No hará Ruido Mi Boca

La próxima vez que me manden a peinar…
I will remain in silence

Qué hable mi cabello de trigo y mandarinas

Qué suenen las tamboras del suelo

Qué se niegue a doblarse los rizos

Qué cumplan mi boca con el corazón 

I will not speak, I SAY

Qué cante mi piel oscura

Qué mueva la tierra su ombligo 

Qué sacuda las caderas la historia

Qué se levante el río dormido

Qué el olor a coco les tapé las narices 

I will not say one single word… 

búscate oficio.

Mujer con Voz ©2016


photo by Marius Buzac

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On Days like this One

Photo by Djilas Gomez @djilasgomez

“On days like this one, mom, with her moño alto, used to cook for us/ Her church was the kitchen, her hands were the prayers/ The entire house smelled like a dream you could reach with your own hands/ A song de domingo was playing in the radio, before, way before the light was out for five hours/ The stove could talk to us, burning, burning things without taking away their magic/ Light entered her green cocina with a smile/ The colorful clothes were bathing themselves in the sol/ When the worship en la cocina was done, she was calling us to come prepare the table and confused all our names/ We did not care/ All of us sat on the wooden table/ The hot food was waiting patiently grandly offering itself to be eaten/ It was 12 on the dot/ The sun decided to sit with us/ The aroma of family increased as we eat/ The clothes drying in the patio never screamed for help/ On days like this one, I found out you could have a religion without a name/Mami, with her generous manos and her tall moño taught me that.”

Mujer con Voz ©2016

No tengo cara de pendeja


Machismo
A disease injected to the minds of our men
A crown taken without permission
I won’t grant your wishes
I won’t cut my words in pieces and hand them to you with the face of a pendeja
¡Macho nada!
I bet you cannot say those things to the one que te pario
I bet you don’t know what love is
I bet you’ve only tested salt and lies, and now you pretend to give it back
Stay away from my women
Revalue and pray for yourself
I was going to offer you to go to la Luna, but even the moon, as dark and far as it is
It would never dishonor women as you did.

Dígale con la Chemba 

Photo by Djilas Gomez @djilasgomez

“Ave de pluma
la boca de tu mirada
La veo
I see it
between a bolero
I don’t know what is left of me in these days
I am taking my flight
Soy una negra con boca que teje
un tic tac de las olas
El ruido negado de los pájaros
La radio negra y sabrosa
La rumba descansa
La noche escrita aya, aquí, jamás
El cepillo en la mano de micrófono
Un aparato de alegría
el humo de las nubes
Soy muy joven de anciana
Soy peligro que tiene precaución
Soy la aleta de este avión
Ask for me under a guitar
They will tell you with a seña
y la chemba pará’
who that hell
I am.”

 

 

Book Release 

Hello everyone, todos los que me acompañan, I am writing to all of you to thank you for all your support and appreciation of my writing. I also wanted to let you guys know that my first book it’s finally a reality. You can order the book by clicking on the Pay Now button. The name of my poetry book is “Para Cenar Habrá Nostalgia.”The book is in English, Spanish, and Spanglish, just like my writing and life. I hope all of you can read me.

 

 paypall


 

Book description

The agony of being an immigrant and not being in a constant place is spilled wrathfully and fairly on the pages of Para Cenar Habrá Nostalgia. In the midst of arrival procedures, fatigued train rides, living adaptations, and a very loud Dominican accent, Fior E. Plasencia presents a collection of poems that excavates the damage experienced since she and her family departed from the Dominican Republic to the United States. Fior also reveals a more familiar devastation: a journey with her body and soul growing up in the neglected parts of New York City. The persistent sensation of returning to her native country is sensed in her multilingual words, yet, they also rise with self-determination and appreciation of her brown complexion. Throughout her poetry is a non-conformist voice; her rebellious spoken words and dominicanidad are offered as the true forms of the diaspora revolution. The author serves the feast to the reader with tropical nourishment, memory, sarcasm, humor, survival, and homesickness. Here you will find authentic verses dressed in Spanish, English, and Spanglish infused with recognizable flavors, bilingual dilemmas, reminiscent of a childhood on the island.

Niña Diaspora

 

“Mis tres moñitos acalorados, canela espesa jugosa, risueños, morir soñando, sabrosos, oscuro con claro, caribeños aventureros y revueltos tienen más alma que tu hipócrita sonrisa de conquistadora “buena gente”.

— la niña diaspora

 Haitiano mi Amigo 

 

Photo by Jose A. Silva

Friends. You and I can become friends with someone who lives in the other side, the division, el arroyo, the bloody lines made with hands who don’t want to be divided by a light of power. Yo vi el  human not a specific color, neither a label, I saw you –a person who lucha  against what is wrong. I know, yo sè, before we went though our hardships and struggle with our locked hands, we had and we still have, so much in common, and I believe you see it too, like the colors on our flags and the mountains we shared (hidden from the outside world and the big screams in Time Square). We can’t put together with a glue used in elementary school the splits pieces of  lands (Tierra), it’s too complicated, but something better can happen– mutual understanding, undressing the fake labels, and give space not to a “person of color,” but to a human, un humano, como tú y yo.  My friend, mi amigo, he’s Haitian, and  I see el viento de alegria and peaceful revolution in his words, it’s a bother and a human también. I wish the world can see it, as I do.

Torbellino Ella

Photo by Djilas Gomez @ Djilasgomez

“Tal y como es, la mujer, es un torbellino de viento; te arropa y sacude cuando es necesario”

•••

“As it is, the woman, is a tempest; she gives you shelter and shakes you when it‘s necessary”

Aguantando el Golpe

“Antes de ser puente
era muralla

Antes de ser esposa
era esponja

Tengo que dejar esa pendeja mía
de poner perico ripiao’ desde que mis
nalgas se sientan en la cama en la mañana
– e’ verdad?
Si tan solo pudiera regresar…
no para quedarme planchado
en una silla en un resort quemando lo que ya está achicharrado; este cuerpo caribeño
irme pa ya’ y dejar el pasaporte botao’
Pal’ monte, sin luz, ni na’, de todas maneras casi ni llega
Quiero irme dejando el recuerdo del insomnio
que un día me fui y ya me bañe con agua caliente y sentí esta nieve mal amiga Quedarme hundido en un cerro bailador
– Deja de soñar mi pana… allá nadie vive.
–Yo aún vivo allá.
– ¿Y qué haces aquí ?
–Aguantando, aguantando, na’ más.”