April 2015
As a farm worker kid I roamed small towns and ranches until the Civil Rights movement of the 60's launched me onto the political poetry, theatre and speaking stage. I write in as many styles as possible - the more people I can reach, the better.I have written thirty books in various genres - poetry, children’s books and young adult novels. My latest book, Portraits of Hispanic American Heroes is a non-fiction project. I also write plays and musicals for young audiences. I currently teach at UC-Riverside, poetry of course. I served as Poet Laureate of California from 2012-2014.
Canada in English
Mrs. Tinko says Canada.
She says Ontario. Canadá – I whisper in Spanish.
Canadá - say to myself in the back row.
Next to Sammy
who inks a skull into his hand. Between
his thumb and his finger. I squint
at the chalkboard English. A greenish sea.
A tidal wave that floods me
with strange curled words. Can’t read.
I say Canadá . My mouth opens as if
to bite a stolen apple. Then my face hardens again.
I want to raise my hand. My arm is an iron plank.
Fingers are rivets. My blood is electric.
I whisper Canadá.
Only to myself. In Spanish.
When no one is watching.
When no one is listening. I write Canadá
on the inside of my hand. Look up
to the tidal wave, you gotta look up, César,
I talk to myself like Mama Lucy.
Is Denver by Canadá?
When I left México as a kid, alone, Papi used to say,
I jumped off the train in El Norte, in Denver.
Learned English in the snow. Then he’d laugh.
“A penny for each word.” He said.
“That’s how I learned.”
How do you say lápiz in English?
Pencil. Ah, pencil.
How do you say leche in English?
Milk, Ah, milk.
How about cielo?
Sky. Ah, sky.
Three words for
three pennies.
I look at the watery map
by the limp flag. Wonder.
about my father. His other family. Look
without words in English. Squint without
words in Spanish.
Sammy elbows me and laughs
at my right hand. Canadá is for sissies, César.
Skulls – are for us.
-from Crashboomlove. University of New Mexico Press.
Mrs. Tinko says Canada.
She says Ontario. Canadá – I whisper in Spanish.
Canadá - say to myself in the back row.
Next to Sammy
who inks a skull into his hand. Between
his thumb and his finger. I squint
at the chalkboard English. A greenish sea.
A tidal wave that floods me
with strange curled words. Can’t read.
I say Canadá . My mouth opens as if
to bite a stolen apple. Then my face hardens again.
I want to raise my hand. My arm is an iron plank.
Fingers are rivets. My blood is electric.
I whisper Canadá.
Only to myself. In Spanish.
When no one is watching.
When no one is listening. I write Canadá
on the inside of my hand. Look up
to the tidal wave, you gotta look up, César,
I talk to myself like Mama Lucy.
Is Denver by Canadá?
When I left México as a kid, alone, Papi used to say,
I jumped off the train in El Norte, in Denver.
Learned English in the snow. Then he’d laugh.
“A penny for each word.” He said.
“That’s how I learned.”
How do you say lápiz in English?
Pencil. Ah, pencil.
How do you say leche in English?
Milk, Ah, milk.
How about cielo?
Sky. Ah, sky.
Three words for
three pennies.
I look at the watery map
by the limp flag. Wonder.
about my father. His other family. Look
without words in English. Squint without
words in Spanish.
Sammy elbows me and laughs
at my right hand. Canadá is for sissies, César.
Skulls – are for us.
-from Crashboomlove. University of New Mexico Press.
©2015 Juan Felipe Herrera