Foreigner

In poetry, I lived
While with you I lived alone,
Y pensaba que nunca lo comprenderías
Because we didn’t speak the same language.
So I shouted with my pen
Because you just couldn’t understand me;
Lay myself bare,
Knowing full well that you wouldn’t touch me;
And waited behind transparent verses
That I realized would never attract a penetrating glance.
It’s only once I’d finally gone away
That you noticed my parting footprints on the page —
Only once you were far beyond the echo of my voice
That you heard what I was saying.

Anachronism

Rome was already dead.

It was her ghost which emerged from the barbarian raids
To witness the moment the Tawantinsuyo awoke to its own splendor
Just moments before discovering that the seeds of its destiny
Had always been germinating there among those Seven Hills.

And as the mountain kingdom lay bleeding,
With one final, desperate gasp before her altar,
A deathbed convert, but all too tragically late,
The prostrate Inca warrior poured his libation of virgin tears
Over the marble belly of Venus–
Whose alabaster robes had buried
The quena
That opened those last decisive battles on the páramo–
And an empire built on granite
Fell to dust at the feet of a fading Classical apparition.

When the most bitter of Andean chills
Mangled the Mediterranean olives on their branch,
Two great empires
Reigning out of time

Clashed in anguish.  Fused.
And fell
Right there

On our bed.

* ~ Ñoqa Chuquiagomarkamanta Pichopaq ~
Quena = type of Andean flute, held vertically at the lips

The Traveler

The eyes may be the window to the soul
But the voice is the ticket for its journey,
Drawing, only if we’re lucky, the most intrepid of travelers
Like an irresistible siren song
To explore those depths within us,
Devouring the landscape with their eyes,
Illuminating the ancient corridors of spirit with golden fingerprints,
And tearing through the wildest jungles with flashes of insight,
But never trying to tame, no, relishing
The primal beast they find so submlimely seated
Somewhere in the being–
Enthroned on instinct,
Enrobed in the sumptuous trappings of human feeling,
Crowned with the dazzling jewels of articulation,
And wielding the precious sceptre of literacy.

So, traveler, perhaps our eyes have not yet met–
This time, at least,
But let me take you on this accidental journey
To the depths of my soul
Where we both might be surprised to find
That the lines of self begin to blur
In the blinding brilliance of my naked sincerity
And the earthy essence of your raw crusade for truth
Where you go seeking something palpable
On the timeless, winding river of words.

It’s hard to define what inspired this poem about the art of expression; I was watching “Laura non c’e” (Nek’s duet with Cerena).  Maybe it was the timelessness of the setting in the video, Nek and his absent muse, the tortured artists running frantically through some underground labyrinth, the beautiful illumination of the dark corridors they explore, I’m not sure….This poem is about even more than I am sure how to express in prose, so check out the video if you’re curious; maybe the imagery will convey what I cannot.

  

Ahuac taita

Ahuac taita
Hunched over your craft
Those calloused, twisted hands
So deftly scratching back and forth
Through the yet invisible landscape of your creation;
A thousand knives at your curving back
Strength, sight sacrificed for the power to
Build mountains
Forge rivers
And freeze flowers in paradise
With the simple tug of a thread.
Ahuac taita
Your wrinkled eyes, your grieving face,
Your fingers speak through the somber, silent figures that you build–
Those unmoving musicians,
Those vagrant porters
Those lonely peasants
And those wayward beasts of burden
Are far more powerful than the
Imposing cordilleras and the
Dazzling hillside pastures
That embrace your woolen outcasts.
Ahuac taita
Tell me more,
One humble fiber at a time;
I have nothing but to wait here in this place,
And I promise I will listen
To the colors, to the textures of your story.
I see the shapes emerge of
Four campesinas staring dejectedly into the distance as
The sun setting over the other side of their barren mountain
Illuminates someone else.
Ahuac taita, that someone else is me!
Where they fall to their knees in golden fields of failure,
Their heavy shawls ablaze with the jewel hues of yesterday’s abundance,
Their earthen jars….I know–
Their earthen jars are empty.
Ahuac taita
I will buy your tapestry,
This message in a bottle
That so few will ever dare to open,
This weaving, this world that you sell
For ten dollars.
But, oh, that I could give you so much more!….
To see your brightest visions come to life.

Because writing is sexy!

Pull back the cover

I invite you

To take your pen

To this book

Those ink-stained hands

Should spread

The pages

Your pen

Can leave its strokes within.

I give you a question mark

With all its mystery

Its curves

Rounding downward to

That singularly provocative point

Where you can write your answer

With graceful plunges below the lines,

Playful dashes,

Teasing ellipses,

Decisive dots,

Languid loops,

And all the artful

Punctuation of your choosing.

What will you write for me?

Your pen is

Welcome to play

I will be your muse and

This book

Can be…

An adventure!

Of swashbuckling vagabonds and secret hideouts,

Buried treasure unearthed after some perilous voyage—

Or a poem

Of timeless verse and soul-born cadence,

So exquisite in its candor and instinctive to express—

Maybe an epic

Whose ancient threads and exotic places are

Woven together with the touch of your words to this page—

Or even, perhaps, a comedy

Of clumsy, carefree heroes who meet under some…

Ridiculous circumstance!  And smile at their flaws.

Now bring your pen

To the satin canvas I am ceding

Here between the covers.

Your barrel may empty

When the pages are full.

 

I dedicate this to the inventors of writing, whose names are forever lost to history but whose gift makes them immortal, and to each and every writer since — all of whom, of course, are sexy! Writing is a passionate act of creation that strips you bare every time. (And the reader too!)

If you found yourself inspired by this poem, please go out and buy a book — support the art! And if you found yourself inspired in the, ahem, *other* way, just be safe. 😉

The Virgins

I made a pilgrimage

To the land of eternal spring

Where the ancient mountains are burning

And the verdant fields are bleeding

And the youthful streets are screaming –

Cries of the ghosts of virgins

Whose daughters

Are harvested every day.

I walked in wonder

Through the pristine savagery of eternal spring

Averting my eyes from the wolves

Closing my ears to the snakes

And opening my soul to the carnage

That first claimed the virgins

Whose daughters

Are ravaged every day.

I stopped the advances

Of the conquistadores of eternal spring,

Appropriating boulevards for myself,

Walking, exposed on all sides,

To protect my body from their gunshots

While my spirit was penetrated

Like the virgins

Whose daughters

Are born every day.

“Everything’s resolved in bed later,”

Some laugh on balmy afternoons in eternal spring,

When, exhausted from running

And dreading the blows,

The helpless desperately seek refuge

And are cast aside by the sons of a virgin

Whose daughters

Are flogged every day.

“Why won’t you drink!” he screamed

Of the poison of eternal spring

As I told him, instead, to imbibe it,

Wrestled myself from his grip,

And became

Another refugee of the virgin

Whose daughters

Are sedated every day.

Deep in the lion’s den

Higher than the clouds,

The beasts were salivating at my side,

And I could truly see the tragic glory of eternal spring

While, smaller than ever,

I stood at the feet of a virgin

Whose daughters

Are falling to their knees every day.

Stealing into the heavens one night,

I passed into a new season —

More alive than ever before, and crying with relief,

Unscathed but not untouched,

And forever remembering the virgin

Whose daughters

Are saved every day.

  

*I’m not here to make any claims about religious affiliation or devotion, so it is with the utmost of respect that I am requesting you not focus on however it may be that I experience my own spirituality.  I will say, however, that I firmly believe that life is experienced in a deeply cultural context, which, by its very nature, can vary drastically from scenario to scenario.  I hope to inspire reflection on this latter aspect of the human experience.  Travel memories come in all varieties, and sometimes your souvenirs choose you rather than the other way around.  Thank you sincerely for reading, and I wish you kindness, love, and peace.*

She Is

“Las voces vivas del recuerdo se disfrazan de intuición.”  Bacilos — “Caraluna”

She is
A breath,
A whisper, if you will….
The scent of summer,
That intangible cue
That, unknowing, drifts parallel to a capricious wanderer,
Alights on a singular breeze,
Reveals its presence to the senses
And just as quickly vanishes.
Yet something about it has lightened your step,
Made you aware of a new season,
And announced itself in ways so subtle and accidental —
And undeniable —
That it almost seems like magic.

She is
A melody
So ancient
That your desires always carried her song
And the pulsing in your veins, her rhythm,
And you are surprised to find yourself aching for more of this familiar aria
Which your ears have never perceived.
But you tell no one — because there is nothing to tell.

She is that shadow
That indisputable stray reflection
That you catch in a careless glance
And never actually saw,
Yet you seek–
So stupid, foolish, crazy! —
Hoping to touch its ethereal fibre
By locking it in the casual gaze of coincidence.

She is the muse
That follows the inspiration,
Not a crazy, fevered obsession,
But a perfectly logical burning
That makes you doubt reason itself.

She is the rain
That lands only one unassuming drop at a time,
Yet of course, almost immediately, you find yourself drenched
In confused exhilaration,
And dripping, shining
With the most absurd of drunken certainty.

She is
That subconscious river flowing through your thoughts,
Which slowly, imperceptibly, but without fail,
Carves the most immutable of mountains into new landscapes;
Transforms the hardest of rocks into a powder fine enough to float on the wind,
And, with a fire to burn her, will seem to vanish from before your eyes,
While you breathe her in without knowing that you’re doing it
Because it is instinctive.

She is the dream you carelessly paint every night,
Half sleeping and barely alive,
In clumsy, frantic strokes
Tinged by the pathetic fury of free will
And the merciful finesse of fate,
And you know she’s real —
Because you never actually envisioned her.

She is
The exotic, so familiar!
A timeless truth
And a fleeting brush with myth.

She —
Elusive and stationary,
Fantastic and mundane,
Invisible and obvious,
Sublime….

She is
Your echo
Carrying words you haven’t uttered.
Your breath
Reaching lands you haven’t explored.
Your memories
Of adventures you haven’t had.
Your scars
From battles you haven’t waged.
Your pulse
In a body you haven’t touched.
And your footsteps
On a path you haven’t tread.
She is yesterday
And never before.
She is now —
But only in delusions.
She is the essence, the aura, of always.

Mi lista

Si pudiera vivir nuevamente mi vida

Pasaría más tiempo afuera de niña.

No me pelearía con mi familia.

Mostraría más el orgullo que tengo por mi hermanito.

Compraría menos maquillaje y más libros.

Tendría más paciencia con los que me quieren

          — y menos con los que nunca valían la pena.

Aprendería a valorar mi propio tiempo.

Pasaría menos de ello en el compu, y más en la gente que me importa.

Llamaría a más amigos.

Tomaría lecciones de voz.

Y continuaría con las de violín.

Andaría sembrando sonrisas

Y no sería tan seria.

Haría más yoga,

E iría a más fiestas en vez de estudiar tanto.

Tendría sexo más joven para no tener que preocuparme por mi inocencia

          – y no quedarme con un chico que nunca me valoraba.

Y encontraría al que quisiera amarme en vez de no más poseerme.

Compartiría más con amigos, y trataría menos de lidiar con toda clase de problemas sola.

Escribiría, como siempre quería.

Diría “no” frente a las responsabilidades que me ahogaran y me estresaran,

Y en cambio, disfrutaría más el tiempo pasado en quehaceres simples —

como cocinar, o limpiar.

Pasaría menos tiempo creyendo en un Dios que juzga

Y más creyendo en uno que ama sin condiciones.

Dedicaría más tiempo a los videojuegos

          y a los libros interesantes que reúnen polvo ahí en mi estante

En vez de en las tonterías que tenía que leer en el colegio, y en la universidad.

Bailaría más con mi sombra

Y trasnocharía más con amigos o amantes — y menos con el trabajo.

Tendría menos planes y más experiencias.

Haría más ejercicios y menos tarea.

Tomaría menos sol artificial y más sol natural.

Pasaría menos de mi juventud llorando y pensando;

          la pasaría siendo joven y actuando — alegre.

Podría curar a los que lo necesitaran

Y buscaría más abrazos yo cuando yo necesitara consuelo.

Si pudiera vivir mi vida nuevamente, yo la viviría de veras,

Despierta,

Y no dormiría hasta la tarde.

Y si que sí me quedara en cama todo el día

Sería para explorar el cuerpo de mi amante.

Viajaría más

Y al regresar a la casa de mis padres, no estaría tan ocupada.

Aprovecharía más oportunidades para bailar en la lluvia,

Para sorprenderle a un amante con un beso apasionado bajo un farol,

Para correr como loca por las olas en la playa,

Para comer más fruta con chocolate,

Para ser, en cada momento, más sensual

Sin excusas,

Porque así se vive la vida — explorando, demorando, saboreando, y abandonándote a lo que te eche.

Básicamente, no más sería yo

          — sin disculpas y sin medidas.

 

 *Esta lista fue inspirada por un poema que tuvimos que leer en la universidad.  Me puso a pensar en lo que haría yo si pudiera hacerlo todo de nuevo, y, pues, aquí lo ves.

Ch’aski

“Déjame mirarte por esa ventana que por las mañanas yo veo en tus ojos — el brillo de tu alma, ¡color solitario!  Déjame decirte que en mis pensamientos, yo llevo tus sueños y tus sentimientos — y mi alma siente morirse pequeña….”  Kjarkas–“La ventana”

A million miles, my footsteps pounding
Across the invisible stretch of sky,
Lighted by stars,
Dodging the cries of babies,
The slamming of car doors,
The music of neighbors,
And the sound of searing silence.
Every night, running, sprinting
Through time, through space, to your side
With my feet nailed to the floor
And the moon’s gaze turning each tear to liquid silver.
My heart racing,
I see you,
Lonelier than you know,
In an embrace you never felt.
Every night, I chased the stars—so close—
Up there
To touch,
Running with my peasant’s bag of magical whispers
To bring you a song
And go back again to my hell
Where I could burn the feelings out of myself with the same melodies.
I took flight into the night
Once I allowed myself to break the chains,
Carried safely back into a morning
That didn’t dawn over you.
For you, who traversed time, traversed space
With your child’s bouquet of magical promises
To bring me a kiss
Never met me where the stars meet the ground.

*Ch’aski, in the Quechua language, means “messenger” or “courier.”

Hourglass

Minutes, hours, centuries, millennia–

Torrents of time that, taken alone, are unremarkable–

All come funneling through the hourglass at once,

And I, inside, buried in the swirl of measures,

Watch, bewildered, scared, as eternities slip through my fingers–

Upward.

The endless dunes, wastelands of yesteryear–

The weights that kept me grounded–

Gone, and I kneel exposed,

In awe and shaking with….

Fear?

I see familiar footprints in the now-transparent, endless, rolling landscape,

Leading from one era to the next,

Traversing lifetimes to connect the dots between every reality conceivable,

All stretched out over the entirety of existence.

Scenes of the exotic, the ancient, transposed

Over this “normal” and this “now.”

You see….

Today I hear in the bustle of the subway station

What yesterday you will play in the still hours of a mountain morning on your ocarina

And which tomorrow I performed before an ancient king in his court to welcome you home.

And on this underground note,

The soundtrack to my desert wanderings,

I toss a token of gratitude to the prophetic piper

While we rush to catch different trains on the same track

Which will collide for the thousandth time

In a fearsome, brilliant spray of sparkling sand

No sooner have we learned to let the minutes pass us by

And the moments carry us along.

To the rooftops!…

Time.
Every sinking sun heralds another day that I will never know
And yet that I’ve already lived.
Like a farcical princess in a real dungeon—
A refugee
Of the all-consuming, merciless beast terrorizing the sacred hillsides below—
I watch from my window
As the bleeding sky before my eyes
Fades somewhere else into a festive night
Of friends, of music, of spontaneity, of life.
And while the spirits of ignorance dance, and whirl and meld,
And crescendo into the colorful laughter of abandon,
My own voice, my own form are absent,
While I watch and ponder the fate
Of the beaten, the violated, the penniless –
Because, tonight, their dusk, their chill is mine.
And we are all together.
And we are all alone.
And we are all forgotten.
And I learn all too late that the height of a cloudless summer
Is a time I would infinitely rather spend in the damp cover of the glistening snow,
And that yet another night delivered on the icy tails of the autumn wind,
Leads at this very moment into a joyous spring that I will never regain
And binds me, helpless, to the certainty that these
Are hours I will never recover.
So now that I—
My dreams, my soul, my hopes, my passions—
Have become, for myself, simply too much,
The fear twists deep within me that I’m still so very far from enough
And that perhaps it’s too late to prove
That I ever might be.

 

 “Listen as the wind blows from across the great divide — voices trapped in yearning, memories trapped in time.  The night is my companion and solitude, my guide.  Would I spend forever here and not be satisfied?”  — Sarah McLachlan (Opening lyrics of “Possession”)