Community Groups

I see an increased interest in the Latino arts on college campuses and in the community at large. This in itself is positive.

We are all a family, and sometimes brothers and sisters do not see eye to eye but they continue to support one another. Right now I am the invisible middle child and have composed a poem that reflects these sentiments. I sincerely wish to contribute more to the Latino arts as a poet and musician and I propose a mixture of styles reminiscent of Paloma San Basilio or Amaya (grupo Mocedades). My personal brand might not entice everyone, but I would rather hear someone say, "I disagree with you" than continue to be a poinsettia plant in a pot rather than a flamboyan (see poem below):

Shout to the Flame Tree/Grito al flamboyán

Vietnamese high school graduates
call its blossoms the pupil flower
when they bid farewell
to classrooms and youth.

It grows wild and endangered
indigenous to Madagascar
but all people cultivate it everywhere:
China India the Philippines Hawaii Mexico
and even South Florida or Texas
in June.

Flame tree of many names:
Flamboyant Royal Poinciana Delonix Regia
Christmas Firebush in Chile and Australia
thrives even in sub-Saharan Mali
and the semi-arid United Arab Emirates.

It is an evergreen
in the Caribbean.

Kiwifruit green foliage
against vermilion sunset and golden flowersâ€"
no, the four petals are scarlet
and the fifth white standard
waves like a banner.

A distant relative of
the crimson Christmas flower
Royal Poinciana shares
both division magnoliophyta
and class magnoliopsida
with the Consul’s Daughter
until order family genus species diverge.

The poinsettia is Euphorbia Pulcherrima
sprung from the weeds
a Mexican peasant child’s gift
on the church altar
in honor of the Christ Child.

Both are bright ornamental plants
but the poinsettia waits
harmlessly on a windowsill
while the flamboyant
puts down deep roots
that absorb all the moisture
gives off too much shade
and stunts other trees’ growth.

The flame tree’s seeds
make maracas make noise
as I shake them.

Tú no eres puertorriqueña, ¿ verdad?
ask the crooners
to the flamboyán.
No, I am not Puerto Rican.
My Spanish is Argentinean
or even foreign not neighborly Brazilian
they shut their ears
to my bel canto
how dare I corrupt
their plena as they praise
the Virgin of Divine Providence.

They wish I were
the Consul’s Daughter
sitting pretty in a pot
kept in the dark to sprout
more blood-colored flowers.

A handful of
disenchanted islanders
are not the owners
of the flamboyán.

Lori D. Nolasco

typo: State as in estado

gracias lori for your poem...

my name is patria
i have three lovers
but only one
is the quenepa
of my eye

(c) hipm