Cooked Potatoes

  How can I soften the sharp Ts in my sound? The ones I acquired at school where the teacher used to say ‘keep your accent for flirting’ When you aren’t British, or Latina, or coloured, or white, What are you? Latinos, the ones with lovely skin like dulce piloncillo call me a mongrel. People look down at me with a little mocking smile: too apasionada, drámatica, oh she’s so funny kind a’smile. Bisnieta de Andaluz, hija de madre blanquísima. Descendiente de Moros. Often I envy a los Latinos del otro lado del océano, them who aren’t separated from their roots por todo un pinche mar Atlántico, solo un muro/a wall, or a river called Rio Bravo, a torrent that vanishes in the cold of winter then emerges from the ground like a deep wound across the desert, like my tears/ my rage lying in wait behind mi sonrisa, that pounces upon some unsuspecting victim, never the apropiarte target. Mi rio está lleno de ahogados. Only when you start withering you notice your roots are drying, dying, then ...

  The presence of the Manatee moves me,  a tear drop shifts I weep not for me only,  but for the spirit lost,  all that which we are destroying. With the carnival drum,  all of my land's rhythms  so mine, awake sleepy aching roots,  heal new and ancient wounds  with the shudder of the rump.

Like muffled rain tiny snow flakes, frozen analogy of cherry blossom, fall in the middle of spring Frost dazzled the frogs in the midst of their amphibian embrace. Fantastic creatures in the depths of the pond with two heads and eight legs. Roses, ignoring the weather are filled with promises Periwinkle, Maiden Weed, Sorceress Violet, Blue Eyes, Blind Weed, Vincapervinca, embroiders with indigo the sumptuous white carpet. Under his iced cap the stone Buddha dreams of the Himalayas And with it all in spite of everything I, deprived of faith, get lost in origami of words.

...She said no She couldn’t make it, “Money a bit tight, it is quite impossible”, she left it at that. Why would I want to go out in a world of yielding knives and machetes in the Underground? The world’s unravelling. Every single day, from Monday through to Sunday a kid dying, flower wreaths proliferating on blood soaked city pavements, and mothers crying;   why should I go out? Cars mounting pavements and ramming crowds; a world where no one looks into another’s eye, but only over the shoulder. After the attack where a white van charged through a market one Saturday night, a summer night when people where just hanging out and ran them over, then three men jumped out of the back yielding serrated knives and proceeded to cut flesh, slash throats, pierce hearts, senselessly cutting the thread of young lives, she entrenched herself in her back garden amongst roses and ferns, robins and starlings; This little kitten has used up eight of its lives, she liked to say. But that even...

. “We all hold inside a tragedy that defines us, a rage like ‘raw potatoes’ “Raw potatoes?” “Yes, you know what Tich Nhat Hahn said about anger: that it is like raw potatoes, indigestible, so that you have to ‘cook’ it.  “It is a shame that it is never a joy that defines us, our life’s defined by sorrow, why? “Perhaps because sorrow is what makes us grow? So tell me, what event in your life defines you?    

Down the dark domed womb of my world, Insects flutter: little blazing miracles, symbols of hope, and of nostalgia for the light. In the cities, hummingbirds still fly, and bees with pollen laden wings spread life across the fields…still. There is yet song; there is still strife; there is yet love: all is not lost. Down the burning woods life trembles. Creatures are seeking sanctuary. And ferns that once boasted  the bounty of their fronds, today witness their own death. The acrid stench of greed permeates the smoke choked forest. Meanwhile the ignorant,  accomplice of the criminal, receives the calls, feet on his desk, and scratching his gold teeth says: “We’ll look into it tomorrow”. While creatures on four legs, and two, with roots, or wings, Or crawling, Wonder What, On Earth, Is going on? Special mention, poetry competition Nostalgia for The Light, London, 2016