“What is the goal of Creative Corner?” I’m bringing art straight to your face.
      “What makes you qualified to choose which art is brought to our faces?” Well, failure to acknowledge the subjectivity of art inevitably gives rise to pretty frustrating contradictions; so, I’ll here say: Nothing. Nothing qualifies me. I am not qualified.
    This week on tap we’ve got two poems from senior, Omar Quimbaya. The first, “Before Translation Becomes Language,” is a seemingly frivolous, but truthfully thoughtful, rumination on sexuality and sexual constructs.  
    The second, “Peaches,” is nothing less than a good example of how far carefully planned metaphors can take simple images.

Featured Poet:
Omar Quinbaya
Senior

“Before translation becomes language” ( line from Kimiko Hahn’s “Croissant”)

i.
Hermaphrodite

ii.
I grew up in a house of women
the single lighthouse erect in the sea

iii.
My older sister would make me play with her Barbie dolls. She always made me play Ken, and I had to seduce Barbie, but in reality, I wanted to play Barbie as being a total slut, showing off all  her plastic goods to the world, making the world like the Washington Memorial, but Ken did not have the ability to screw Barbie; I do not think he ever wanted to because he never looked happy with his situation—underwear fused to his skin only showing a small bump.

iv.
My mother and sister would make fun of me because I had a penis and hair on my body. I would make fun of them because of their breasts, but in reality, I wanted their bodies to be mine. My body was not my own; I did not belong in a man’s body. Lord, please make me into a woman one day.

v.
When my girlfriend performed fellatio on me, I was shocked. “Why would you do that? I pee out of that thing!” I closed my eyes because I felt like I had to. The coldness of her mouth hit me, but it soon became warm as our body temperatures became one, and I felt nothing. After a few minutes, she would come up and smile at me, but I could never tell her that I felt nothing. “Finish it yourself.”

vi.
The woman inside of me
wants to hold her and keep her warm

The man inside of me
wants to be inside of her


“Peach Tree”

In my youth, I grew—
From a small seed—
Verse—to be consumed
By those who come
After me—my legacy.

To my wife and daughter:
I offer you a delectable feast;
Peaches—
A fruit everlasting which within
Grows the pulp of immortality.

Each sumptuous bite
And soft, fluid bit,
Every light gnawing
And tight mandible grip
May perhaps lead you
Ever so closer to me.

Submit poetry to The Paisano by emailing paisanoarts@sbcglobal.net.