Tuesday, December 25, 2012

Joder en américa, un poema

            Joder en américa

Al peruano no lo jodas,
al chileno tampoco,
pero entre ellos
se joden con gusto.

Al argentino
le gusta joder.
El venezolano
está jodido

por células
el ecuatoriano,
gentil hombre,

jode solo
los sábados
por la noche,
el panameño

al son
de la rumba,
la plana,
la bomba.

El colombiano
jode por orgullo,
con gracia,
al escuchar

al piano
de Medellin,
el nicaragüense
por unas islas

y su honor
pero con pocos
barcos de patrulla
y mucha fé

en la corte ajena,
mexicanos, si,
( jodido

en la lengua
por haber

brazil a salvo
por falar
y américa,

mi querida,
que se joda
sus derechos,

de arcoíris
en sus brazos.

dos dólares
y una nueva
barba, jódete.

para un café,
un té,
un surtido
de frutas.

este poema
se escribe
en español,

la lengua
más antigua
de la nueva

Allen Ginsberg
se murió.

no vuelvas
a  joder
al sur
de la frontera.

           Indran Amirthanayagam el 24 de diciembre, dr)  2012

Monday, December 24, 2012


On the mind tonight Christmas Eve, hymns and children, wide-eyed, grateful for life and the chance to share food and drink, to have a roof, a job, a computer.  Yet every day I read about, and see, those who don't have such pleasures. Let us support them today and every day with our time, our gifts, our energy.

Monday, December 17, 2012

Newtown Poems by Indran Amirthanayagam

            First Poems

There are murders that defy poetry,
challenge its song--I almost wrote
to a duel—ask  what business
do you have with us in the church,
in this memorial mass.

The children who died wrote
their first and last poems.
We do not know the metaphors
paralyzed, as teachers pushed
their charges into closets,

behind bookcases to safety,
before getting shot, plans
the Miss’s had made
for evenings, birthdays,
weddings to come?

            Indran Amirthanayagam, December 16, 2012


This Newtown slaughter,
first graders learning to read

and write, teachers,
principal, psychologist,

adults, women entirely,
nurturing elementary

education, now rest
of the country and world,

the human family
in anger and sadness:

What beast roared
at innocents?

Why let him out
to murder us?

            Indran Amirthanayagam, December 15, 2012

          Spare the Rod

Spare the women and children.
Our future resides in their wombs,
the homes they will build

from the ruins. We have bombed
our own since the Wall
was scaled, since that order

to murder the first born.
We try to find reason in madness,
teach our children to believe

in God, the laws, and we fail
for a time, then pick up
goods and ideas

and start to build again,
aided by time, that nothing
ends, just transforms.

            Indran Amirthanayagam, December 16, 2012


What is observed, palpable,
children hiding in closets,
behind bookcases, these
are pixels in the landscape,

essential to the viewer,
to his need to fill the holes
of his empathy, to say
come into the classroom

and watch the revenger's
tragedy, listen to silence
next door where guns
reported,  hear scratching

at the knob,  sit on eyelids
of boys and girls waiting
for the murderer to walk
out, walk in, walk out.

            Indran Amirthanayagam, December 16, 2012

          Sure Thing

I am away from home. I see the human
tragedy, children lost to parents, order
upside down, inheritance uncertain,
restoring mind after grief uncertain,
forgetting details of crime scene
and return of the gun lobby after
a couple of days in black, keeping
quiet: absolute, sure, like the gun’s
silencer, the gun itself, bullets to be spent.

                Indran Amirthanayagam, December 16, 2012