The Second Poet

The second poet to visit Trinity was Rigoberto Gonzales, a homosexual latino poet and activist. Rigoberto represented a stark contrast to Stephen burt, because his primary identity was his activism. His poetry, as he put it, was just a facet of his activisim in the latino community. One of his most prestigious awards was the American Book Award from the Before Columbus Foundation.

I was not a part of the interview group, nor was I able to go to the reading, because it was scheduled for the friday night before spring break and I had to be in Houston, so all I have to go off of was what was discussed in class. Something I found very interesting about Rigoberto was that he was very reserved about reading his poetry. Rigoberto falls in the genre of a confessionalist poet, so the poetic I in his work is usually his I; the experiences of the poem are his experiences. So when it came to reading, he sometimes refused to read poems that were too close to him. One such poem was about a lover who had died in a car accident.

As far as Rigoberto's theories about the role of poetry in society, it was completely different than Burt, again. Rigoberto saw reading literature as almost a moral imperative. One was made knowledgeable about the human experience by reading, and that knowledge would lead to understanding. Burt saw poetry as being weak when it was meant for catharsis; he had written article criticizing people's sudden turn to poetry after 9/11, but for Rigoberto it was all about the experience and relating to others.

I think his poetry is much simpler than Burt. Here is a prose poem by Rigoberto:

Confession

Tell us again, father, about the priest who couldn’t fit his fingers in your mouth so youhad to suck on the Eucharist as soon as it touched your lower lip. His hand radiatedwarmth like a canine’s breath and suddenly the sound of a shirt coming off, and suddenlythe door bandaging light, the darkness flat across your body and nowhere the mercifulword for Christ. The nipples were aflame, but whose? Bleat in the throat, Biblical goatthat sniffs the sticky fluid of its spilled death and what a betrayal it is to move through theworld with a pair of eyes only to have it end with the nose. Tell us, father, how it aches tohave a fat thumb brand its signature on the flesh—wound that makes you tear into thepillows of adulthood. Spare us the nights of grief, dear father, and warn us against thefierce desire of men before we drop into that ecstasy again of having a bastard drill thetwin fires to our chests.