Autobiography: A thought overseas

This poem is my first written completely in English, although, of course, with my mind thinking in Spanish. It was written for the "Finding your voice" workshop, a six-week creative writing program for newcomers in Canada, conducted during Saturday mornings in the Millenium Library. All my gratitude to the people conducting and supervising it. 

Reason and cause,

purpose and a source of uncertainty; /ʌnˈsɜːt^əntɪ/

when I walk on the streets

in a new city,

the breeze reminds me sometimes who I am.

I was born in a normal Wednesday

back on October

a quarter of a century ago.

The horoscope of the newspaper

prayed that it was the only day of the year

the New Moon opposite my sign

and stars were desaligned enough

to give me birth.

My father got dizzy when he saw the doctor cutting my umbilical cord,

the only thing that attached me physically to my mother,

who went to the hospital by taxi not very worried about contractions

but kind of excited for giving birth the first girl in all the family.

Thoughts driven by the intuition

that my entrails give birth

twice a day;

every city is a new city every single day

if you know how to see the way its mechanisms flow

and how the landscape flies over the land.

They decided to name me like my grandmother

although my father, a man who got mad every time I called him by his name instead of "papa",

was very against it (who knows who I would be with that other name he wanted to put on my shoulders).

Since then I carry this name that means remedy

but that doesn't seem to bring solutions to anybody

and that is cuttable for Mei,

which sounds like the month we are in

and brings a lot of rain all over the place.

When my feet feel the land

or one of my toes dive into that warm origin

where I come from

and I notice myself inside of myself,

I can reach a cloud and rain the who that I am.

When I was a teenager

I hadn't decided yet to be myself

until I had to decide it to,

because I didn't find anybody

able to be a better myself than I am.

And one Wednesday night,

I bumped into a mirror

that was presumptuous enough to not give me the same hand

I was giving, but the opposite one,

and through my inner voice I decided to be this myself that, by the way, I am not anymore.

Since then I carry this firm decision,

and some more,

and a small mirror in my purse as well,

just in case someday I blink looking at the mirror

with purpose and enthusiasm

and the reflection blinks to me with the same eye as me.

I realized that I became an adult

when I received the best gift in all my life:

a dictionary. The dictionary.

I almost cried.

Almost,

since I never got to learnt to cry in front of anybody.

Just a few months ago I decided to leave completely home,

my origin home,

and to be between homes.

I started in a place where two rivers meet,

and where the cold would freeze my stomach

and where the most beautiful picture is an empty bride dress on the snow.

My home is these days in the greenish water that runs through my veins.

I am home, journey and land, perpetual innovation;

madness that I bring overseas “to make it more mine”.

And right now:

an autobiography is about life,

nobody said that the future should not be included.

And nowadays

I can't really tell you too much about what the future holds for me

nor for any of us.

Purpose and a source of uncertainty; /ʌnˈsɜːt^əntɪ/

when I will walk on the streets

in a new city,

I will often know who I am.

Between homes

This poem is my second written completely in English, although, of course, with my mind thinking in Spanish. It was written for the "Finding your voice" workshop, a six-week creative writing program for newcomers in Canada, conducted during Saturday mornings in the Millenium Library. 

My home is today on a bridge between two homes.

I always thought my home was
a small square with a few walls
with idiosyncratic tiles in every room,
a 60 metres square plus 6 for the balcony square
hidden in a narrow middle-street cutting a block
(or as we call it here, an apple),
near the Mediterranean sea,
by which shore I found many times a small cottage
flying as a lost kite
in the sky.

My home is today on the bridge between two homes
with 7 light-months distance between them.

I thought it was where I was safe,
and home turned to be where my family was and where it is and will be
and so today my home is made of tiny pieces of
concrete, counters, cables and cells;
acrylics across accelerated afternoons of
safe sadness
and a part of the heaven.

My home is today on the bridge between two homes
with 7 light-months distance between them,
with a handrail made of a mosaic of longings to travel,
(considerating that at last going back home is an amusing journey);
a wanderlust,
and with every landscape
spread on the immense sky of Winnipeg.

And sometimes,
in the long afternoons of Winnipeg,
under these skies that were so easy
to love,
I make a few steps on this bridge
and my fingers join the borders
of every navy blue piece
of the mosaic on the handrail
(blue navy is the tragedy's colour)
and I step back
and I order my feet to stop just a while:
−stop
and carrying in my bagpack the sharp callosities of my heels
when I think of walking back to my first home
(no matter from where),
and embracing the strong idea
that Home, with a capital letter,
is where you,
with purpose,
no fear,
no doubts,
no dreads,  
without saying "excuse me" nor "sorry"
fart on the couch.

My home is today on the bridge between two homes that meet.

Will of snow: where my mouth goes

I will eat some snow in every stop.

That is my vow,
my only promise
in this warm winter day

this is my only will
in this little tiny second goodbye.

In the bus station of Winnipeg,

under the falling snow,

I tried to eat some snow,

after you left.

And I felt the white's wetness in my lips.

I will send you a picture of myself

eating snow

in every place my mouth goes.

I will send you a picture of myself,

looking up the white heaven,

sometimes closing my eyes

with my eyelashes holding a snowflake
you would wish to be.

I will send you a picture of myself

eating snow

in every place my mouth goes.

That is my will today,

this December the 22nd,

filling my whole mouth with snowflakes

and swallowing.

The will used to be permanent

and became in this last time a temporary treasure

craving to last forever

but conscious about it's inherent will of disappear

in the melting of the last snow in my mouth,

in front of you,

in this unique city that Winnipeg is.

I will send you a picture of myself

eating snow

in every place my mouth goes.

I know who I am.

Right now.

      I'm this walking.

Just now.

      Every step I breath.

I exist. I am. I breath. I shout. Now.

Edmonton night, Calgary morning.

The lights bright inside the cold of my hands

and flow from my inside to outside in the morning air.

I'm a mirror of the solitary nocturnal Calgary tower,

under this unusual Christmas canadian full moon staring at me almost lying down.

I'm on the shadow of a lonely girl,

I'm not longer a shadow, anymore,

in the same place where I have never been

but where I have been so many times,

in this spot where I started to dream

and opened my arms to this big tiny world some day years ago,

because I am a big tiny girl as well in this world that I walk,

because my eyes have learned how to be the world,

because the path is no longer a line,

it's a spiral that goes from inside to outside

from outside to inside

and to outside again.

Don't try to grab nor rasp the route of the events,

they're not yours, you only pass by them.

I belong to any city, to any river flow,

to any snowpiece falling from a branch,

to any past footprint where I step my feet.

Calgary, sleepy amusing Calgary,

bite my nape,

take me in your arms if you believe I'm not already there

and wake up.

Quién are you?

Who are you? — Preguntó. Las palabras prolongaron el segundo en el que estábamos viviendo, pero no pasaron de ser relevantes durante más de tres segundos.

Y, sin embargo, solo unos días después, las mismas palabras, bajo el recuerdo del sonido vibrante de su voz masculina, sugerente, grave y autónoma empezaron a repetirse en mi mente de un modo muy vivido, lúcido tal vez, y las repeticiones han empezado ahora a amontonarse.

“¿Quién soy?”

“Who are you?”, you asked. I bet your question has nothing to do with my answer. Does it really matter who I am by myself to you or this is just about who I am in what you experience through me?

“Who are you?”, you seemed almost angry when you asked, like if it was my fault being and not being at the same time.

Titterings and teeterings

The weather teeters in Winnipeg
like the fingertips in the pockets.
It is necessary sometimes to take out the chapped hands
and to keep the knuckles in the wind,
for a minute, maybe,
feeling,
hurting yourself,
noticing how the strength of the collar ties to your throat,
under the cotton scarf, under the second scarf, under the fear,
(squeeze a bit more that blue scarf),
listening to,
at least for ten seconds,
not your alter ego but definitely your inner ego,
(squeeze a bit more, three seconds)
breathing from the top of the head to the tips of the toes,
exhaling the earth through yourself
(squeeze a bit more, five seconds).

Take off your boots, the leg-warmer, the stockings, the socks,
it is necessary, sometimes, to let the bare feet deep into the snow,
freezing,
hurting yourself,
not listening anymore,
breathing from the top of your brain to the tips of your extensor tendons of your feet,
exhaling the earth through yourself
(squeeze a bit more, seven seconds)

the red feet, the blue throat,
tight scarf,
exhaling,
(squeeze for a sec),
titter,            
fall.

Where my ego goes

Where the hell is my ego?

I am suppose to be me, to be a poet, a researcher, a teacher, a thinker

and to have an immense and beautiful ego

making me going to get all those things.

Are they only even things?

But where the fuck is my ego?

I don't want to publish, don't want to be a thinker, or a poet or a researcher.

I just want to be. To be. To be. To be.

until I am not anymore.

I wake up in the morning,

all except my ego looks at the mirror.

My face, my chest, my belly.

I don't need to dress anything that identifies me,

I don't know what make up is nor how to use it,

I don't raise a flag

with the fact that I do not need to shave my legs and underarms,

that I don't care about the color of my ass,

and, maybe the worst,

that I don't know what to answer when someone, innocent, asks me:

"What do you do for a living?"

Too abstract, sweetie.

I am too abstract, though.

When did I become like this?

Does my ego reside in my abstract individual mental thoughts?

Maybe it is inside my stomach,

surviving in my chyme  (/kaɪm/)

I think about going to sleep.

I put my fall boots, I wear my tattered [ˈtætəd]  green jacket

and I go outside the house.

I light on my cigarette,

those cigarettes for which I paid so many taxes.

Everything goes in silence.

Two feet of the new snow all over the garden.

Two feminine deer.

I put it out.

I keep my defenseless ego in my cigarette.

I put it out.

My ego drops in the snow.

Las novias en Winnipeg (II)

El vestido de la novia deviene la nieve que cubre la congelación de dos ríos

un río que desemboca en el devenir de otro río, Winnipeg

Las novias en Winnipeg

Dos ríos que se juntan en uno. Ese es el origen y final de esta ciudad, en la que los viajeros, extranjeros, forasteros que están de paso, aquellos que vienen de fuera, se quedan solo por amor. ¿Por qué la gente se quedaría en una ciudad tan fría si no es por amor? Incluso cuando uno viene de fuera, solo temporalmente, la pareja se queda en Winnipeg. ¿Por qué no se marcharán al lugar de origen del otro? Es Winnipeg, la ciudad creada desde el cruce de dos ríos. Por qué se quedarían si no es porque es el lugar donde encontraron ese otro río? Eso explica por qué hay tiendas de vestidos de novia cada tres calles. Eso explica por qué el white style ocupa tanto espacio en esta ciudad, porque el vestido de la novia deviene la nieve que cubre la congelación de dos ríos y nieva en cada rincón de la ciudad, manteniendo el color del traje del novio el calor del hogar.

Encuentros

En esta ciudad, donde nieva en las basuras y donde el humo de los tubos de escape se emblanquece, siento mi corazón respirar un poco menos. Camino de la casa a la parada de autobús, en un paseo matutino que no despierta pasiones ni me mantiene tampoco en los sueños recién olvidados de la noche. En la parada, hay sentado uno de mis destinos, tomando la forma de una madre cuya atención conduce inequívocamente a su bebé. No hay nada más importante esta mañana que los ojos negros de un bebé envuelto en varias mantas fijos en mi cara.

La tarea más difícil, y la más fácil también, es mantenerse vivo respirando en esta ciudad, sea donde sea. No importa tanto dónde, sino por qué y cómo.

Quiero pasar pisando fuerte por la vida | I want to go walking strongly through life

A horcajadas, si hace falta,

hollando la tierra,

metiendo un pie tras otro en la nieve

y volver por el sendero
resiguiendo los pasos

con los que vine.

Quiero pasar pisando fuerte por la vida

ultrajándolo todo,

quebrantándonos un poco,

profanando las leyes más básicas por las que nos regimos,

abatiendo la injusticia

abrazando de frente al miedo,

insiriéndome en la confusión e incertidumbre,

e ir a veces caminando,

solo eso,
caminando,

despacio pero fuerte,

por la vida.

Volver, siempre volver,

sobre mis pasos,

dibujar cenefas

en la nieve, en la arena o en el hielo

con los pies descalzos,

en la arena blanca de una nieve que resbala,

como mis manos dibujan la espuma en el Mediterráneo,

y volver,

retornar a mis pasos

pisando fuerte,

siempre,

en la vida.

(English version)

Astride, if necessary,

treading the land,

putting one foot after another in the snow

and get back on the path
refollowing the steps

I came with.

I want to go stomping through life

outraging everything,

smashing us lightly,

profaning the most basic laws by which we rule over,

taking down the injustice

embracing and facing the fear

inserting myself in the confusion and the uncertainty.

and to go sometimes walking,

only that,
walking,

slowly, but strong,

through life.

Coming back, always coming back,

over my steps

and draw trimmings

on the snow, on the sand or on the ice

with my bare feet,

on the white sand of a slippery snow,

just as my hands draw the foam in the Mediterranean sea,

and coming back,

returning to my steps

stepping strong,

always,

in life.

White box bridal city: bites and pinches

*It can be read from the beginning to the end or backwards (although there isn’t a backward way of reading it, both path readings are different, but one is not more important than the other).

            I

Winnipeg:

two rivers dreaming,

a river of blood guzzling stones.

            II

Winnipeg,

white box city,

it feels like a dream and it does not stop.

            III

Winnipeg,

this white long box city:

two shadows by the streetlight at night,

one sideways shadow in the afternoon,

any shadows in the dawn.

            IV a

Winnipeg,

white toy city:

a river disappearing into the other,

a glass that explodes in your hand

and doesn’t cut your skin enough to make you bleed,

            IV b

Winnipeg,

white toy city:

a river devouring another,

snowflakes penetrating the garbage.

            Between IVb and V

The most difficult task, and the easiest,
is to stay alive and to keep breathing
in this city, everywhere.
It does not matter where, but why and how.

            V

Winnipeg,

white bridal city:

a river that flows into the course of another river,

calmly.

            VI

Winnipeg,

white bridal city:

at the exact point where the two rivers meet,

the bridal gown becomes the snow

that covers their freezing.

            VII

Winnipeg,

white box bridal toy city.

Beyond the edge of this city

everything is full of nothing.

Plenitude is made of small pieces of vacuity.

             VIII

Winnipeg,

white box bridal toy city,

one last time.

The sky that runs from all the edges

and twinkles

and storms and shut up sometimes.

          LAST

I wish 

my self

was still

melting in the snow,

melting in your mouth,

stopping the flow of the sky.

Right side up? An if-piece

What if we all are upside down?

(to be continued) 

Assiniboine river

La primera vez el río estaba mojado. Era un río normal.
La segunda vez el río llevaba a dentelladas trozos de congelación.
La tercera vez, yo era el centro que separaba los principios de congelación y el curso del río mojado; agua que al confinarse en el frío estalla friendo la superficie del hielo.
La cuarta vez, de lo que fue río solo quedaba un charco y, a pesar de todo, el antes río seguía siendo río.
La quinta vez, del río solo quedaban los pasos del venado. Al atravesar la cerca, diez venados, quietos, atónitos, me traspasaron la mirada sin tratar de escapar. El río ya no era río y seguía siendo río. Yo también era río.