Roque Raquel Salas Rivera
Algarabía:
La canción de Cenex hijo natural de la Ínsula Alarabíyaa
(Graywolf Press, 2025), extractosTinta regada
1 de agosto de 2024
Algarabía: La canción de Cenex hijo natural de la Ínsula Alarabíyaa (Graywolf Press, 2025) es una epopeya que sigue el viaje de Cenex, un ser trans que narra su vida retrospectivamente mientras navega por las historias contadas a nombre suyo. Habitante de Algarabía, una colonia de la Tierra en un universo paralelo, Cenex lucha por encontrar un nombre, un cuerpo y un hogar estable. El canto de Cenex entreteje y, en ocasiones, enfrenta textos de escritores puertorriqueños cisgénero sobre figuras trans con fragmentos desidentificatorios de textos históricos, documentos legales y otras fuentes extraliterarias. Cenex nos conduce a través de su hospitalización temprana, sus años como sujeto experimental, una breve estancia suburbana, meandros retorcidos, un grupo jovial de cuirs predilectos y tierras no tan lejanas. La ficción especulativa, lo real maravilloso y la sátira se reúnen dentro de este poema que se ríe de su propia supervivencia, con una rabia pícara y aguda.
Esta selección, de los Cantos I y 2, aparecen las inercias, “cuatro seres que brillan como luciérnagas. Las inercias lo ayudan a soltar el imperativo productivo […]. Eventualmente forman una relación simbiótica, semejante a las garzas que comen las garrapatas de las vacas. Las inercias se alimentan gracias a su amigo y, a cambio, lo ayudan a sanar”. Cantan en forma de sonetos, animando a Cenex a distraerse, perder el tiempo o simplemente dejar de responder. Son fundamentales para las etapas inciales de su travesía.
Algarabía: The Song of Cenex, Natural Son of the Isle of Alarabíyaa (Graywolf Press, 2025) is an epic poem that follows the journey of Cenex, a trans being who retrospectively narrates his life while navigating the stories told on his behalf. An inhabitant of Algarabía, a colony of Earth in a parallel universe, Cenex struggles to find a name, a body, and a stable home. The song of Cenex weaves, and, at times, clashes texts by cis Puerto Rican writers on trans figures with disidentificatory fragments from historical texts, legal documents, and other extraliterary sources. Cenex leads us through his early childhood hospitalization, his years as an experimental subject, a brief stay in suburbia, twisted meanderings, a merry band of chosen queers, and not-so-far-off lands. Speculative fiction, the real maravilloso, and satire come together in this epic that laughs at its survival, with sharp, unserious rage.
This selection, from Cantos I and 2, features the inertias “four beings that shine like fireflies. These help [Cenex] release the imperative to produce[…]. They follow him around in a head cloud, and, eventually, form a symbiotic relationship. Cranes eating the ticks on cows, the inertias feed thanks to their friend and, in return, help him heal.” They sing in sonnets, encouraging Cenex to waste time, become distracted, or simply not respond, and are fundamental to the early stages of his journey.
Soneto chismoso de Caro.
No estoy pa chisme hoy ni ayer.
Las lenguas van a millón.
Yo no estoy pal papelón,
pero jode y vas a ver.Yo fui un santito al nacer.
Ser diligente es gran don.
Ni chismoso ni cabrón,
pero eso sí: hay que saber.Las cosas se hablan de frente.
Hay que ser conciso y claro,
pero siempre estar pendientedel chisme, yo me separo,
pero es que, con esta gente,
¡callarme me sale caro!
Caro’s gossip sonnet.
I’m not here for the gossip, not today.
Tongues are flapping and some stay hanging out.
Not my papelón, I find another way,
but if you fuck around, you will find out.I was born a perfect saint on Saint’s Day.
Being diligent’s a talent, not doubt.
I’m not a gossip, or a dick, okay?
Still, you need to know what someone’s about.Things should be discussed. Always be up front.
It’s important to be clear and concise,
but aware. Those who don’t know, bear the brunt.I consider yapping a kind of vice,
but with some folks, do more than keep it blunt.
Stay quiet, and it’s you who pays the price!
Marie dice que nadie es profeta en su tierra.
Él peca de ser profético.
Ella peca de pendeja.
Elle padece de queja,
todes, de a veces cosméticos,y nadie ante su fiel séquito,
cuestiona ni iza una ceja,
ni alza un dedo, ni se aleja.
Ser franco aquí es ser heréticoen tierra de las trifulcas.
Sueño que acaba la envidia
dañándonos la figura,pero que lindo sería
librarnos de la amargura
con decirnos mala mía.
Marie says no one is a hometown prophet.
His immense sin is being prophetic,
and her sin is being a pendeja.
Their sin? They can’t shut up for a day, huh?
We all sin some by acting cosmetic.No one, by their faithful colletic,
is questioned or steps out of the way (ugh!),
or raises a finger. All obey ya.
Being frank equals being heretic.I’ve decided to assassinate spite—
in the land of squabbles, quibbles, and brawls—,
a decision that now my figure blights.Oh, how lovely it would be, all in all,
if we could but free ourselves of these fights,
if we could just admit we dropped the ball!
La siembra de cizañas de Tintín.
Mi brillo es el del caíllo,
mis armas son mis caretas
y, siempre metiendo feca,
me hago de lo más sencillo.Yo sano al matar hermanos.
Vivo entre cuatro corillos,
siendo cruel contra los míos
y un adversario cercano.De la palabra concreta,
mi canto es el enemigo.
Yo habito por la puñetay de todes desconfío
y quiero que aquí se sepa
que este nunca fue mi lío.
Tintín’s beef harvest.
Like the prickly caíllo, thus is my shine.
My masks are the weapons that I carry.
Always peddling shit, I am on my grind,
and remain your closest adversary.Killing my siblings is the way I heal.
I move between four crews, loyal to none.
Cruel to my own, I don’t cut them deals.
Born hard, hard I’ll remain until I’m gone.My word refuses to follow things through.
My anthem was stolen from those I beat.
I trust no one, not you, or even you,
and leave for the cold to avoid the heat.I accuse all others of seeking clout,
and plead, “This isn’t my fight, please keep me out!”
Soneto del crinje de Nessie.
El Irish Spring me da crinje.
Huele a gas y cigarillo.
Ya nada viene sencillo,
pues todos hoy día finjen.La ley todo lo restrinje;
nadie es de ningún corillo;
prefieren besar anillos,
a una libertad que infringe.Huele a smegma y cine viejo,
a kripi y a agua maravilla,
a la cerveza, al festejoy a una vela de vainilla.
Todo apesta y no me quejo
(pero olvidé eso que hacía).
Nessie’s cringe sonnet.
Irish Spring, it really makes me cringe.
It smells of gas station bathrooms and pumps.
Nothing’s simple, now it’s all a long jump.
Everyone fakes all day. It makes me twinge.The law has a tendency to restringe.
No one belongs to any group or clump.
They would rather kiss rings and even rump,
than have a liberty that might infringe.It smells like smegma and a movie house
like some witch hazel, or some kripi weed,
like beer, carnivals, or an ale-filled blouse.A Vanilla candle. My nostrils bleed.
Everything stinks, but I’m a quiet spouse.
Where, was I? Today’s thoughts: a centipede.
