Orange que te quiero verde, that's Poeticah
The Visual Poetry of Poeticah explores the boundaries between poetry, languages, and traditional with computer visual art.
This is a poem from my chapbook Axtlanadu.
The Valley in the Silver Film
To Sor Juana Inés de la Cruz
The valley was peaceful under that wide-awake virgin heaven.
Its every pimple, freckle, pore proclaimed verdant truth.
Proud sierras did not hide, never deceived.
Mount Popocatepetl, the Guardian, easy to see, reach.
As that sky slept, a host of fireflies hovered over the Protector.
Only an occasional pair of naïve eyes, supported above a horse,
shined solidly under Her dependable crest.
Doves of the valley followed their prescribed roles:
never sang below an alto, did not fly beyond their range,
avoided wines from fleshy fruits,
did not sway their sultry skirt-feathers.
Eagles clawed them into doveism.
This valley runs beneath that active worldly sky.
Gray armor, covered with cubic tumors, spreads over its frail skin.
Insecure mountains around it lie and hide in a sophisticated haze.
Mount Popocatepetl is almost lost and hardly accessible.
When this sky slumbers, the fireflies are gone.
Instead, droves of bugs roll over the valley's brittle arteries.
They hide jaded eyes within. Their dead orbs shimmer
through smoke across the valley's wilted bosom.
The doves pecked down some of the fences to relish
forbidden tunes, places, dances, meats.
Today they enjoy flying among the eagles. But their spring-green
freedom is tainted by that deceptive silver film.