Juan Pablo Jalisco's World of Poetry

'The Flag' is a poem that showcases the futility of Civil War, the struggle of brother versus brother, and the endless grief and torment such conflicts bring to those involved.

Jalisco weaves a poignant and evocative tale of Mexico

 

Of Aztecs and Conquistadors by poet Juan Pablo Jalisco is an evocative and poignant mid twentieth century memory of Mexico as seen through the eyes of the author during his formative years. This read is for those who ask the questions, "Who am I, where did I come from and what made me who I am?" Questions not limited to poetry fans.  This book is for everyone.

Topics range from Aztec history, dolphins, friends, a modernizing civilization, loss, iguanas seeking warmth, to the love of a young man for his lady.  Jalisco snatches bits of life from street vendors, mystics, artists, and revolutionaries and weaves the entire ensemble into a slowly fading tapestry growing fainter in the mist of time. But the overriding radiance of Aztecs and Conquistadors is hope.

We interpret individual poems based on our own experiences, but the overall impact of Aztecs and Conquistadors is universal.  When the last page is turned, there is a slow nod of the head and a quietly uttered, "Yes."

 

Tom Cooke

San Antonio de Bexar, Texas

The following message was received from a lady in Kentucky, Darlene Campbell, who responded to the book's nomination for The New Covey Cover Award. What a wonderful testament To receive!

First of all, I honestly DO think this cover is awesome, and secondly, I just discovered your work and can hardly wait to read it! My great-great-grandfather was Aztec [Mexica]. He came here a little over a hundred years ago and my family has been in the southeast U.S. ever since. For a time, my grandfather and my father tried to hide their heritage because they didn't want to be different. All my life, knowing of my Mexican heritage, I felt drawn to the meso-American nations but it wasn't until I became an adult that I discovered just which area of Mexico and which people my great-great-grandfather had come from. I love my Appalachian heritage and it is very strong, but I also have come to embrace that certain aspects of my family's lifestyle and traditions came with my g.g. grandpa who passed them to his children and a few still survive to this day, although their origins have become obscured by time. Thank you for doing work that honors the beautiful poetry of my ancestors. I have saved your site to my favorites and plan to visit often.

Darlene

http://www.mobipocket.com/en/eBooks/eBookDetails.asp?BookID=149825

For a full list of the book's reviews please visit the 'Reviews' page.

MATADOR

 

How old was I when first I saw him? I think maybe four or five,

The old man sitting under the archway, to me he seemed barely alive.

Where the Avenida de los Delfines runs down to meet the sea,

Below the arch on the corner, that’s where the man would be.

 

From beneath his battered old sombrero, he surveyed the world around,

With eyes that looked like tombstones, and he never made a sound.

The birds seemed to know and revere him, they would sit upon his arm,

Sharing with him his meagre food, they seemed to know he meant them no harm.

 

Yet to me and others of my age, he was a figure to be feared,

We neither knew nor understood him, then came the day he disappeared.

The corner under the archway was suddenly open wide,

As though a void had opened up, because the silent old man had died.

 

The birds were gone, all was silent, on that corner near the sea,

And, strange to tell, we missed him too, all my little friends and me.

He had been a part of the fabric of our village for so many years,

Now with his passing we seemed to feel the need to shed a few tears.

 

The day of the funeral came, and much to our surprise

Many people arrived from miles around, to mourn the man with the tombstone eyes.

And as the priest spoke of the old man’s life with reverential eloquence 

I learned at last that the silent old man had once led a life of consequence.

 

Many  years before my birth he had been a great matador,

Until the day his career died, when the bull had him pinned to the floor.

Upon the horns of the beast he had twisted and writhed in unbelievable pain,

By the time he was free the damage was done, to his body and to his brain.

 

Never again did Manolito return to the bullring, (for that I learned was his name),

He retired to the village here by the sea, and became a dwindling flame.

Never again would he wear the suit of lights, nor carry his cape of red,

He just stared at the sea, and communed with the birds, his old sombrero upon his head.

 

The years have flown, and still whenever I pass the archway I can almost see

That broken old man with the tombstone eyes, and I wonder if he ever saw me.

Had I sat with him for a while, had I spoken softly to him, would he even have noticed me,

On the corner of the Avenida de los Delfines, where it runs down to meet the sea?

Image: Public domain