The Epic Fail of Arturo Zamora by Pablo Cartaya

Author:Pablo Cartaya
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Penguin Young Readers Group
Published: 2017-04-14T14:13:16+00:00

I found Abuela rocking quietly in her recliner. Her face broke out into a smile when she saw me.

“Arturito,” she said, waving me over.

She had a book on her lap. I must have caught her in the middle of reading.

“Poesía,” she said.

Not poetry again. I wish I could have told her about Wilfrido’s festival. And about the plans we had to hand out flyers and protest. But I didn’t. Abuela exhaled slowly and deeply, wrinkling her face like she knew my mind was full of crazy thoughts. Abuela knew everything.

“Leé un poco, Arturito,” she said, handing me the book. The name on the worn-out cover was familiar—José Martí, the poet Carmen liked and the man Abuelo kept talking about in his letters. Were we related to this guy or something? Why was everyone so obsessed with his work? At that, I remembered I hadn’t returned Carmen’s copy yet. It was still on my desk. I made another mental note to give it back to her soon.

The book made a crackling sound when I opened it. The verses were in Spanish, and I had a feeling I was going to end this reading session with a headache. But if it made Abuela happy, it was worth it. The poem began:

Yo soy un hombre sincero

De donde crece la palma,

Y antes de morirme quiero

Echar mis versos del alma.

The lines had something to do with being sincere . . . and growing in a palm tree? And dying. And wanting to sing a verse from the alma, which I thought meant “soul.” I read over the next part:

Yo vengo de todas partes,

Y hacia todas partes voy:

Arte soy entre las artes,

En los montes, monte soy.

I had absolutely no idea what that part meant. I flipped to the cover again to give myself a little break.

Versos sencillos was the title. The literal translation was something like “Easy Poems,” but trust me, this was not easy. Abuela slid her finger between the pages to open the book and then pointed to the first poem again. She tapped the page until I started reading.

Yo soy un hombre sincero

De donde crece la palma,

Y antes de morirme quiero

Echar mis versos del alma.

I read the opening again and tried harder to translate it.

I am a sincere man

From where the palm trees grow,

And before I die, I want

To

. . . um

sing my verses of the soul?

Abuela smiled at me. At least that sounded like actual, understandable English! I even felt a little proud of myself, so I kept reading.

Yo he visto en la noche oscura

Llover sobre mi cabeza

Los rayos de lumbre pura

De la divina belleza.

Okay, this one was much harder. Something about the dark night, but I was pretty sure the poem wasn’t about Batman. I felt the pages of Abuela’s book between my fingers. Not only did they look and feel like onion skin, they kind of smelled like onion too.

Abuela stared at me. She took the book from my hands and put her palm against the back of my neck. Her eyes hid in the folds of her wrinkled lids.

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