Palabra de mediodÕa / Noon WordsPalabras de mediodia/Noon Words is Lucha CorpiÍs pioneering collection of poems that established her as a major figure in Mexican American literature. Written in Spanish and expertly translated by Catherine Rodriguez-Nieto, the poems fairly bloom off the page in a display of lyric virtuosity. Corpi is the first of the Mexican American poets to explore through deeply personal and intimate feelings potentially explosive political topics, transculturation, the role of women, her commitment to social change, and the grand themes of love and death. Highly sophisticated, enchanting, and well steeped in the literary tradition of Juana de Ibarbourou, Federico Garcia Lorca and Pablo Neruda, CorpiÍs poetry successfully portrays the magic of her childhood in tropical Veracruz, her move to the city and the challenges of modern life in San Luis Potosi and the San Francisco Bay Area. Particularly moving is CorpiÍs struggle to bridge the chasm between the obligations of family life and single parenthood and the career opportunities of the outside world. |
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Common terms and phrases
agua alma amor años Arreola Arturo become Berkeley blanco blood busca California calles casa Chicana color corazón cristal cuando Dead decir día dreams earth ella escritora eyes falls final give hands heart hoja hombre human Juana later leaves libro light live llena looking Lucha Corpi mañana manos Marina más mediodía memory Mexico mujer mundo never night noche nocturno noon ojos pain Palabras para pequeña poemas poems poesía poet poeta poetry primera propio purple que se questions recuerdos Romance sangre semilla shadow silence silencio sobre Solario soledad sólo sombra sometimes Song soul speak struggle sueños Sunscape tarde tiempo tierra todo turn veces Veracruz versos vida viejo violet voice waiting Walking woman women writing
Popular passages
Page 119 - ... tropical sun. With the blood of a tender lamb her name was written by the elders on the bark of that tree as old as they. Steeped in tradition, mystic and mute she was sold — from hand to hand, night to night, denied and desecrated, waiting for the dawn and for the owl's song that would never come; her womb sacked of its fruit, her soul thinned to a handful of dust. You longer loved her, the elders denied her, and the child who cried out to her "mama!
Page 123 - III. The Devil's Daughter When she died, lightning struck in the north, and on the new stone altar the incense burned all night long. Her mystic pulsing silenced, the ancient idol shattered, her name devoured by the wind in one deep growl (her name so like the salt depths of the sea) — little remained. Only a half-germinated seed. IV.
Page 125 - IV. She (Marina Distant) She. A flower perhaps, a pool of fresh water. . . a tropical night, or a sorrowful child, enclosed in a prison of the softest clay: mourning shadow of an ancestral memory, crossing the bridge at daybreak, her hands full of earth and sun.
Page 5 - The book in our hands stays open The world stops not for us but in what is ours And for an instant everything turns back to the first page unnumbered blank thirsty for a drop of ink to remind it of the impurity of living time It seems to whisper "Write on me write How horrible to die clean!
Page 124 - ... para siempre callo. Cayo hecho pedazos el idolo de barro sucio y viejo, y su nombre se lo llevo el viento con un solo murmullo ronco: su nombre tan parecido a la profundidad salina del mar. Poco quedo. Solo una semilla a medio germinar. IV. Ella (Marina ausente) Ella. Una flor quiza, un remanso fresco. . una noche tibia, tropical, o una criatura triste, en una prision encerrada: de barro humedo y suave: es la sombra enlutada de un recuerdo ancestral que vendra por la manana cruzando el puente...
Page 121 - ... whore." II. Marina Virgin Of her own accord, before the altar of the crucified god she knelt. Because she loved you, she only saw the bleeding man, and loved in him her secret and mourning memory of you. She tried to wash away her sin with holy water, then covered her body with a long, thick cloth so you would never know her brown skin had been damned. Once, you stopped to wonder where her soul was hidden, not knowing she had planted it in the entrails of that earth her hands had cultivated —...
Page 128 - De la rama cuelga una naranja todavía sin promesa de azahar. 128 dashed vanilla on the silence of the river bank drained the burning liquid of her lips And then he was gone, leaving behind him a trail of shadow drooping at the water's edge. Her mother found her, and at the sight took a handful of salt from her pouch to throw over her shoulder.
Page 168 - She holds a BA from the University of California, Berkeley, and an MA from San Francisco State University, in Comparative Literature.
Page 22 - En la plaza las tehuanas frondosas con sus voces de marimba llamaban a los marchantes mientras que con la brisa de sus enaguas de encajes espantaban a las moscas osadas. La luz trepidaba juguetona con cada tañido de la campana, la algarabía de los loros nos señalaba el camino a casa al final de la jornada. En aquella soleada casa de amplio patio exterior y grietas azules la cucaracha era soberana.