Frantic verses (written like an assault, all at once, almost without knowing)

I see the future,

it’s empty.

And I can draw on it

whatever I desire.

I don’t feel my heart beating.

It’s so quiet.

Resting in me

like a baby deeply asleep

I can feel its breath,

warm and almost whispering.

I can hear that it’s dreaming

of the empty future.

I can see it smile.

Like a baby,

my heart dreams with shuteyes

and dreams

and dreams

in absolute silence.

He said

that I am not of this world.

That above the surface

there is no place for my dreams

for all is cluttered in the busy-ness of life.

He said that I should dive in and breathe deeply

deep, below the line.

There, there is no air, there is no water,

just a silent heart.

It’s beckoning me  to go inside.

I sink in quietness as it invites me

to walk and find the path

where I will never  run out of breath,

where I will never crave in thirst for rain

as long as I stay inside and hold to its kindness

as I reach  and touch everything that is transparent

and invisible to my eyes.

So he said.

There is no surface

nor underneath

and 

I 

am


not 

falling.

The mountains and the oceans,

they all live in me.

I can see them rise

and hold storms.

In the midst of chaos,

they make my voice.

And I speak of no fear.

For I am the midst,

the centre of all that surrounds me

from within.

How many times did I not feel the strength of my muscles,

nor felt the posture of my bones?

How many times did I not feel and fell in silence,

forgetting to hear its voice? 

How many times my love for you was shouting, 
screaming to be heard and touched?

[[[[[ This imprisoned silence never felt so bloody LOUD ]]]]]

 

I screamed, eyes wide open.

The nightmare had just escaped.

And he held me:

Ssshhh  sssshhh ssshhh

“It’s only a bad dream”.  He said.

I believed him.  

But I could not go back to sleep.

He spoke to me every night after.

He said bedtime stories

were the best remedy for bad dreams.

He read for me, he told me white lies.

And I was never cold in my sleep.

Today even the furthest unknown

seems to make sense.

I like the feel of the wet grass

against my bare soles

as I walk

without direction.

They say that if you draw anything,

your heart will bring it to life

So I drew, and drew

and hoped and hoped.

I see shapes I can’t describe

for these words aren't still invented.

They belong to another language

but yet, they don’t speak.

And I hum.

And they bend.

Just like the shape I thought of 

when I was humming.

You see?

Today is not on the calendar.

You could be 100 years, or 1 year-old.

In any case, still a lot to love and live.

What would you do if a child gave you a rock and asked you to tell a story?

The flowers in the vase are fading,

but I can still smell them,

wishing I never had to bin them farewell

Someone once told me

that I was too tragic.

That I should never cry

when beauty abandons life

because something else

will come its in place.

And that I might adore dearly it too

 One of my friend's usual quotes:

“You never know, it might be a blessing in disguise”

And I thought it was SO spiritual to say so.

You want sex.

I want to hug.

Let's see what happens later

when the hug develops.

But you just don't get it.

I like to feel sober.

I like to feel high.

It doesn’t  make much of a difference to me.

My head is always flying.

If I would speak to the shrink just now

he would say that I am “in that state”

because I cannot stop writing poems.

“Many famous artists are just like you, it’s part of your disorder”

Thank you and FUCK OFF.

My friend said her 8-year old is a dreamer.

And I said he might be an artist.

She said she doesn’t mind if he just makes it

to the next school year

as long as he’s happy.

Don't forgive me.

I know I go on and on and on

but there must be some sense about it.

Even when you ask me to stop

I will continue and by no means

will take that stupid pill.

He must be asleep.

I promised I would be in bed soon

and that was a while ago.

Now I have to write

my own bed-time story:

“He was angry at the sight of the empty pillow

and she knew that, sooner or later, 

she will have to leave him for good”.

“and they did not live happily ever after”

To her relief.

Now, read this words:

Do I make sense to you?

Now, speak to me FOR REAL.

Forget I am not here

and give me a fucking honest answer.

I am going to pretend

that your words traveled

through a sound wave

unknown to my ears.

But I’ll listen,

and say nothing in return.

Like a ventriloquist

I imagine I speak through someone else.

Let's say, you (yes, you).

And I hear my own voice

coming out of some wooden doll

with jaws always, always smiling.

You laugh, and your nose grows long

but I don’t think it’s funny.

At all.

I wish I were me.

And most of the time

when I wish I were me

I am the nicest person

I’ve ever met.

When I see a dot,

I don’t see a spot.

I see everything around it,

expanding.

And sometimes I cry hard.

And sometimes I laugh out loud.

And sometimes I want justice.

And sometimes I am ready to die for you.

And sometimes I wish it was just a spot.

And that I could see it just for what it is:

deceptive and self-contained.

Once I wrote:

“I feel too much.”

“I am too much”.

“who wants that much?”

You embrace me

and you say that I am  beautiful.

And I, naively, 

believe you.

Again.

You see?

It doesn’t take that much

to be in silence.

And write, and write

and write

frantically.

(I wonder what the shrink would say)

Am I talented?

According to you what is talent?

And in your version,

Does it mean any courage?

And you, are you talented?

Yes, yes, I will listen.

Someone like you could just reveal

all that I did not know before

which I knew would leave me in awe,

gasping for more.

Only if someone like you ever told me

that I would meet you one day.

You see my love,

sometimes heart and mind

seem to bear no difference.

In those moments,

there are more revelations

than questions

And after all that,  

you are still here.

And I won’t leave 

until I finally find you

in my love, in your truth.

Zonder titel | Sin título (ver traducción abajo)

Van de lente  

wil ik me niets meer herinneren.

Van de vleugels van je lippen

die zacht verdwenen

zoals de zijdeachtige kleuren

van een vlinder vastgehouden

tussen kinderachtige en onschuldige vingers,

wil ik niets meer, niets meer weten.

Van de lente, liefje, van je lente

wil ik nooit, nooit,

meer herinneringen.

Ook niet van je woorden, van je kussen

die als kroonbladen

een voor een langzaam glijden

als bloeddruppels langs mijn trieste wangen

als gebroken warme zuchten

die zomaar, zomaar, naar de zomer,

zonder excuus,

plotseling vertrekken.

En ik, ik tril, ik huil, om de lente, om jou,

van angst en kou, ik tril, liefje, ik huil

als ik jou, zoals elk seizoen,

in volledige stilte zie verdwijnen,

zonder één keer,

niet eens één keer, liefje,

naar mij te zwaaien of om te kijken

terwijl ik daar nog sta.

Op dezelfde plek als toen

waar stervende bloemen smeken

om eeuwigheid, om zoete regen,

daar, daar, waar alles,

op een lentedag,

als een schitterend sprookje

zonder twijfel, zonder 'ja maar', daar waar

alles ooit is geboren.

Daar, liefje, daar,

sta ik nog.

Ook in stilte.

Nog steeds. Nog steeds.

 Photo by Amapola Blooming 2010

De la primavera

no quiero recordarme más nada.

De las alas de tus labios

que suavemente desaparacen

como los sedosos colores

de una mariposa atrapada

entre infantiles e inocentes dedos

no quiero más, no quiero saber más nada.

De la primavera, amor, de tu primavera

nunca quiero, nunca

más recuerdos.

Tampoco de tus palabras, de tus besos

que como pétalos

uno a uno se deslizan

como gotas de sangre por mis tristes mejillas

como tibios y quebrados suspiros

que simplemente, simplemente, hacia el verano

sin excusa

repentinamente, se marchan.

Y yo, yo tiemblo, lloro, por la primavera, por ti

de miedo y de frío, tiemblo, amor, lloro

cuando, como en cada estación

en total silencio, te veo desaparecer

sin una vez

sin ni siquiera una sola vez, amor

decirme adiós o voltear tu cara

mientras aún de pie, allí permanezco.

En el mismo lugar de entonces

donde moribundas flores imploran

eternidad, dulce lluvia

allí, allí, donde todo,

en un día primaveral

como una espléndida fábula

sin duda, sin 'sí, pero'

todo, alguna vez nació.

Allí, amor, allí

aún de pie.

También en silencio.

Todavía. Todavía.

Semejanzas (para ti)

Semejanzas, tuyas y mías

yo en tu lenguaje, tu en mi lengua

tu en mi nuca, yo en tus besos

semejanzas, espejos, deseos 

en cada palabra, 

en cada intento de recobrar el aliento

Semejanzas, dulces semejanzas

tuyas y mías, mías y tuyas

en los lirios robados a la primavera

en la sed de néctar y de infancia

en los cometas aún por volar

en nuestro pirata afán de amar sin prisa

Semejanzas, gemelas semejanzas

en el amor por las mariposas

en los portones abiertos a la luz

en la suave isla soñada de caribe sol

en tu hambre y mis ansias de abrazos

en nuestra promesa de no saciar

Semejanzas, siempre semejanzas

en tu borracho deseo y el mío

ondulando en barquitos de papel

columpiándose en mimosas mecedoras

balanceándoce hasta el amanecer

después de soñar que ya no somos niños

Semejanzas, simples semejanzas

al encontrarnos al despertar

en tu espejo y mi espejo

en tu adorable reflejo 

y mis soñolientos besos

siempre, sin pudor, sin dudas

Semejanzas,  acurrucadas semejanzas

Semejanzas, tuyas y mías

yo en tí, tu en mí,

en cada jadeante canto mañanero

que nos ve volver a nacer y renacer

y desnudamente, sin reparos, nos revela

Amapola (by Juan Luis Guerra) - Thank you K.M. for discovering this for me

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0AS_jiknEJw&feature=related 

Abre las hojas del viento,
mi vida,
ponle una montura al río,
cabalga, y si te da frío,
te arropas
con la piel de las estrellas.
De almohada la luna llena
y de sueño el amor mío.
Y una amapola me lo dijo ayer,
que te voy a ver,
que te voy a ver,
y un arcoiris me pintó la piel
para amanecer contigo.
Cierra la noche y el día,
para que todo sea nuestro
y una gran fuga de besos
se pone sobre tu boca,
y que el trinar de las rosas
te diga cuánto te quiero.
Y una amapola me lo dijo ayer,
que te voy a ver,
que te voy a ver,
y un arcoiris me pintó la piel
para amanecer contigo.

My love for you (inspired in you, whom I still need to find)

My love for you 
was born before I knew 
my own flesh, my own voice 
or the soft womb that brought me
to this spot, to this only now 

My love for you 
cried and crawled out to life 
far before the genesis
far before dust was named star 
or mother earth our only goddess 

My love for you is older 
than all the ancient things 
we can recall but not count 
It is larger than the glorious sun 
and bolder than all his companions   

My love for you 
is greater than mind or matter 
yet humble, yet grand, 
yet flawed, for i attempt to name it 
with miniature words of childhood  

My love for you is beyond my eyes 
a landscape of crystal horizons, 
a prism of light and dark, yet no shadows
as I dare to reach out,  far out, 
musingly, in amazement

My love for you is placeless,
nameless, divine, never reckless
It is made of wind, of wholeness
of soothing emptiness, and you, 
your touch, your breath, sculpt all it is

My love for you rises high
as we travel forward to its origin
like playful kites, like newborn comets
like floating angel-eagles 
with shut eyes and wide open wings 

April 2008 | 5 May 2010

LIPS

i lost my mind
i lost my sight
all for a kiss
which left me blind
with bleeding lips
full of desire

2003 (photo taken at the MET in NYC)

Underneath Haiti

There is no verb that can help explain the magnitude of the tragedy in Haiti...  It all seems so irrational, that it's difficult to describe it without struggling to make sense.  I pray for Haiti, may it raise like the Phoenix and be free of suffering.

The blood, the despair, the loss | Brother, sister, father, mother | Limbs in pieces |  The home, the school, the church, the playground  | A mass grave | The tents, the stench, the dirt, the street hospital | If any, a plate of food, a gallon of water, a pair of crutches | The heat, the flies, a wrinkled beggar | Another mattress on the pavement, a pregnant widow | A funeral, a new-born child | The song, the touch, the love, the tear, the faith, the fear, the prayer | A puzzle of dreams, pain, courage and hope | Underneath Haiti, from within the ashes | a ray of light, a rising sun |

In stillness, now, forever, I give you all of me (or Prelude to the saddest farewell )

The liquid glow
of blue voices
inside your eyes
speaks to me

in stillness,

a drop of rain falls
on my cheek
and I know
you're leaving me

now, forever

just before the sun
is back to bright
just before heaven
opens its doors

I give you all of me

Maan | Moon | Luna

psst psst mijn naam is maan

en ik ben er ieder nacht

naast je, als je zacht slaapt

psst psst my name is moon

and I am there every night

next to you, as you softly sleep

psst psst mi nombre es luna

y estoy ahí cada noche

junto a ti, mientras duermes

suavemente

Para Jo, porque tu espíritu es una lección de renovación y por eso y otras tantas cosas, te quiero.

(Image from www.desktoprating.com)

Hay que aprender a soltar

en plena consciencia 

 aunque el abismo

nos engulla sin reparos

repentinamente

hasta que el viento

nos cobije 

y en su silente arrullo

nos convierta

en tierna pluma alada

enseñándonos a volar

suave y ligero

sin temor a caer

una vez más

sobre ancianos

y agudos arrecifes

de desencanto.

A minute of silence for Haiti

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)

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

(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,

a broom
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)

Winter (haiku)

Tip toe, cracking snow
brrr brrr my brrr boot soles
break the icy hush

Hope

a little bird came to me today and sat on my shoulder... and he whispered... "life is a gift of hope"

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.

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.

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)

First Haiku for the new season - welcoming winter time!

In three thousand six

hundred tiny steps backwards

toc-tic walks the clock

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' ?

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

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.

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

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.