Poems | transnationalborders

A Poetic Transnationalism

Poetry can be dangerous, especially beautiful poetry, because it gives the illusion of having had the experience without actually going through it. ― Rumi

Below you will find excerpts of poetry by transnational subjects or about transnational experiences. These poems have either been collected by the authors of this site, or recommended by migrants that feel these pieces strongly reflect their own lived experiences.

"trans/national"

by Janani Balasubramanian

When I tell my grandmother

that I'm ready to be honest with my body,

she says,

ok, make sure to call me more often,

and I'm sending you a drum set.

For days I have no idea what she means

but then I realize

in India only boys ever play the drums,

and what my grandmother means is

there are ways of being a man

that do not involve being an American man,

that you can still play your music with us,

that I do not have words for this process of your becoming

but I will work around it with art and love.

Grandmother, mom,

there is a way to do this ethically.

I will build some other, new-old kind of masculinity.

I will not worry about the words for it in English.

I will honor the mothers in my history,

the goddess in my name,

I will play the drums for you.

"I am from..."

by Silvia Rosenthal Tolisano

I am from… I am from Germany, Argentina, USA and Brazil

I am from Germany. From the warm Bretzel with melted butter and the sound my shoes

make when going for a walk in the dense forest.

I am from Argentina. From the crowds on Florida and Lavalle and the smell of a Bife de

Chorizo at a friend’s asado. I am from the smell of Jasmine as I step off the colectivo on a

warm Spring day in early December.

I am from the United States. From the smell of salty and buttery popcorn at the movie

theaters. The wide streets and gigantic parking lots that fill up to capacity after Thanksgiving.

I am from Brazil. From the language that is almost understandable, but different as if

listening under water or with glasses of the wrong prescription strength. I am from feeling

almost close, but through the fog so far away.

I am also from lighting Hanukkah candles as I am smelling Christmas in the air and buying

Charlie Brown Christmas trees on the 24th day of December.

I speak German, Spanish and English. Ich bin from Argentina y el vos. I am from speaking

in all the 3 languages in one sentence without having to be held hostage by staying in one

alone.

I am from leaving on a gray, cold and rainy day in October in autumn. Racing along the

runway, up up into the sky towards spring air and towards a country far away and forever

closer to me.

I am from arriving after a 24 hour journey to a tiny village, at the foot of the Katzenbuckel-

The Cat’s Arched Back” where my grandmother anxiously awaits at the door, welcoming

the return of the world travelers.

I am from changes, the differences, the friends made along the way. I am from the

opportunities to see wonders of the world, tasting, smelling different ways of life. I am from

the different faces of the world and history.

I am neither from here nor there or even there. I am destined to be torn forever between

Fernweh and Heimweh, from always being far from.

*As per request of the author herself, we highly encourage all readers to visit and contribute to the launch of her recent project entitled "Visualize Poetry Around the World", which aims at

'connecting teachers and students, bringing global awareness and encouraging them to look beyond their own backyard and their own perspective'. More information can be found here.

¿Volver? Vuelva el que tenga,
Tras largos años, tras un largo viaje,
Cansancio del camino y la codicia
De su tierra, su casa, sus amigos,
Del amor que al regreso fiel le espere.

Mas, ¿tú? ¿Volver? Regresar no piensas,
Sino seguir libre adelante,
Disponible por siempre, mozo o viejo,
Sin hijo que te busque, como a Ulises,
Sin Ítaca que aguarde y sin Penélope.

Sigue, sigue adelante y no regreses,
Fiel hasta el fin del camino y tu vida,
No eches de menos un destino más fácil,
Tus pies sobre la tierra antes no hollada,
Tus ojos frente a lo antes nunca visto.

Returning? He returns who has learned
After long years, and a long journey,
He is tired of the road and now he thirsts
For his home, for his land, for his friends,
For the faithful love expecting his return.

But you? Returning? Going back is not a thought,
Your fate is to be free to journey onward,
Forever unattached, whether you are young or old,
Without a son to search for you, as one looked for Ulysses, Without a waiting Ithaca, without Penelope.

Go on, go forward and not back,
Be faithful to the end of the road and of your life,
Don’t settle for an easier destination,
Put your feet on soil that never has been trodden,
Fix your eyes on what has not been seen before.

"Peregrino" / "Pilgrim"

By Luis Cernuda

Submitted by Elena Delgado, Spanish, Master Student

at Oregon University

"Sea Grapes"

by Derek Walcott

from Poems 1965-1980, 1992

That sail which leans on light,

tired of islands,

a schooner beating up the Caribbean

for home, could be Odysseus,

home-bound on the Aegean;

that father and husband's

longing, under gnarled sour grapes, is

like the adulterer hearing Nausicaa's name

in every gull's outcry.

This brings nobody peace. The ancient war

between obsession and responsibility

will never finish and has been the same

for the sea-wanderer or the one on shore

now wriggling on his sandals to walk home,

since Troy sighed its last flame,

and the blind giant's boulder heaved the trough

from whose groundswell the great hexameters come to the conclusions of exhausted surf.

The classics can console. But not enough.

"Una lucha de fronteras /

A Struggle of Borders"

by Gloria Anzaldúa

Because I, a mestiza

continually walk out of one culture

and into another,

because I am in all cultures at the same time,

alma entre dos mundos, tres, cuatro,

me zumba la cabeza con lo contradictorio.

Estoy norteado por todas las voces que me hablan

simultáneamente

"You Crossed the Border"

by Reza Mohammadi

You crossed the border: your homeland had no language,

or maybe it had nothing to say.

You crossed the border: imagine it's your homeland.

What did your homeland have that the whole world lacked?

First, you were greeted by tears.

This kind friend with an unkind face,

Sorrow, embraced you out of dirt and dust,

a friend who clasped you closer than others.

The sick old man who welcomed you so tenderly

was exhausted by travelling from village to village.

You longed to buy happiness

but only smugglers offered it for sale.

"BE-TWEEN"

by Raphael Gancz

The Transnational Literary Magazine 2014

[Neither inside nor out. Neither on nor in. Simply in-between]

[But not between the lines. Not between the earth and sky]

[Not between life and death – a bit more than that]

[To reside: between the bricks of the flat]

[To breathe: between the water and the glass]

[To orbit: between the light and the lamp]

[To rest: between the sound and the bell]

[Not stuck. Just waiting]

[Long enough to become]

[The in-between]

[Itself]

[]

Forse non è nemmeno vero

quel che a volte ti senti urlare in cuore:

che questa vita è,

dentro il tuo essere,

un nulla

e che ciò che chiamavi la luce

è un abbaglio,

l’abbaglio estremo

dei tuoi occhi malati –

e che ciò che fingevi la meta

è un sogno,

il sogno infame

della tua debolezza.

Forse la vita è davvero

quale la scopri nei giorni giovani:

un soffio eterno che cerca

di cielo in cielo

chissà che altezza.

Ma noi siamo come l’erba dei prati

che sente sopra sé passare il vento

e tutta canta nel vento e sempre vive nel vento,

eppure non sa così crescere

da fermare quel volo supremo

né balzare su dalla terra

per annegarsi in lui.

Perhaps it is not even true

what you sometimes feel screaming in [your heart:

that this life is,

inside your own being,

nothing

and that what you were to call “light”

is just a deception,

the extreme mistake

of your sick eyes –

and that what you were pretending to be [your purpose

is a dream, the infamous dream

of your weakness.

Maybe life really is

such as you discover in your youth [days:

an eternal breath that searches

from heaven to heaven

who knows what hight.

But we are like the lawns’ grass

which feels the wind blowing over

and all sings in the wind and always [lives in the wind, but does not know how to grow up

so to stop that supreme flight

or to pounce on the ground

to drown in it.

Humans of

Migration

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