Ezequiel Correa, the current Youth Poet Laureate of Long Beach, is a multifaceted author with a wonderfully unpredictable style. His boundless enthusiasm for discovering quirky treasures, analyzing the vast world of literature, and everything in between truly reflects his core self: a naturally chatty and perpetually unique teenager.
While he has a variety of interests, his primary focus is on being a full-time community champion, committed to addressing literacy inequalities and making information more readily available to all. One of his favorite books recently is Intermezzo by Sally Rooney.
Book: Intermezzo
Author: Sally Rooney
“To me, this book speaks to the minutiae of human interactions relative to the grandiosity of our aspirations, thoughts, and emotions,” says Ezequiel. “Albeit fictional, the characters make me feel comforted, as they are a reminder that we all actively feel similar things, whatever life’s circumstances.”
“I’m reminded that viewpoints are subjective, and egos and senses of self can and do change from person to person. This book allows the reader to slow down and really understand the amount of deliberation that we invest into every action, no matter how big or small.”
2025-2026 Long Beach Youth Poet Laureate
Ezequiel Correa's Selected Poem
My Ballad
By Ezequiel Correa
I am my own muse. I am the subject I know best. The subject I want to know better.” — Frida Kahlo
I am my name,
each syllable unfolding,
rich, regal
a song spilled from a land
where tongues are not merely spoken,
but danced,
where vowels sway in mariachis' rhythm,
where consonants ring like tacitas de cafecito at dawn.
My skin:
the color of storytelling,
sunlit maize,
darkened earth after summer’s touch,
a tapestry of ancestors—
those who sowed fields with dreams
and cities with sweat.
Their pasos
carved deep into the soil,
from pueblos that whisper in Nahuatl
to streets that hum with horns and human hustle.
Estoy entre aquí y allá.
A bridge stretched tight from Jalisco
to the pulse of the LBC,
held up by two tongues—
“English,” like a quiet arroyo,
“Spanish,” a roaring storm.
I speak in hybrid sentences—
two tongues twisted like lovers beneath Spanish tile.
Porque soy los dos,
porque no puedo ser uno—
the ‘r’ rolls like a drum in my throat,
while English presses sharply,
succinct at my lips,
and ears,
a constant reminder that I remain,
still at home,
in two worlds—
worlds that jamas stand still.
There is music in the way I move—
rhythm born from cumbia and city beats,
sneakers scraping pavement,
huaraches sliding across dust—
I dance between worlds,
between novenas’ whispered faith
and dreams sprayed on subway walls.
A romance sung by sailors, and dreamers who dare.
I am that joven, sun and migration—
tradiciones wrapped in tamal leaves,
futures written in the margins of textbooks.
And when they ask me where I belong—
I answer,
hands open wide—
Here.
There.
Anywhere my self is free to be
and will always be.
I am the sizzle of tacos on food trucks,
the scent of frijoles simmering in the home’s heart,
I am Sunday mass in whitewashed iglesias,
and the protest chants that fill the streets.
I am familia—
thick as mole,
and twice as sweet—
But I am also ambition,
sharpened by trials,
running alongside those who dare to show themselves—
who say no, gracias at family gatherings.
Who plant their red, white, and green flags
on unfamiliar shores—
Eagles perched on cacti.
I am, therefore I need not think to be.
¡Lo soy, carajo!
My heritage is a kaleidoscope—
Mexica ruins pulse in my veins,
crossings in my breath,
each ancestor’s hand heavy upon my shoulder,
whispering, Sigue adelante.
My untold history is spun in vibrant threads—
embroidered in sacrifice, survival,
every stitch a prayer,
every tear a promise:
We rise, even when the world weighs us down.
I hold my head high—
my cadence, rooted in rebellion,
that to be Latino
is to belong to a story that’s still being written,
written in ink that’s bold,
eloquent, diverse—
as the people it holds—
Brown as the soil that feeds the earth’s crops,
Bright as the flags that wave in streets of oppression,
Bold as the accents that roll our names from tongues.
I walk through this world with a rhythm all my own—
Feet planted firm in two worlds,
heart beating like a drum,
and with every step I take,
I am reminded:
We are not one thing—
We are everything,
all at once.
Our story is sung in every language,
and it cannot be silenced.
