Poetry
While my poetry is read
While my poetry is read...
I will keep on being alive,
because I am missed at home,
because the ocean still misses me too.
While they read my poetry...
it will continue my burning candle...
and they will not weep for me
while someone reads my poetry...
My body will spread in the sun
and my voice will hide between my heaps;
since I will be an immortal
while my poetry is read...
There will always be for me a hearth
and the clock will not age me anymore.
It will be a May eternally,
while my poetry is read.
... and they will not weep for me.
If I will be without being
and in surrealism I will return,
because I am missed at home
and for me is overflowing is the sea;
but alive I will forever rest
while my poetry is never forget.
Mother, of you and for you I am a gypsy
and the world burns with my gait,
but whatever happens;
my body is demarcated,
my voice isolates itself in the silence,
you will have my poetry
so that the world my rhymes could not forget.
Mom, my poetry is you.
Bio: Mari Martínez Serrano
Mari Martínez Serrano is a Puerto Rican Spanish Services Associate in a Northern California Library. Born and raised in the island of Puerto Rico, Mari’s poems are mainly inspired by the ocean, love, being a woman and her personal struggles with political issues. Mari is married to a Venezuelan Chef who works for Three Star Michelin Restaurants. Due to that, they have moved a lot. Inspired by her conflicting emotions and homesickness, Mari’s poems assimilate to the eternal sadness of the many Latinos that immigrate with hopes and dreams to return someday to their homeland. She is currently a MLIS Grad Student at San Jose State. She is constantly working on her unpublished poetry anthology: Ensayo y Error.
Mientras lean mis poesías
Mientras se lea mi poesía...
seguiré estando viva,
porque se me extraña en casa,
porque me hecha de menos la playa.
Mientras lean mi poesía...
continuará mi vela encendida.
... y no me lloraran
mientras lean mis poesías...
Mi cuerpo se difundirá en el sol
y mi voz se esconderá entre mis rimas;
pues seré inmortal
mientras se lea mi poesía...
Habrá para mí siempre un hogar
y el reloj no me envejecerá más.
Será mayo eternamente,
mientras se lea mi poesía.
... y no me lloraran.
Si estaré sin estar
y en surrealismo he de regresar,
porque se me extraña en casa
y al desborde esta el mar;
pero viva he de descansar
mientras mi poesía no se olvide jamás.
Madre, de ti y por ti soy gitana
y el mundo arde con mi andar,
pero pase lo que pase;
se demarque mi cuerpo,
se aísle mi voz en el silencio,
tendrás mi poesía
para que el mundo no me pueda olvidar.
Mamá, mi poesía
eres tú.