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The Poetry of Ariel Robello:
Selections from her book My Sweet Unconditional
Published
in
Available
through Amazon.com
Antioch University Los
Angeles MFA student Ariel Rubello’s 128 page first
volume of poetry is gritty and potent stuff, a volume which demonstrates hers
to be a uniquely perceptive observer of the human condition and a powerful
emerging poetic voice.
Sus Consejos
Mama said, “Latin loves
don’t last long.”
(stick
to your own kind)
She knows how hard
To sleep so good
Too late for her
For me he’s gone
Under my skin another
splinter
Under
my sheet another crumb.
Papa said, “You want a
doctor, someone to take care of you.”
(stick
to your own kind)
He knows how hard to
slap
Brown on white wont’
stick
He knew he’d quit
He knew love lies in my
bed
Under my skin
Sticking not stuck.
“Stick to your own kind,
m’ija.”
I know to last
I must deny love of self
To find my own kind
I know the know what’s
best
But still I make my love
in mud.
“Carta
Personal” provides
high octane social commentary.
Abuelits’s hands wake me
soft as masa
they tell of maquiladora murder
young girls left crumpled,
braids cut off
bits of pay slips found
under pink nails
they warn of an invisible
plague that has invaded my mother
red armies taking over the
honest cells.
Glaring pixels blind
eyes too tired to sleep
as the dial up begins my
fingers lament the deserts between us
under each key a child’s
skill from the graves of Monzote
under each rock the echo of
two 4th graders at war
their scissors still chasing
each other around Room 11
with a hate as hungry and
open as the
My sweet unconditional,
what of the woman who
changed her name to Lola
boarded a Greyhound and crossed
state-after-state to see
if she’d make the same
mistakes as far from him as she couel get
and what of loves hunted by
mosquitoes in Manaqua
Their dark flesh hidden
by banana leaves
Depressed breezes
flirting with their nipples
will the scars of their
scratching show come dawn?
What of the screams of
the mute
do they leave from the
eyes
and do those same eyes
extract memory from tears
enough to start a new blue
planet
those piercing red layers of
granite between us
like the painted wall of
what amount of dynamite
would it take to break into a heart that stiff?
My sweet unconditional
there is no one to send these
questions to but you
tonight an anonymous brick went
through the window of Mr. Lim’s market
landing one shoplifter dead.
My love do curses brand
the same in Korean\and if they do where can we market this rage?
There is sadness at
there is dawn then duty
Pined to my mattress
tattooed to last night’s neck
spelled to pink crosses along
the ravine
our love, an s.o.s. straddled over time.
Because it is bitter,
And because it is my heart
In the desert
I saw a creature, naked, bestial,
Who, squatting upon the ground,
Held his heart in his hands,
And ate of it.
I said, "Is it good, friend?"
"It is bitter – bitter", he answered,
"But I like it
Because it is bitter,
And because it is my heart."
- Stephen Crane, 'In The Desert'
Rumi:
From
'DYING, LAUGHING'-
"You've
done well," he said, "but listen to me.
All
this decor of love, the branches
and leaves and blossoms, you must live
at the root to be a true lover."
"Where is that!
Tell
me!"
"You've done the outward
acts,
but you haven't died. You must die."
When
he heard that, he lay back on the ground
laughing, and died. He opened like a rose
that drops to the ground and died laughing.
That
laughter was his freedom,
and his gift to the eternal....
When
light returns to its source,
it takes nothing
of what its illuminated.
It
may have shone on a garbage dump, or a garden,
or in the center of a human eye. No matter.
It
goes, and when it does,
the open plain becomes passionately desolate,
wanting it back.
(From
'THE ESSENTIAL RUMI')
Insects on Parade
Sir Gawaine
Ross
Why is it behind these French
windows are
Centipedes, wasps, scorpions, and a
thousand
Variety of
roaches? One expects fleas
And such outside, not inside this
bay room
Apartment, and least of all do we
Expect the sow bugs scuttling under
the mousse.
No one feels sorry for lice and
mites,
And when they set up a command post
In the attic and start issuing
orders
To suck blood and tow cars and then
sell them
To the pirates on
You’ll run for the nearest can of
Raid.
The problem is, that now of course,
The lice and ticks have the law on
their side.
Even if you go on a rampage and squash
Their festering fetid bellies
beneath your boots,
It’s hardly worth the effort, so
quick they are to multiply.
If you call the cops they’ll refer
you to the feds
Or rather the army ants who’ll call
out exterminators
Who’ll kill the roaches for the sake
of glory
And then sell their contracts to the
termites.
It’s a racket, and we’re cornered
now, and watched.
Just hand me some Quell, will you?
The
Chickasaw
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