My English has sharp Ts like espinas de nopal

 

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 you might choose to sing to todas las brujas and remember:

comes the lullaby humming softly like the Rio Bravo

at the beginning of spring and you sing the tales of all your dead

give their flesh back to the bones.

 

The Presence Of The Manatee

 

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.

A Howl

A howl

South to North

East to West

Clasps

A universe

That

Arrows, bullets

And blades,

Cleave tear

Slash gash

Break

Sunday- for Julian

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.

Cooked Potatoes, an extract

...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 evening She finished washing the iron pan, the final chore or so She hoped, the last thing to do in that never ending list of to do things, ―the taken for granted little things that must be tucked around the ‘big things’, all the stuff to stop the chaos, stop dust from taking over, toe nails from becoming twisted claws―, dried it with a fresh dish cloth, put it away in the cupboard next to the collection of iron pots ―She could not help it, the obsession over the little things, it gave her some sense of security, of being in control, her hands would grip until they ached; at times she would interrupt her reading of Borges or Mrs Dalloway to fix an upturned curtain hem or enter an item in a shopping list; since she came back that’s how life was, she could not help it. But that evening it all came tumbling upon her through some unexpected crack, one chore to many and the one that broke the camel’s back. She went online and bought herself a ticket to Marseille, then sent a message: arriving next Friday.

He responded with little doggies holding flowers, with kittens jumping, with a profusion of bubbling hearts and in her chest, out of the blue, a Fairy Liquid iridescent bubble swelled. A long lost memory of the days before she became invisible.

Cooked Potatoes, extract, a dialogue

.“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? 
  

Darkness -translated from Spanish

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