butterflies cry
They banc with horror.
And the rose petals pad my feet
And I wonder.
In the distance, the rmst provides a
3 v
vivid memory of the warrior with skin
Mi abuelito b like the gypsy-
of bronze.
wandering in the night
He can see me future, as if I
Later that night a soft voice spoke to
were too Wind to see. As if the horses
me- v
were going to tell a soul.
"Apagalahizmejor
Let the doves sing you a song
So i must find out for myself: Find
The lobos are all gone now, the lobos
trie strength and wisdom that will turn
are alt gone.
my skin bronze, and allow my eyes to
/**"
pierce and plow through the fields.
The fig tree casts a shadow in my room.
Trie gates lay auent, I pretend not to
For now, I can only atand and watch.
Pouria-tf aaKlaaokfc-g, pmamg ami
6w4 ff_# huVitf jrf lh_> hJmIii
^
anoidmg. {-toping! wffi wake up to see
As tate beads Of sweat ran down my arm,
hbn in the narroc.
"Do act worry Qeafca, tu y yo semos
4
urtejM**sojtrr%.
lay Ufacanonly baa faw drop
in ais eye, as ne stands where the
7
•
Ka*astiJ-«|k..iatnsdowaoa*iaaaariietL
And I wonder.
^
^- - Beauty Sleep
—Teresa Navarro
In my dreams
friends read poems.
I love to hearth
Their sounds strum through the air,
leading me out of this ash filled city
to a place of adventures—
Where brown eagles clutch red
with their long while daws.
Waniois beat drums to their god,
sacrificing me. I don't mind
1 know 1 will continue to live
when my body dies
And they will keep the faith.
P-srf/y ana eulwork stdtna&ums ere now
being mccepttdfor the not issue end
may be dropped off m the la Voz section
at the DmOyCotltgiMn's office.
the rains have left and ernesto is
dead
for trtfO
-Andres Montoya
the rains have left
and the air if.hot this day.
in between,
the rows of vines
on i dog
and his worms.
today to rustle the grape
leaves or to cool -
the dry pocked faces
of prostitutes
around the villa motd.
there is only this season
andthisnight
to breed anger
in the empty stomachs of children
a car passes on the road in front of my porch
and >
whips dust in swirls and again
the smell of sulfer
catches my nose by surprise
so long, it seems, i've been - '
in this valley, off the 99,
watching the children play in this dust,
watching mothers cry
out to god for justice for peace for death, ►* . .
watching the honda dvks passing by, passing
through,
never stopping on this side, this scary side this
violent side
this side of mispent anger.
yes, ifs warm on this side
and even swamp coolers can only
make me sweat more, from my porch- "*"
i can see three campesinos walking into
town, covered in dust and i wonder if their
children will be deformed
or maybe they will die soon,
leaving the fields to no one
but the fanners.
the sparrows have been frightened
from the dog by the three,
but they will return .
to pick from his flesh
what they can.
Chicano Writers Artists *AssoCs**tt*on
# '
C.W.A.A.
Poetry Reading
7:00 p.m.
USU 312
Read your own
poems, listen to
others, and enjoy!
Object Description
| Title | 1992_02 The Daily Collegian February 1992 |
| Alternative Title | Daily Collegian (California State University, Fresno) |
| Publisher | Associated Students of Fresno State, Fresno, Calif. |
| Publication Date | 1992 |
| Description | Daily (except weedends) during the school year. Microfilm. Palo Alto, Calif.: BMI Library Microfilms, 1986- microfilm reels; 35 mm. Vol.1, no.1 (Feb 8, 1922)- |
| Subject | California State University, Fresno -- Periodicals. |
| Contributors | Associated Students of Fresno State. |
| Coverage | Vol.1 no.1 (Feb 8, 1922)- to present |
| Format | Microfilm reels, 35 mm. |
| Technical Information | Scanned at 600 dpi; TIFF; Microfilm ScanPro 2000 "E-image data" |
| Language | eng |
Description
| Title | February 19, 1992, La Voz de Aztlan Page 3 |
| Alternative Title | Daily Collegian (California State University, Fresno) |
| Publisher | Associated Students of Fresno State, Fresno, Calif. |
| Publication Date | 1992 |
| Description | Daily (except weedends) during the school year. Microfilm. Palo Alto, Calif.: BMI Library Microfilms, 1986- microfilm reels; 35 mm. Vol.1, no.1 (Feb 8, 1922)- |
| Subject | California State University, Fresno -- Periodicals. |
| Contributors | Associated Students of Fresno State. |
| Coverage | Vol.1 no.1 (Feb 8, 1922)- to present |
| Format | Microfilm reels, 35 mm. |
| Technical Information | Scanned at 600 dpi; TIFF; Microfilm ScanPro 2000 "E-image data" |
| Language | eng |
| Full-Text-Search | a Voz do Aztl Untitled -Jesse Ale-nan it's shattered the glass in the picture frame is shattered, but nights changer and fear are long since gone and you and i will sleep Ukelovers again. • Poetry requiem for a rocket -Daniel Chacon Aztlan The poor are many and for that reason ifs impossible to forget them. Surely they tee each morning the tall buildings where they'd like to live with their children. They can carry on their shoulders *** ' . the coffin of a star. Theycan destroy the air like birds of pray, and blot the sun out But unaware of their treasures they come and go through mirrors of blood; they walk and die slowly. Listen inasin Starring At My Botas —EdvardoT. Perez Taking turns to strut, My black botas speak loudly. and in winning wefccgive , ' * _ rivals in their sins of commisions; it is harder to forgive the ones we fight for anddiewith than those we fight listen to my apology forgive my innocent sin of omission sitting at my desk looking into sky and pale sun watching white birds choke " on dark marks of factories fueled by sweat Of beautiful stallion taps. They gallop xx\ parade streets. Solid! Rough! yet Gentle, Soft, Broken wrinkled lea ther Cusions the ground beneath. In the lowest of snowing frost, The sun lives inside them. In the collection of pouring tears From the heavens above. They are Olympic swimmers. Yes. they stand proud Above all others "-£& who praise their pedestal. They always win my gratitude. Yes, they are a happy couple, But today I play tennis. Thaf s why rrom me laces ot my cousins. if s impossible to forget them. ! Lobos De La Vina Tonight —Henry Gutierrez The gate* will sleep Picking the eyes of a dog as 1 t they dream, I can imagine their hate. Yo ptsco lobos de la vina— In the rose garden, where I Myself: 111 ait and watch the spider. J*** up- cause Lorna Dee asked me to. I might On the grounds of San Joaquin. find the answer...if 1 think real hard. Where the birds and spiders 1 play in the mist 5 r / Dawn has come and still no due, 2 No due as to where the great warrior In the distance mi abuelito of gypsy lands finds the power to sur/ive. hurls mounds of dirt mom his shoveL His skin is bronze, like the But I must stop and ask myself—Will the was, i lor that he is—flghtlng, buffalos and butterflies still darscing-laughing fly and cry when he's gone Fighting my way through figs, 6 \ I meet with the man who raised me. Ncm*aslp4ckwc4vwfromti\evine. jTogetl*«wewatchtrjelnxffalosfly and the butterflies cry They banc with horror. And the rose petals pad my feet And I wonder. In the distance, the rmst provides a 3 v vivid memory of the warrior with skin Mi abuelito b like the gypsy- of bronze. wandering in the night He can see me future, as if I Later that night a soft voice spoke to were too Wind to see. As if the horses me- v were going to tell a soul. "Apagalahizmejor Let the doves sing you a song So i must find out for myself: Find The lobos are all gone now, the lobos trie strength and wisdom that will turn are alt gone. my skin bronze, and allow my eyes to /**" pierce and plow through the fields. The fig tree casts a shadow in my room. Trie gates lay auent, I pretend not to For now, I can only atand and watch. Pouria-tf aaKlaaokfc-g, pmamg ami 6w4 ff_# huVitf jrf lh_> hJmIii ^ anoidmg. {-toping! wffi wake up to see As tate beads Of sweat ran down my arm, hbn in the narroc. "Do act worry Qeafca, tu y yo semos 4 urtejM**sojtrr%. lay Ufacanonly baa faw drop in ais eye, as ne stands where the 7 • Ka*astiJ-«|k..iatnsdowaoa*iaaaariietL And I wonder. ^ ^- - Beauty Sleep —Teresa Navarro In my dreams friends read poems. I love to hearth Their sounds strum through the air, leading me out of this ash filled city to a place of adventures— Where brown eagles clutch red with their long while daws. Waniois beat drums to their god, sacrificing me. I don't mind 1 know 1 will continue to live when my body dies And they will keep the faith. P-srf/y ana eulwork stdtna&ums ere now being mccepttdfor the not issue end may be dropped off m the la Voz section at the DmOyCotltgiMn's office. the rains have left and ernesto is dead for trtfO -Andres Montoya the rains have left and the air if.hot this day. in between, the rows of vines on i dog and his worms. today to rustle the grape leaves or to cool - the dry pocked faces of prostitutes around the villa motd. there is only this season andthisnight to breed anger in the empty stomachs of children a car passes on the road in front of my porch and > whips dust in swirls and again the smell of sulfer catches my nose by surprise so long, it seems, i've been - ' in this valley, off the 99, watching the children play in this dust, watching mothers cry out to god for justice for peace for death, ►* . . watching the honda dvks passing by, passing through, never stopping on this side, this scary side this violent side this side of mispent anger. yes, ifs warm on this side and even swamp coolers can only make me sweat more, from my porch- "*" i can see three campesinos walking into town, covered in dust and i wonder if their children will be deformed or maybe they will die soon, leaving the fields to no one but the fanners. the sparrows have been frightened from the dog by the three, but they will return . to pick from his flesh what they can. Chicano Writers Artists *AssoCs**tt*on # ' C.W.A.A. Poetry Reading 7:00 p.m. USU 312 Read your own poems, listen to others, and enjoy! |
