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.