Poems - Book 2 - Artist in Residence
During her artist residency program, Victoria had experienced being a caregiver for her grandmother. A task that was very challenging and taxing but at the same time gave her even more purpose to write and help her to process her experiences. The poems are published in the order the artists asked intended the readers to read. If you can, please make sure you take your time and explore the first two poems “In after hours, I am not a Mother” and “Everyday” before you read these.
Poem #3 - "Write through the dying” and Poem #4 – “Paloma Piquito de Oro
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The speaker documents a stream of consciousness that tries to hold onto the present time, but continuously wanders in different thoughts. Even though it seems like the speaker is drifting off, the underlying images and metaphors connect readers back to the reality of the situation: the grandmother is dying. There is a sense of great appreciation, even in the inanimate objects that contribute to this whole life cycle in its heavy atmosphere. |
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Write through the dying/ Series of Mothering
my pastoral fig tree
she looks like wood
aged/ swindle falsely
queens venture to
die in figs/
they buzz & carcass
leave enough eggs
for the most &
for the living/
the way one
watches figs
fall streaming
down &
loses itself
brink of liberation
& even then
disconnected
when I look at her
I like to pretend
she’s a porcelain
doll – one that lays
in bed
carved & molded
into
bed/ sheets
never looked
so venitian
because seeing
a deflated soul
ready
makes every piece touching
as art/ especially everything
seems
so still/still
enough to kiss
& feel
how much I breathe
her, too/ playing white
noise of rain isn’t
enough
out of all
confusion from grown
children & questioning
my mortality/this
world right here is
sorrowful & enraged
just as the ambulance
down the street
while dogs howl
instinctively & the moon
knows it all –
how human
craft & producing
comes back to the mother
how yellow roses
crystallize romance & next
moments/ what they do to make
you wait/ how we wait
for what they turn into/
turn to trauma – how violent
veins are & blunt
words from the buried endearments
even down
to the cashews left
on the nightstand
it all goes stale
& looks back
to tell you nothing
ever stays
the same – whatever
that means
& for every
drop of fig, the tree
emulates this
grand love
nobody really appreciates
the grand
love of dying
how the cuttings
of bouquets
develop with spiders &
their inner strings
they scream at you
smells
of savory dust/ scalp/ smells
of heat/ the daring ways
I look at my grandmother
as she shows me
what life is
made up of
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Paloma Piquito de Oro/ Series of Mothering
This poem holds a great sense of fear and purpose as a loved one is dying. The speaker is the only one looking at the grandmother as she passes away. She realizes she had to take on the role of guiding her out from this life and reminding her how loved she is. This metaphorical change in the household helps remind the speaker she is a vessel for others and realizes how difficult that can be since it all revolves around love.
I have to
see this woman quiet/her
efforts to bring family to america
under the greatest willow trees as I see her
just now/ my mother said you have to
see her die, me whispering
I have to/
corn husk hand picked
sweet corn skin turns
my favorite interesting purple/ now gives
me a reason to hate it/ I’ve never
been so loving
to one body
was/ is a slight sky slanted
eyes sloped through a faint
breathing & swooping through
mine & her own
grieving books say
words do not mean
anything anymore/
my eyes/ I caress/ simple
my dimensions/ my eyes, filled
with this love/ tu cuerpo con
estos vasos
this body
sentimental & displayed
with her only son seamed into fear &
deflated grandson sitting
on windowsill & there I am
the one looking at a dying
woman/ stunned/ usando mis
ojos/ wind said let it
caressing her hands as I would want
once I die/ circled plum warmth as sunrise
jaw slanted
& closing with her upper lip for
an anticipated breath/ how anatomy
can turn personal/
déjame que yo te quiera
oigo, siento,
estoy aqui
¿y que mas?
esperando, el tiempo/
dijo que usted también
está esperando/ el dolor termina
I’ll be waiting to say
to my tio
I hear nothing & look at a mans’ eyes
graciously for once
in my life
watch the frames grow boungavillea/ stamped
vintage creating to swelled sunlight simmered
a great end/ pumpkin vines in emptiness
float out to a forest green sea/ see the greater things
buscando amores
ya lloré/ ¿ahora que?
fijate, I can look into
dying eyes/ nourishing my livelihood
& feel my own defeat & see myself
melt into my family, finally.
Why did it take this much/ el gran amor/ to see
how important you are?
Victoria Hurtado is a Chicana poet who grew up in Long Beach, California. Growing up in a dysfunctional household with an absent father and mother was difficult, to say the least. Having no bonds with her parents left her to provide an acknowledgment of her emotional influx and development through writing. Writing became an outlet where she could combine her love for drawing and writing, and express all her emotions, anger, sadness, happiness, frustration determinations which ultimately resulted in building resilience. She finished her Bachelor’s degree in English literature and creative writing at California State University in Long Beach. Currently, she is enrolled in the master’s program for creative writing at the University of California, Riverside.