boom boom sparkling glow
love armies fire up in joy
no weapons this time!
(photo: by Amapola Blooming 01.01.10, fireworks in my neighbourhood)
Thursday 31 December 2009
Happy new year! (haiku of hope)
boom boom sparkling glow
love armies fire up in joy
no weapons this time!
(photo: by Amapola Blooming 01.01.10, fireworks in my neighbourhood)
Sunday 27 December 2009
Morning through the corridor window
The soothing green
a wishes-come-true pond
above, cotton clouds
higher up, the rising sun
The snow melts
into sparkling emerald
and the dry grass turns
into glowing gold
Blessings, promises
of a winter truly in love
as I kiss the morning
through the corridor window
as I open its doors
as I open its doors
(Photo: by Amapola Blooming, in Damme, Belgium - 27 Dec 09)
Impermanence
Hoera, hoela hoep with me
she runs to the fields
Hoera, hoela hoep with me
I'll meet my friend the snowman
who will dance with me
with my hoela hoep
we will laugh and sing
Little she knew
it could happen that fast
when she ran to her friend
and sobbed at her surprise
to only find a carrot,
she runs to the fields
Hoera, hoela hoep with me
I'll meet my friend the snowman
who will dance with me
with my hoela hoep
we will laugh and sing
Little she knew
it could happen that fast
when she ran to her friend
and sobbed at her surprise
to only find a carrot,
a broom
and a wet woolen hat
(Hoera, hoela hoep with me
wake up my friend, she cried
and cried)
and a wet woolen hat
(Hoera, hoela hoep with me
wake up my friend, she cried
and cried)
(Photo: Morning through the living room window, by Amapola Blooming, Damme - Belgium 27 Dec 09)
Thursday 24 December 2009
Tuesday 1 December 2009
Hope
a little bird came to me today and sat on my shoulder... and he whispered... "life is a gift of hope"
Thursday 26 November 2009
That I loved you
That I loved you | for all the things | that others choose for | not loving you | for your moody fixations | for your childish irritations | for your fistful monologues | and the joke repeated for a thousand time | like the endless rambling | about the girl who sounds dumb | when she talks incessantly | with no direction | or when you complained too much | about the man who complains | that is all too much | or when you laughed | and I laughed | yet not knowing why | I loved you | I just loved you | for all the things about you | I too could not understand | like when you said forgive me | and walked away | another | and another time | That I loved you | for all the other things | that make you | a beautiful imperfection | makes me now sad | but ever grateful to have had | bits of you | here | and | there | once upon a time.
Sunday 8 November 2009
Mourir un peu
After seeing la Compañía Nacional de Danza (from Spain) perform Arenal and Herrumbre at the Lucent Dance Theater of The Hague and meeting some of its dancers.
Breaking as the orchestra plays,
stamping, tiptoeing, smoothly floating,
with solid muscles, on music carpets
the dancers dance,
the dancers dance.
Bodies turning and twirling,
one piece less and then another,
the dancers dance until they climax
and disappear
behind black curtains.
And as we raise in effusive awe
to a forte farewell, to a bold applause
one more time, and then another,
the dancers bow, the dancers bow
with tearful eyes.
Breaking as the orchestra plays,
stamping, tiptoeing, smoothly floating,
with solid muscles, on music carpets
the dancers dance,
the dancers dance.
Bodies turning and twirling,
one piece less and then another,
the dancers dance until they climax
and disappear
behind black curtains.
And as we raise in effusive awe
to a forte farewell, to a bold applause
one more time, and then another,
the dancers bow, the dancers bow
with tearful eyes.
Winter in the eyes of a blind man
These words belong to Abdhul, from Uganda, who came to study to The Netherlands and will be the first blind man to hold a PhD in his country.
When I first arrived
people were friendly,
always willing to help
But as the winter approaches
they too, feel as cold
and their pace feels faster
They seem to be rushing
and unlike before,
they are not so nice anymore
(and then he smiles widely, rolling his white eyes)
When I first arrived
people were friendly,
always willing to help
But as the winter approaches
they too, feel as cold
and their pace feels faster
They seem to be rushing
and unlike before,
they are not so nice anymore
(and then he smiles widely, rolling his white eyes)
Tuesday 27 October 2009
Sunday 25 October 2009
First Haiku for the new season - welcoming winter time!
In three thousand six
hundred tiny steps backwards
toc-tic walks the clock
Wednesday 21 October 2009
Dagje Amsterdam (un día en Amsterdam)
Si te cuento, que hoy en las apretadas calles de Amsterdam vi a un par de niños blancos como la leche, chocando puños con un agente policial oscuro como el café tostado, que les sonreía y les seguía el juego.
Que pasé por el parque de diversiones del Dam y vi a un puñado de chicos lanzado gritos de furor al balancearse en un remolino que casi tocaba el cielo.
Que vi a una joven posando frente al Sex Museum. Que al lado opuesto de la calle, unos padres juguetones fotografeaban sus pequeños, cuando se divertían subiéndose sobre las resbaladizas esculturas de coloridos elefantes hindúes.
Si te cuento que crucé a la parte norte, y navegando en el ferry me di cuenta que a pesar del invierno prematuro, el sol me calentaba y que sólo unas finas nubecillas se asomaban a ver el río y sus largos barcos desde lejos.
Si te cuento, que la mesera del lugar donde almorcé tenía el pelo canoso y largo (más allá de los hombros), adornado con flores de plástico y las muñecas rodeadas con aros dorados que sonaban como campanillas de monasterio.
Si te cuento, que en la estación central vi a una joven pareja. Sentada sobre sus piernas, ella le arropaba el cuello y él le tocaba su nariz con su nariz.
Si te cuento, que en el tren de partida, la adolescente frente a mi asiento me sonrió más de una vez, y volvió a sonreir cuando reemplacé mis oscuras gafas de sol por mi lentes de montura azul acqua.
Que a través de la puerta de cristal, en el vagón de primera clase vi al sesentón más guapo del mundo charlando con dos chicos que soñarían envejecer como él.
Que el paisaje plano y sereno me habló y me dijo que no podía ofrecerme montañas, pero que me regalaba el lento atardecer y el verdor de los pastos.
Si te cuento que ya era de noche al regreso y que la gente ya no sonreía. Que al desmontarme del tranvía un joven esbelto, con maletín y traje de oficina encendía un cigarrillo y caminaba fugazmente, como si no se diera cuenta que ya era hora de olvidar el trabajo y amar lo que le quedaba del día.
Si te cuento que al llegar a casa, a pesar de sentir la soledad y el frío abriéndome la puerta, me miré al espejo y le pregunté a mi reflejo con una amplia sonrisa: que sería de la vida sin un 'dagje Amsterdam' ?
Que pasé por el parque de diversiones del Dam y vi a un puñado de chicos lanzado gritos de furor al balancearse en un remolino que casi tocaba el cielo.
Que vi a una joven posando frente al Sex Museum. Que al lado opuesto de la calle, unos padres juguetones fotografeaban sus pequeños, cuando se divertían subiéndose sobre las resbaladizas esculturas de coloridos elefantes hindúes.
Si te cuento que crucé a la parte norte, y navegando en el ferry me di cuenta que a pesar del invierno prematuro, el sol me calentaba y que sólo unas finas nubecillas se asomaban a ver el río y sus largos barcos desde lejos.
Si te cuento, que la mesera del lugar donde almorcé tenía el pelo canoso y largo (más allá de los hombros), adornado con flores de plástico y las muñecas rodeadas con aros dorados que sonaban como campanillas de monasterio.
Si te cuento, que en la estación central vi a una joven pareja. Sentada sobre sus piernas, ella le arropaba el cuello y él le tocaba su nariz con su nariz.
Si te cuento, que en el tren de partida, la adolescente frente a mi asiento me sonrió más de una vez, y volvió a sonreir cuando reemplacé mis oscuras gafas de sol por mi lentes de montura azul acqua.
Que a través de la puerta de cristal, en el vagón de primera clase vi al sesentón más guapo del mundo charlando con dos chicos que soñarían envejecer como él.
Que el paisaje plano y sereno me habló y me dijo que no podía ofrecerme montañas, pero que me regalaba el lento atardecer y el verdor de los pastos.
Si te cuento que ya era de noche al regreso y que la gente ya no sonreía. Que al desmontarme del tranvía un joven esbelto, con maletín y traje de oficina encendía un cigarrillo y caminaba fugazmente, como si no se diera cuenta que ya era hora de olvidar el trabajo y amar lo que le quedaba del día.
Si te cuento que al llegar a casa, a pesar de sentir la soledad y el frío abriéndome la puerta, me miré al espejo y le pregunté a mi reflejo con una amplia sonrisa: que sería de la vida sin un 'dagje Amsterdam' ?
También se quiebra (mi primera entrada en español)
Ya ves amor, lo que deshaces
Cuando a falta de caricias
Tirito el invierno prematuro
Tentando a ciegas el molde
De tu cuerpo en mi lecho
De tus manos en mi sexo
De tu aliento empañando mi piel
Ya ves amor, lo que deshaces
Cómo me vacías y me desnudas
Cómo me lanzas al hambre
Y me entregas a lo incierto
Tiernamente,
Como si me mimaras toda
Sin contarme de un final
Ya ves amor, lo que deshaces
Cuando le hablas a mi boca
Con destellos de besos
Y pétalos marchitos
Ajando mis voz, mi silencio
Mi dulzura por ti
Mis sueños contigo
Ya ves amor, lo que deshaces
Como ramas robustas
quebradas por tormentas de borracho aliento
Como preciosas piedras de cristal
cayendo a golpes sobre lo más duro
Como un corazón suave y puro
desgarrado a mordidas de rabia
A tu insólita partida, amor
Violentamente,
Sin reparos,
Mi amor por ti
también
se
quiebra
21.10.09
Cuando a falta de caricias
Tirito el invierno prematuro
Tentando a ciegas el molde
De tu cuerpo en mi lecho
De tus manos en mi sexo
De tu aliento empañando mi piel
Ya ves amor, lo que deshaces
Cómo me vacías y me desnudas
Cómo me lanzas al hambre
Y me entregas a lo incierto
Tiernamente,
Como si me mimaras toda
Sin contarme de un final
Ya ves amor, lo que deshaces
Cuando le hablas a mi boca
Con destellos de besos
Y pétalos marchitos
Ajando mis voz, mi silencio
Mi dulzura por ti
Mis sueños contigo
Ya ves amor, lo que deshaces
Como ramas robustas
quebradas por tormentas de borracho aliento
Como preciosas piedras de cristal
cayendo a golpes sobre lo más duro
Como un corazón suave y puro
desgarrado a mordidas de rabia
A tu insólita partida, amor
Violentamente,
Sin reparos,
Mi amor por ti
también
se
quiebra
21.10.09
Wednesday 14 October 2009
A moment, just a moment (or the frugalities of life)
When I am on the streets I am usually a hungry observer. In spite of the passers-by, the traffic and the rushed air, there is always that one moment where these busy surroundings seem to disappear in bliss. It is that second, that scene, that moment where something magic happens and captures me completely, almost in absolute slow motion. Those moments tend to touch me as well as feed my fantasy; and as the best photography, they are like images that we regret not having taken and only the story as we saw it, is there to tell.
This is a short recollection of those instants where I experienced the bliss, the magic, as I led myself be captured in a moment. These are loose episodes of ‘just a moment’ which is part of a greater story that I wish I could have followed for the rest of the day, sometimes seasoned with the imagination that this curiosity triggered then.
***********
Kind eyes meeting each other, smiling as they gaze, but no one dares to say ‘hello’.
A puppy barks at a MUCH bigger and confused dog.
A toddler blows a kiss to a complete stranger, who had just waved him a kiss. But the mother doesn’t look happy.
A beggar thanks and smiles after a penny.
Two teenagers, holding hands, point at a pair of sneakers on a window shop.
A fast-walking blind man smoothly clearing his way to the train as he waves his stick, and firms the leash of his dog.
Fresh white tall roses rest in a biological trash bin (I should have taken them).
The wind teases the sad feathers of a seagull lying dead on a liquid red spot.
A break-dance street show and a clapping boy on a wheelchair.
At the park, a grandmother with a child blowing soap bubbles as she obeys him and chases.
A silly joke and a toothless old man laughing widely, and people don’t know why he is laughing but they laugh because of him.
The flower seller offers red roses to a young man who buys a dozen on his way to the cemetery.
A couple fights on a corner and part ways, each of them head in different directions, only he turns his head, many times.
Two friends finding each other for the first time in ages: the giggling, the hug and the words ‘you look amazing!’
A gray haired couple waiting for the bus: he sits, she stands with her arm around his neck and talks whispering in his ear.
A very rude man curses at another man who, in change, without saying a thing, walks away, in each hand, tightly holding his wife’s and child’s.
The ice cream seller and a crying child pointing at his favourite frozen flavour melting on the pavement.
A shoplifter is being handcuffed and people slow down their pace but pretend they’re not looking.
On the bench where I kissed him for the first time, two young men cuddle.
The hallelujah singers preach the word of Jesus on shopping evening, in every two sentences, the word ‘hell’.
During three crazy days, the bright yellow bags with big black letters and people shopping in madness, as if buying stocks for their nuclear shelter from the Harrod’s of The Hague.
The Hari Krishna guy who told me to go a cash machine when said I had no money.
It’s been raining in late autumn and a young thing girl with punctures and scars in her bare arms sells her wet and last ‘homeless newspaper’ in front of a supermarket.
The street workers stop their noise to look at a woman but say nothing and with pleased smiles, they start drilling the pavement again.
The proud girl and her most-handsome boyfriend who turns around to look at a passer-by: a tall long-legged woman, in heels and a mini skirt.
A man that looks like my father but is not my father or a man that looks like my dead friend but it’s not him either. A woman that looks terribly like me, but it’s not me – and she smiles and I smile, as if both meaning “I know what you’re thinking”.
Oh well, what the hell does SHE really know I think? Who does SHE think she is? She only sees what she sees. I, instead, ‘photograph’ her story.
This is a short recollection of those instants where I experienced the bliss, the magic, as I led myself be captured in a moment. These are loose episodes of ‘just a moment’ which is part of a greater story that I wish I could have followed for the rest of the day, sometimes seasoned with the imagination that this curiosity triggered then.
***********
Kind eyes meeting each other, smiling as they gaze, but no one dares to say ‘hello’.
A puppy barks at a MUCH bigger and confused dog.
A toddler blows a kiss to a complete stranger, who had just waved him a kiss. But the mother doesn’t look happy.
A beggar thanks and smiles after a penny.
Two teenagers, holding hands, point at a pair of sneakers on a window shop.
A fast-walking blind man smoothly clearing his way to the train as he waves his stick, and firms the leash of his dog.
Fresh white tall roses rest in a biological trash bin (I should have taken them).
The wind teases the sad feathers of a seagull lying dead on a liquid red spot.
A break-dance street show and a clapping boy on a wheelchair.
At the park, a grandmother with a child blowing soap bubbles as she obeys him and chases.
A silly joke and a toothless old man laughing widely, and people don’t know why he is laughing but they laugh because of him.
The flower seller offers red roses to a young man who buys a dozen on his way to the cemetery.
A couple fights on a corner and part ways, each of them head in different directions, only he turns his head, many times.
Two friends finding each other for the first time in ages: the giggling, the hug and the words ‘you look amazing!’
A gray haired couple waiting for the bus: he sits, she stands with her arm around his neck and talks whispering in his ear.
A very rude man curses at another man who, in change, without saying a thing, walks away, in each hand, tightly holding his wife’s and child’s.
The ice cream seller and a crying child pointing at his favourite frozen flavour melting on the pavement.
A shoplifter is being handcuffed and people slow down their pace but pretend they’re not looking.
On the bench where I kissed him for the first time, two young men cuddle.
The hallelujah singers preach the word of Jesus on shopping evening, in every two sentences, the word ‘hell’.
During three crazy days, the bright yellow bags with big black letters and people shopping in madness, as if buying stocks for their nuclear shelter from the Harrod’s of The Hague.
The Hari Krishna guy who told me to go a cash machine when said I had no money.
It’s been raining in late autumn and a young thing girl with punctures and scars in her bare arms sells her wet and last ‘homeless newspaper’ in front of a supermarket.
The street workers stop their noise to look at a woman but say nothing and with pleased smiles, they start drilling the pavement again.
The proud girl and her most-handsome boyfriend who turns around to look at a passer-by: a tall long-legged woman, in heels and a mini skirt.
A man that looks like my father but is not my father or a man that looks like my dead friend but it’s not him either. A woman that looks terribly like me, but it’s not me – and she smiles and I smile, as if both meaning “I know what you’re thinking”.
Oh well, what the hell does SHE really know I think? Who does SHE think she is? She only sees what she sees. I, instead, ‘photograph’ her story.
Wednesday 16 September 2009
The Day After the Storm (a sailor's tale of tsunamis of the heart)
They said to have seen a heart lingering along the coastline. It was floating on the water as it was being pushed around in circles by the weakened wind, the only air left alive after the hurricane. They said that the heart was pulsing and breathing. They said they even heard it talk with a female voice.
They said she said that she was lost and mistakenly abandoned; that she belonged to someone she feared had drowned the day of the storm. She said the sea seemed so innocent, something hard to imagine after it all she had seen the days before. Like if it never saw its waves, like claws, fetch chunks of sand and shells, dragging everything they could swallow to the deepest ends of the black-blue ocean, taking away the life she was supposed to live for.
They said the heart was pale, that it had the shape of a flower which hasn’t blossomed yet. They said that she was soft and tender, that she was aching as they touched her, when trying to rescue her from the shore. She cried, they said, as she pleaded to be left alone. She had hope that she’d be found again. She said that she was ready to sail to the Island of Ghosts.
They said they were puzzled. That island was doomed and never appeared in their naval charts. Whoever ever reached it never came back. Not being able to understand her determination, the sailors left her alone by the coast. The heart sailed direction north. That’s where they told her that errand island is sometimes found, and just as its name lauds, it was an island full of spooks.
They said she’d be about long mornings and long nights, so many, they had lost count. Under the full moon, under the furious sun, day after day she waited, as the spectres appeared one by one. They all had unfamiliar faces. She’d longed to be recognized by someone or to recognize somebody that would save her, but all they did was to play with her. They all wanted this heart to possess them as they pretended they could implant her in their dead souls, as if they were surgeons or miracle makers.
They said she was exhausted. Tired of being thrown back and forth like a play ball, she had no tears left; she had lost her speech and her heart was beating vulnerably. She pretended dead so they would stop laughing and calling her ‘sweetheart, come to daddy’. But they wouldn’t notice. These ghosts were all frustrated. What a curse it was for them, to live in death, to find a living heart which didn’t match their shapeless chests.
Soon after the ghosts got bored. They made a crown of shells and palm leaves and wrapped the heart with it. They felt they had a trophy, which they knew they couldn’t win and laughing in anger, carelessly placed their new found toy on the top of the reefs. To her luck, they soon also forgot about her. She regretted having sailed to the Island of Ghosts.
They said she was asleep when she felt him approaching. He grabbed her and she tried to scream loudly, but no sound would come out of her. Her skin was burned, her lips were wretched, the pain of his touch numbed her and she fainted before she could look at his face. They said that unlike the others, this ghost was gentle, that he held her against his cheeks and kissed her. They said he cried as he caressed her, mumbling words of love and despair, ‘it’s too late’, ‘its too late’, ‘I will never live again’ he said repeatedly. He sobbed and he cried, so much they had lost count of his tears. All they remember is that at some moment, the unusual weight of his thick teardrops had made the ocean suddenly awake.
They said that the ocean spoke gushingly as he woke up. With waves bumping heavily against the reefs, and with a hollow voice, the ocean told him:
“She’s just asleep. I will take you to another shore where you both will be safe. This island is the wrong place for you and for her. You two belong down south”.
The ghost wrapped his new found heart with his hands and held her firmly against his chest. He jumped from the high reefs into the restless waters as he was rapidly sucked by a fast twirl. They said the last thing they remember seeing was the heart spinning on her way down, almost crunched by the protective arms of the ghost which had turned liquid and transparent.
Suddenly the sea was again calm and everything looked abandoned. It seemed as if nothing had just happened in the Island of Ghosts. The island drifted from the reefs, sliding through the masses of water that would lead it to another place. “The mean ghosts get bored easily from stranding too long in the same place. That’s why the location of the island is never known”. They said.
The next day they said people were talking. They said that a man had been found by the shore down south. His skin was burned and his lips were wretched. They had believed he’d drown. Nobody can explain how he could have survived for so long in the water. They said people heard him talk nonsense, about an island of ghosts, about a sucking twirl, about aching hearts, about the secret promise he’d been told by the ocean, about a woman he needed to find now that he lived again.
They said he almost went mad when they showed him another heart they had just found. They said they believed it belonged to a woman gone missing. But they thought that wasn’t possible, as it had just spoken its last words with a male voice. They said this heart had begged them to be left alone, but they refused it. They believed they could save him. But it was too late. The heart was speechless and looked so fragile. They believed it was dead. They handed the heart to him. He seemed to know better what to do with it. After all he probably wasn’t that crazy if he too said to have found a similar heart.
The man took the heart in his hands and as if looking at himself for the first time in the mirror, he studied it carefully before throwing it into the ocean. Like a pebble thrown in horizontal line, the heart jumped several times on the surface of the water before disappearing in the horizon. They said they believed the heart never ceased jumping, that it stayed hovering above the water. Nobody can explain how a man that just had been rescued could have such strength.
An echo evoked his words incessantly as he screamed “find her!” As if shaken by the vibrant sound of his voice, the sea lost its calmness and violent winds came about from all directions, creating a sudden tempest of hurricanes and liquid tornados. The echo would return like a boomerang of angry screams in desperation, increasing its volume as the wind blew harder.
The people he had just met ran away in panic. But the man stayed, serenely watching the storm which seemed to know he needn’t be touched. The gusts of wind didn’t reach him. He was the only standing figure among the turbulent waters, blown leaves and branches and bended palm trees.
The echo ceased slowly. It soon became dark and it started raining. The man remained serenely waiting, as he felt the sweet pouring water freshen his lips and lessen his thirst.
He was certain they were about to meet. His love, his woman would be brought to the shore and would find him. He felt asleep on the white sand until sunrise. The next morning he woke up in front of a tranquil, clear, whispering sea.
“Today, the day after the storm, you will find her”.
They said it was at sunset when they found her lying on the wet sand. She was almost unconscious and she seemed delirious as she mentioned ghosts and drifting islands. They say that when she recovered her senses she asked if they had seen a missing man who was also believed to have drowned. They pointed to the far right, by the splashing waves against the rocks, where a man was seen sitting on the top of a reef. He was throwing pebbles to the sea, staring with fixation at the horizon. “He’d been there the whole day”. They reckoned.
They said she smiled widely, with a painful gesture as she touched her dry lips. They said they helped her stand up, as she stumbled before she began walking towards his direction.
“She had just found the one she was supposed to live for. Just as the ocean had secretly promised her”.
The end.
Manuela Hernández
9 April 2005
They said she said that she was lost and mistakenly abandoned; that she belonged to someone she feared had drowned the day of the storm. She said the sea seemed so innocent, something hard to imagine after it all she had seen the days before. Like if it never saw its waves, like claws, fetch chunks of sand and shells, dragging everything they could swallow to the deepest ends of the black-blue ocean, taking away the life she was supposed to live for.
They said the heart was pale, that it had the shape of a flower which hasn’t blossomed yet. They said that she was soft and tender, that she was aching as they touched her, when trying to rescue her from the shore. She cried, they said, as she pleaded to be left alone. She had hope that she’d be found again. She said that she was ready to sail to the Island of Ghosts.
They said they were puzzled. That island was doomed and never appeared in their naval charts. Whoever ever reached it never came back. Not being able to understand her determination, the sailors left her alone by the coast. The heart sailed direction north. That’s where they told her that errand island is sometimes found, and just as its name lauds, it was an island full of spooks.
They said she’d be about long mornings and long nights, so many, they had lost count. Under the full moon, under the furious sun, day after day she waited, as the spectres appeared one by one. They all had unfamiliar faces. She’d longed to be recognized by someone or to recognize somebody that would save her, but all they did was to play with her. They all wanted this heart to possess them as they pretended they could implant her in their dead souls, as if they were surgeons or miracle makers.
They said she was exhausted. Tired of being thrown back and forth like a play ball, she had no tears left; she had lost her speech and her heart was beating vulnerably. She pretended dead so they would stop laughing and calling her ‘sweetheart, come to daddy’. But they wouldn’t notice. These ghosts were all frustrated. What a curse it was for them, to live in death, to find a living heart which didn’t match their shapeless chests.
Soon after the ghosts got bored. They made a crown of shells and palm leaves and wrapped the heart with it. They felt they had a trophy, which they knew they couldn’t win and laughing in anger, carelessly placed their new found toy on the top of the reefs. To her luck, they soon also forgot about her. She regretted having sailed to the Island of Ghosts.
They said she was asleep when she felt him approaching. He grabbed her and she tried to scream loudly, but no sound would come out of her. Her skin was burned, her lips were wretched, the pain of his touch numbed her and she fainted before she could look at his face. They said that unlike the others, this ghost was gentle, that he held her against his cheeks and kissed her. They said he cried as he caressed her, mumbling words of love and despair, ‘it’s too late’, ‘its too late’, ‘I will never live again’ he said repeatedly. He sobbed and he cried, so much they had lost count of his tears. All they remember is that at some moment, the unusual weight of his thick teardrops had made the ocean suddenly awake.
They said that the ocean spoke gushingly as he woke up. With waves bumping heavily against the reefs, and with a hollow voice, the ocean told him:
“She’s just asleep. I will take you to another shore where you both will be safe. This island is the wrong place for you and for her. You two belong down south”.
The ghost wrapped his new found heart with his hands and held her firmly against his chest. He jumped from the high reefs into the restless waters as he was rapidly sucked by a fast twirl. They said the last thing they remember seeing was the heart spinning on her way down, almost crunched by the protective arms of the ghost which had turned liquid and transparent.
Suddenly the sea was again calm and everything looked abandoned. It seemed as if nothing had just happened in the Island of Ghosts. The island drifted from the reefs, sliding through the masses of water that would lead it to another place. “The mean ghosts get bored easily from stranding too long in the same place. That’s why the location of the island is never known”. They said.
The next day they said people were talking. They said that a man had been found by the shore down south. His skin was burned and his lips were wretched. They had believed he’d drown. Nobody can explain how he could have survived for so long in the water. They said people heard him talk nonsense, about an island of ghosts, about a sucking twirl, about aching hearts, about the secret promise he’d been told by the ocean, about a woman he needed to find now that he lived again.
They said he almost went mad when they showed him another heart they had just found. They said they believed it belonged to a woman gone missing. But they thought that wasn’t possible, as it had just spoken its last words with a male voice. They said this heart had begged them to be left alone, but they refused it. They believed they could save him. But it was too late. The heart was speechless and looked so fragile. They believed it was dead. They handed the heart to him. He seemed to know better what to do with it. After all he probably wasn’t that crazy if he too said to have found a similar heart.
The man took the heart in his hands and as if looking at himself for the first time in the mirror, he studied it carefully before throwing it into the ocean. Like a pebble thrown in horizontal line, the heart jumped several times on the surface of the water before disappearing in the horizon. They said they believed the heart never ceased jumping, that it stayed hovering above the water. Nobody can explain how a man that just had been rescued could have such strength.
An echo evoked his words incessantly as he screamed “find her!” As if shaken by the vibrant sound of his voice, the sea lost its calmness and violent winds came about from all directions, creating a sudden tempest of hurricanes and liquid tornados. The echo would return like a boomerang of angry screams in desperation, increasing its volume as the wind blew harder.
The people he had just met ran away in panic. But the man stayed, serenely watching the storm which seemed to know he needn’t be touched. The gusts of wind didn’t reach him. He was the only standing figure among the turbulent waters, blown leaves and branches and bended palm trees.
The echo ceased slowly. It soon became dark and it started raining. The man remained serenely waiting, as he felt the sweet pouring water freshen his lips and lessen his thirst.
He was certain they were about to meet. His love, his woman would be brought to the shore and would find him. He felt asleep on the white sand until sunrise. The next morning he woke up in front of a tranquil, clear, whispering sea.
“Today, the day after the storm, you will find her”.
They said it was at sunset when they found her lying on the wet sand. She was almost unconscious and she seemed delirious as she mentioned ghosts and drifting islands. They say that when she recovered her senses she asked if they had seen a missing man who was also believed to have drowned. They pointed to the far right, by the splashing waves against the rocks, where a man was seen sitting on the top of a reef. He was throwing pebbles to the sea, staring with fixation at the horizon. “He’d been there the whole day”. They reckoned.
They said she smiled widely, with a painful gesture as she touched her dry lips. They said they helped her stand up, as she stumbled before she began walking towards his direction.
“She had just found the one she was supposed to live for. Just as the ocean had secretly promised her”.
The end.
Manuela Hernández
9 April 2005
Thursday 27 August 2009
No-verb (heartbreak) poem: In crescendo
Like river after a storm,
the stubborn drums of my heart,
my frantic mind,
and the liquid notes
of your name
in crescendo
through my eyes.
Like a feathered echo
with muscular wings,
stronger in every flap,
rebellious against the winds,
in denial of the north,
love-blind in my speech,
our book, our story, our ifs,
the foolishness of it all.
Louder than any word
or any verb,
in my pupils, in my throat,
in my bare hands,
the unavoidable shrill of your silence,
so resolute, yet in tremor.
Just like any other end
in perfect rapture,
no reason, just nothing
and everything...
A concealed universe,
an open gate,
a long trail with
no sense of direction.
And the boldness of it all.
the stubborn drums of my heart,
my frantic mind,
and the liquid notes
of your name
in crescendo
through my eyes.
Like a feathered echo
with muscular wings,
stronger in every flap,
rebellious against the winds,
in denial of the north,
love-blind in my speech,
our book, our story, our ifs,
the foolishness of it all.
Louder than any word
or any verb,
in my pupils, in my throat,
in my bare hands,
the unavoidable shrill of your silence,
so resolute, yet in tremor.
Just like any other end
in perfect rapture,
no reason, just nothing
and everything...
A concealed universe,
an open gate,
a long trail with
no sense of direction.
And the boldness of it all.
Tuesday 14 July 2009
- Welcome to the world of Amapola Blooming
To me, being a migrant means that we sacrifice part of our life in the search of a new adventure.
In the last years I have realised that besides missing the obvious (the weather, my family & friends), there is one thing that I miss with pain: my active involvement in writing, the required discipline and the gift of inspiration.
Back then in the early 90's I was part of a literary movement called "Movimiento Interiorista", guided by the Dominican literary critic Bruno Rosalio Candelier. As a result, my poems were published in 3 collective publications and I was on the road to achieve my childhood dream of becoming a writer.
But leaving my home country, simply shifted my place of inspiration and it took me long years to find it back. You could call it a 'writer's block', but to me it felt as if my creative bubble belonged to my bedroom back at my parent's place and not in the moody weather and the language of The Netherlands.
This blog intends to fill that space - Through publishing and exercising my writing, I hope to create connections with other people who identify with my story and my texts.
If you love to write, please feel free to share your views. If you love to read, I hope to be able to inspire you.
In the last years I have realised that besides missing the obvious (the weather, my family & friends), there is one thing that I miss with pain: my active involvement in writing, the required discipline and the gift of inspiration.
Back then in the early 90's I was part of a literary movement called "Movimiento Interiorista", guided by the Dominican literary critic Bruno Rosalio Candelier. As a result, my poems were published in 3 collective publications and I was on the road to achieve my childhood dream of becoming a writer.
But leaving my home country, simply shifted my place of inspiration and it took me long years to find it back. You could call it a 'writer's block', but to me it felt as if my creative bubble belonged to my bedroom back at my parent's place and not in the moody weather and the language of The Netherlands.
This blog intends to fill that space - Through publishing and exercising my writing, I hope to create connections with other people who identify with my story and my texts.
If you love to write, please feel free to share your views. If you love to read, I hope to be able to inspire you.
Thursday 7 May 2009
About me
Obviously the (authorised) photo you find here is not me. It is made by Ricardo Read, a Dominican photographer.
I choose to call myself Amapola to make reference to my Dominican origins. Amapola trees (Erythrina poeppigia) blossom in May, giving a bright orangy red tint to the countryside fields. But there is also another type of Amapola, which is a fragile flower also found in tropical meadows and belonging to the Eschscholzia family. Commonly known as 'poppies' they vary in colour and are found in different parts of the world (including non-tropical areas).
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| Poppies by Amapola Blooming |
I am an open soul who dreams to be an inspiration to others in every aspect of my life. Writing is another humble attempt towards achieving that.
Tuesday 5 May 2009
Me and my hummingbird
If the lines I shall write speak to no-one I shall declare myself a dead poet, an abortion of my own voice, as I struggle with giving birth to the sadness and joys that have long lived in full-mouth pregnancy since I was just a child that started to learn how to spell the words I did not know how to pronounce well as yet.Back then my voice was in Spanish, my mother voice. And ever since I learned how to draw the symbols rolled in the swollen papyrus of my tongue, my passion for wordplay made of them my imaginary friends. As a child, I read more than what my hand could express in writing and very soon my imagination started to sketch stories that I soon attempted to put on paper.
I was only 8 years old and I was spending the summer at my grandmother’s in a small Dominican town. That was the age of certainty, the age in which I discovered that one day, I would like to have a book of my own for others to read with joy and amazement. That was when I wrote my first story: it was about a hummingbird that came to sing by my window so I could rescue her from death. Her nest had fell along with the leaves of an undressing autumn and in fear of an imminent winter, seasons that I only knew in the foreign books I read back then, she asked me for help.
Thirty-one autumns and winters later and after several attempts to accomplish my dream and publish some poetry during my college years, I fell into a hollow language. My voice now shifts between English, Dutch and Spanish, result of an impulsive decision to live abroad when I was twenty-five and I moved to the Netherlands.
Today, I feel incapable to choose which language would be the strongest and most perpetual: which one would give shape to my voice? Which one will not only be read and listened to with the heart but will be held strongly as a waving flag of expression for those who choose my words to free their own minds and feelings?
I feel that losing touch with my own language and leaving behind the first blossoms of my literary career, made me fall into the trap of forgetting that it could have been an attainable dream if only I kept it alive.
Tonight, like other moments, I feel the dream awakening, telling me again that there is nothing I want more in my life than to inspire you and make my voice resonate in those empty spaces that you seek to fill up with organic, universal meanings that once poured out in my words, will flow in your consciousness and unconsciousness as your own blood and oxygen mix with mine, regardless of language and vocabulary.
I want to write because I want to reach you and touch you in places that neither you nor I ever knew existed. I want to write because there is so much I have wanted to tell you, but have failed to disclose in these silent years. I want to write because I have let many stories cross my path, as I waved to them in resignation feeling afraid of attempting to bring my agonizing hummingbird back to life again.
It is a painful struggle to try to regain the power of the ever possible, which I felt so strongly when I was eight years old. Now I am reaching forty and I don’t know whether fighting or surrendering will give me the strength and freedom that I need to live and fully revive my childhood dream.
I implore to the universe for a sign as I close my eyes and try to let go of my fear and my confusion. My fingers touch the keyboard, wishing it would bring me to play the notes that once made my voice sing like that hummingbird that desperately wanted a life beyond a winter she could not escape.
In my childhood story, the hummingbird lived because I invited her into my grandmother’s house and I fed her and gave her shelter and we had long conversations in a language only we could speak. Time passed and on an early-spring day I opened the window so she could fly in unconditional freedom, kiss the blossoming flowers and build her nest again.
Today I miss her, more than anything.
I was only 8 years old and I was spending the summer at my grandmother’s in a small Dominican town. That was the age of certainty, the age in which I discovered that one day, I would like to have a book of my own for others to read with joy and amazement. That was when I wrote my first story: it was about a hummingbird that came to sing by my window so I could rescue her from death. Her nest had fell along with the leaves of an undressing autumn and in fear of an imminent winter, seasons that I only knew in the foreign books I read back then, she asked me for help.
Thirty-one autumns and winters later and after several attempts to accomplish my dream and publish some poetry during my college years, I fell into a hollow language. My voice now shifts between English, Dutch and Spanish, result of an impulsive decision to live abroad when I was twenty-five and I moved to the Netherlands.
Today, I feel incapable to choose which language would be the strongest and most perpetual: which one would give shape to my voice? Which one will not only be read and listened to with the heart but will be held strongly as a waving flag of expression for those who choose my words to free their own minds and feelings?
I feel that losing touch with my own language and leaving behind the first blossoms of my literary career, made me fall into the trap of forgetting that it could have been an attainable dream if only I kept it alive.
Tonight, like other moments, I feel the dream awakening, telling me again that there is nothing I want more in my life than to inspire you and make my voice resonate in those empty spaces that you seek to fill up with organic, universal meanings that once poured out in my words, will flow in your consciousness and unconsciousness as your own blood and oxygen mix with mine, regardless of language and vocabulary.
I want to write because I want to reach you and touch you in places that neither you nor I ever knew existed. I want to write because there is so much I have wanted to tell you, but have failed to disclose in these silent years. I want to write because I have let many stories cross my path, as I waved to them in resignation feeling afraid of attempting to bring my agonizing hummingbird back to life again.
It is a painful struggle to try to regain the power of the ever possible, which I felt so strongly when I was eight years old. Now I am reaching forty and I don’t know whether fighting or surrendering will give me the strength and freedom that I need to live and fully revive my childhood dream.
I implore to the universe for a sign as I close my eyes and try to let go of my fear and my confusion. My fingers touch the keyboard, wishing it would bring me to play the notes that once made my voice sing like that hummingbird that desperately wanted a life beyond a winter she could not escape.
In my childhood story, the hummingbird lived because I invited her into my grandmother’s house and I fed her and gave her shelter and we had long conversations in a language only we could speak. Time passed and on an early-spring day I opened the window so she could fly in unconditional freedom, kiss the blossoming flowers and build her nest again.
Today I miss her, more than anything.
Saturday 21 March 2009
Spring's Eve Poetry (my first attempt at haiku)
Spring
Imperfection, flaws
Dwelling beauty, raw lining
Patiently she blooms
Tears on a canvas
In awe, blossoming smiles stare
The brush dries silent
No longer concealed
Her pain bursts in fresh laughter
Lotus rivers flow
Summer
Cracking sand, despair
Thirsty waves retreat in greed
To bathe in moist salt
Raindrops kiss the roof
The heat of the tin responds
With tiny steam blows
Burning cheeks, a child
Tries to pull clouds with her kite
Before the monsoon
Autumn
Asking the trees for a dance
Dark long shadows bow
Crispy chocolate
Cracks under the firm bare soles
Grateful, the soil grins
In the pastures and forests
The last green pearls fade
Winter
A dancing feather
Cotton blowing in the wind
High flocks flee southwest
Cotton blowing in the wind
High flocks flee southwest
Thawing as he snores
Furry crystal balls fall on
The sleepy bear’s nose
Wool carpets of snow
Shelter my shivering skin
Goose down warms my bed
Spring's Eve
SPRING’S EVE
Fresh hope springs
Breathing goddess of life
She beckons,
I bow
I: Fresh hope springsBreathing goddess of life
She beckons,
I bow
The sun filters through the thin white curtains of my living room. It softly touches my eyes as if beckoning me to go outside. It's the last day of the winter and its concealed life is about to bloom. The branches start flirting with the blue sky, showing their first signs of green and the soil that sustains the trees is no longer muddy and dark.
Soon the ground will give birth to rainbows of life and wild flowers will run free on the countryside meadows. And in the homes of those who waited patiently, motherly hands will hold their newborn gardens in their arms, feeding their beauty with loving-kindness.
The generosity of nature will gift our senses with prismatic melodies: radiant tunes sang in the voices of restless birds, spread like surprising psychedelic landscapes of colourful silk; all absorbed by the insatiable thirst of every living creature at the cracking of a fresh day.
II: Breathing
Spring is marching towards us. Defying any obstacle, she finds her way through the lazy old winter: determination defeats stubbornness and the winter melts at her slightest touch of breath as if saying: “you are too beautiful to resist”.
The law of nature imposes itself upon any human-made climatic disturbance and in her very own way Spring claims victory over her non-violent battle. “You have made my journey difficult”. She says to us humans. “But the colours I carry do not fade as I struggle. Their blood is pure, their strength is divine and my unselfishness is endless”.
Spring speaks with a voice as clear and convincing as the water from the deepest and most ancient wells. She knows the breath of her poetry is tangible, she knows it transcends any language as it needs no encryptions, nor a logical understanding. It is her presence that speaks through our senses; it is us who translate her glory into canvases, perfumes and verses.
Spring is nearly here.
III: Goddess of Life
She is erotic, virginal, sensual and loving; she inspires us with desires of life and freedom and fills us with hope and warmth in the darkest and coldest of the nights. She teaches us about her promises and the rich harvests ahead. Vast and detailed, her wisdom always answers with a smile. She has no secrets, she is loyal and when she retreats, her caressing memories hold us alive.
Spring is a goddess with no religion. She is as real as the bones that keep us erect and the muscles that make us mobile. Spring is prayer and answer, a deity at grasp. She needs no temple for she is pantheon, awakening, sprightliness and shrine.
Spring is our mother, our gift, divine; the very essence of unspoiled life.
IV: She beckons, I bow
The sun is still waving at me from outside and I need no reckon. I am ready to join Spring in her journey and I will run to the river shore to meet the ship on which she is traveling.
The clocks are ticking with anxiety and the drums of the soil are beating incessantly. And when Spring sets foot on the impatient humus, each step she takes will leave a lasting print of vivid, sprouting life.
I will stand in line along tender stems and naked trees, and as she passes by and beckons, I will bow deeply and make my offer: to be another seed that undisputedly surrenders to her blessing affection.
She will then pronounce her unique and only promise:
“I will never forsake you”. She will say.
Everything will start to transform and without any resistance, without any regret, for many dawns and sunsets, her glory will blossom and reign.
Epilogue
Spring smiled at my offer and whispered her unique and only promise in my ear. And as she walked away, I felt embracing roots growing from within my heart, loving blossoms exploded all around me like heavenly fireworks and I laughed at the tingly touch of the teasing grass germinating under my bare feet.
I started to dance to the beats of the soil, and prismatic melodies of excited birds sang along the beat and the stump. As a mantra, the echo of the Spring resonated repeatedly from within the earth and spread across and between the highest mountains. Her answers and her prayers blended with the celebration of the life her footprints created and she too, sang and danced through our voices and the pulse of our pure blood.
Victorious Spring is here!
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