Calla ya (versos para tango)

Spring Moon by Diana Lancaster

Calla ya,
no digas más,

lo sé,
entre nos no habrá más lunas

ni rocíos de mañana.

Calla, calla y bésame

encalla tus labios 

en mis ancianas ansias.

Calla la penosa tormenta

que anunció tu adiós

cuando apenas esbocé tu nombre

en la proa latiente
de mi alma rebosada.

Calla ya,

y besa mi ternura

que se quiebra en versos

y sin quererlo,
ya te extraña.

Date prisa y bésame

que ya llega el ayer galopando 

con su equipaje de nostalgias,

desbocado en la honda pena,

en la honda pena 

de mis desnudas lágrimas.

Calla ya, no digas más.

Bésame 

y calla.

Calla y besa mi tristeza,

acaricia este asombro

que recién nace 

y así no más,
persigue tus libres huellas

a rienda suelta,
amor,

a rienda suelta.


[Cómo sería cantar este poema a ritmo de esta melodía?]

Nevermind

Earth Birth, by Deborah Milton

Whether you like it or not,

I have the right to admire you.

Whether you wish it or not,

I have the right to want you.

Whether you love me or not,

I have the right to adore you.

I dare you.

You see, I carry no gun,

so dare come forward

and punch me, damn!
Dare to punch it all!

Nevermind my pain or loss,

I'll stroke your rage
and empty your lonesomeness.

I'll suck it all up until you blossom,

like a baby being born

right into my loving arms.


[Inspired by Kurt Cobain and Nirvana's album 'Nevermind'].

The toothbrush (for J. ).

My Toothbrush, by Amapola Blooming

I

It was nearly midnight while I was brushing my teeth when I noticed another remain of your presence. The bright pink towel I left out for you laid on the edges of the bathtub still unfolded. The traveling toothbrush I unpacked for you this morning was resting on the sink with its damped cap covering its hard, cheap bristles.

II

I recalled how it was to wake up with you in an unusually freezing morning in early spring. We lingered in bed and you touched me patiently until I moaned and was ready to curl up against you again. It had been a while since I had  someone feel my morning dew, and you knew it.

“Natural, easy chemistry” I thought, as the foam increased inside my mouth, tickling my tongue and the inner edges of my lips. I washed away the tingly froth with lukewarm water, gargling the green freshness of Sensodyne Mint. 

I cleaned my worn toothbrush under the running tap, then firmly stroke my right thumb over the bent bristles, letting tiny sparks of water disperse over the sink. 

III

It was when I was placing my toothbrush back in the ceramic cup, that I noticed yours again. I played with the idea of keeping it next to mine, until you stayed another night. 

Holding your toothbrush in my hand I wondered: when will you give me a sign that you cherish what we just shared? It had been ten hours since the last time I kissed you goodbye, and I wished to hear from you before going to bed. 

IV

I hesitated, and resisted the impulse to place our toothbrushes tête-à-tête. I pondered for a second whether I should throw both of them away or not. After all, it is time for mine to be replaced. I placed your toothbrush below the sink. It now lies next to my many other toiletries. I don’t know until when.

I looked into the mirror while drying my chin and lips with my hand towel.  Leaving behind my reflection, I shut off the light and left the bathroom.

Epilogue

“Que sea eterno mientras dure.” I mumbled in Spanish as I climbed the stairs to my bedroom, quoting my favourite phrase from Nicaraguan poet Gioconda Belli (“let it be eternal while it lasts”).

Outside, the cold wind played with the wooden chimes in my patio and church bells announced the third midnight of spring. 

Oblivion

Tear, by Amapola Blooming (Made with Scribblertoo)

These are the colours of my loving sadness.

This is what loving sadness sounds like to me.

Every time I kiss you away,

your frail touch lingers with me.

Like a blue violin. Like a blue violin,

an aching bow strokes my skin.

Like a blue violin in this violent silence,

echoing oblivion,

caressing my defeat.

Listen to Piazzolla's Oblivion by Guido Kremer

Pétalo a pétalo.

Como carmín incandescente
brotan tus ansias de flor
en mis tímidos labios.
Labios trémulos, impacientes,
que al cálido roce de los tuyos,
sin vacilar, repentinamente,
se desdoblan,
desdunándose casi sin pudor
al ritmo dulce y meloso
de este largo beso que aún te espera
noche tras noche,
pétalo a pétalo.

For an English version, click here.

There's this passage. There's this splendor.

 The Fibonacci Trail

There's this passage that I must pass:

There are stones, there are trees,

there's a river, and mountains to marvel at.

My pilgrimage has just begun,

under an ever changing, faithful sky.

There's this passage that I must unravel:

There are clouds, there are storms,

there's the sun and stars to marvel at.

There's this splendor that I must discover,

but not without you, not without us.

Please walk with me, walk with me

and just hold my hand.

Lullaby

Photo by Amapola Blooming

Let this be your lullaby.

Try it.

You'll dream.

Arthur Rubinstein - Chopin Nocturnes, Op. 9 - Op. 72 

Free, at last.

 Angel, by Salvador Dalí

 [click here for audio]

So you are standing there, on the edge of some imaginary cliff. You are so damn afraid, to fall, to fail, to look like a fucking fool. It feels like the entire world is watching you.

The hurricane of doubt challenges your balance. You become so self-aware.  You forget the muscles that hold your once gracious posture. Your knees weaken.

The claws of fear possess you and the offbeat of your heart makes you tremble. You close your eyes. The beast of vertigo makes you want to jump. You stumble.

The ground on which you’re standing is burning. Confidence melts with your frantic terror and your will stubbornly freezes as you stand on the sizzling fire.

You wish, oh yes, you blindly wish, for everything to be done and over with.

Really, who cares?

Somewhere, out of nowhere, someone shouts: Jump!

Com’on you can do it! Another voice screams.

They have faith in you, but you just can’t believe it.

You clutch your nails tightly against the palm of your hands. You want to fight back, but those muscles, too, have abandoned you.

And just in that moment, when your dreams start fading like thin particles of ashes blown by gusts of self-deprecation, someone whispers your name and almost violently, defies you face-to-face:

“I love you! I love you!” the invisible voice says.

That’s when you open your eyes.

You are awake, and the cliff -yes that cliff - is fucking real, just as the fists that couldn’t punch, just as the wings you never noticed unfolding, just as the abyss beckoning you.

Without thinking or knowing why, you jump.

Yes, you jump.

Just like that.

Somehow, for reasons without words to explain it, you discover that you can fly.

Yes, you can fly.

Just like that.

All beneath and above you is an amazingly vast white canvas.

And yes, oh yes, the entire world is really watching you.

Nothing can stop you now.

You’re free.

At last.

  [click here for audio version]

Published in Six Word Memoirs.

by Amapola in Six-Word Memoirs on Dec 06, 2012 | | T-shirt | Edit

Haiku for the wind

Whistling ghostly wind,

gusty lullabies crawl in

creeping, like night thieves.

Young @ heart (this is how I want to be remembered)

 

Published in Six Word Memoirs - Click here.

Hush!

Hush! said the silence,
brushing my words timidly
with the ink of love.












Image source here.

More word melody than fast fingers.

  

It was summer 1984 in the Dominican Republic, when my mum signed me up for a course to learn how to type. Her argument was that I should invest in this skill, as in two years time I'd be in college and I'd be able to type my own papers. The cool catch was: the course took place at the university campus and I loved the idea to combine it with sitting at my mum's lectures. It made me feel like a sophomore.

Back then, electric typewriters were a luxury. I learned typing on one of those bulky, clumsy mechanic machines. I still remember how I loved the sound they made as we hit the keys. That clack-clack symphony of 30 typists in training, all chasing each other with a crescendo speed. As if we were playing the piano in allegro, then in prestissimo, something that I always dreamed of learning. But my modest parents couldn't afford it for me during that time .

My favourite part was the fastest-typist competition: we had to reproduce a piece of text under three minutes. I always ended amongst the top three. My next level was the blind-typing challenge: the fastest 'blind' typist with least mistakes was the best. I also beat that one.

I liked it so much, that I fantasised with becoming a stenographer in court cases. Later on, not only I had temp jobs as a secretary, but  I had the chance to type on an electric Olivetti.  It made me feel extra important!

When I started college, I typed my own essays and I even earned some money transcribing manuscripts for others. By that time, computers were new to education and Wordperfect was THE THING to learn!

Now I seldom use a pen. And when I see people typing with two or four fingers, I always recall my mum's gift. Like she said when I was a kid, and didn't get the piano I asked for Christmas:

"We cannot afford a piano, but we can offer you the best education".

Years went by and writing became my instrument of expression. Tonight, like piano to poetry, the hushed typing on my high-tech keyboard blends with my hasty words' melody. I close my eyes, running after the wonderful inspiration that made this memory possible.

Thank you mum.

Published in Six Word Memoirs 

Image source here

This is who I really am.

Do you want to know who Amapola Blooming really is?  Read this interview from my beloved writer's community SMITH Magazine.  I am the featured Member of the Month (August 2012).

To review the article, click here.

A wedding cake in four movements (true story)

I

When I married my ex-husband, we opted for a very informal, non-religious, absolutely intimate Dutch wedding. We were short of money, so we decided to prepare all the finger food ourselves. After all, we only had 10 guests.

It was the night before the ceremony, when we were avidly preparing our wedding version of our improvised movie-night tapas, that I realised that we didn't have a wedding cake! It was nearly 10pm, and the supermarket was about to close.

Before rushing to the supermarket, I decided to make a quick call to my mum in the Dominican Republic so that she could take me through the ingredients of the recipe. She used to bake wedding cakes for a living when I was a child, and I used to feel thrilled to be allowed to help her.

(But honestly, in a case like this, who would you call if not mum?)

But mum was not home and I had to be quick, otherwise I was doomed to have a 'cakeless' wedding. So I ran to the supermarket and I got all the ingredients that came to my mind as I recalled the many  times mum and I baked together.

II

I intuitively mixed the eggs, the flour, the butter, the sugar, the cocoa... and by midnight I had a perfectly shaped and neatly scooped steamy marble cake. In the same memory flow as in the supermarket, I also managed to prepare a cream with rum. I let the cake cool before I poured a generous amount of 'crema borracha' over it. It was winter and the cool drafts of the night crawling into the kitchen would keep it fresh until the next day, so I left it outside.

III

Back in the house after the ceremony: that unmissable moment where the bride and the groom cut the cake and they bite that first little piece of married sweetness they carefully put in each others' mouth.

I don't remember if we kissed, but the cake tasted heavenly.

IV

In all the times my mum supervised my baking (a habit that stayed on until my teens, long after she had stopped baking for a living), I never managed to bake a cake as soft in texture and balanced in sweetness as this one.

Traveling was expensive, so my mum and my family could not attend my wedding. But that cake, THAT cake! had MUM written in every sliced served.

It simply melted slowly, like a tender kiss.

Musa solitaria

El poeta y la musa by Rodin

“Ven Pablo,  ¡dibujemos un poema!”

¿Dibujar un poema? ¿A qué te refieres, mujer?

Los poemas no se dibujan, se es-cri-ben.

Los dibujos no se escriben, se di-bu-jan.

Dibujar un poema... ¿Qué pretendes, mujer?

No sé dibujar, no sé escribir bonito

Y  encima de eso te inventas

que dibujemos un poema.

Olvídate de eso, déjame solo y no insistas.

¿Dibujar un poema?

¡Qué ocurrencias las tuyas, mujer!

Never too much...

 

Blue Angel by Chagall.

There's never too much giving.

Only too little self-care.

Digging creative flow. Bach is here.

When I listen to this piece...  I dream, I dream, I dream... 

Bach -click here: Cello Suite No. 1 in G Major

 The Dream Maker by Orlando Agudelo Botero

Quiet, not dead

Bereft of hope, the good old wind abandoned.
The sand was sad, the mermaids were silent.
They hid with the waves under the rough reefs.
A pale reflection of the distant moon
prayed and sobbed, begging the sea not to sink.

I'll die for you! a young sailboat mumbled.
I offer you my life! an old sailor screamed.
Since when are you a coward? A twirl asked.
With tired, weeping eyes, the sea curled in fear.
His tears were thick, his body was trembling.

'The ocean never rests', he remembered;
and feebly he walked towards ailing shores.

Religious pamphlets on a winter day

I'm sure you've seen them:
stacked flat religious pamphlets
like glossy butterflies neatly arranged
on a makeshift table
in the midst of a frozen cotton-like winter day.

Have you noticed them?
On one wing,
a bleeding heart stabbed by thorns burns in the wind
on the other,
a cursive whip shapes the words "HE died for you"

People also tattoo these things.

Those pamphlets, they cost nothing,
but they make me itchy, they make me watch my ticking wrist
and polish my impoliteness with a carefully sketched pearly grin.
That is, when the voices of the lord, like talking statues
annoyingly insist "I" take one.

And they start to sing about Jezus.

Those glossy butterflies, if they ever perch on my hands
they eventually end up crushed like paper meatballs.
I heard they make excellent food
for hungry domesticated dragons.

A hungry domesticated dragon or a fireplace...
I wished I owned either one of them. But I don't.
Which is one of the reasons
why I avoid tattooed butterflies.

You see, it's not easy to keep up the pace
of those paved, fast treadmills they call streets
and feel a fossil's heartbeat and cursive whip
become alive and curse inside my pocket
like a crushed meatball in the rush of a frozen cotton day.

The empty bottle

A chilled draft of darkness cracks the ghostly curtains.

Like a burglar, it crawls and tiptoes into her room,

Leaving lingering traces of olden mud behind.

A miserable, empty bottle rolls on the croaky floor

and hides under the dusty, massive teak table.

It peeps at her despair with pity:


She curses the night, spitting rambling insults,

splitting her sanity into horror and blight.

Her odious words sound young, rebellious.

She's not yet a woman, no longer a child.

The ocean in her eyes lashes her vision

and memories pour out like pointing knives.

Like that empty bottle hiding under the teak table,

She too, got to know about misery too well:

The cruel rage of a reckless man

On a starry night at the seashore,

Gripped her life with lust and drank her breath.

Now she soothes her shivers with songs and sketches.

She draws bleeding hearts as fetching clutches

Breaking through the chest of headless babies.

She composes slurred, frantic prayers

She strums thunderstorms, random hurricanes,

With a broken cello and ravenous chants.


Yet, in her ocean,

in the very depths of her torn eyes,

an angel,

an ailing angel hums loose verses

of drown innocence

and sunken lullabies.