Saturday, July 13, 2019

In My Heart, a Flood

“She likes to try everything, out of curiosity, but she’ll be sorry if she isn’t guided by her heart.” ~ Gabriel García Márquez

In my heart,
language is magic
words spelling feelings
out of souls… for flesh
to feel.

In my heart,
inhibition perished
in a symphony
of tongues.

In my heart,
a flood
carrying everything
I am—
gloom and light
and you… in my heart,
a flood

of my words and feels

of you.

one of the 3 poem bits frankensteined to birth this piece,
displayed on the cover of a Knopf edition of Gabriel García Márquez’s Of Love and Other Demons

for Poets United (Poetry Pantry #486)

Sunday, July 7, 2019

Rocking Chair Rocking

“Language is the only homeland.” ~ Czeslaw Milosz 

“[A] collective noun for ravens is an unkindness. This is somewhat puzzling to Thought and Memory.” ~ Diane Setterfield 

“This was the time for story telling, for rocking chair rocking…” ~ Hugh Stanley

When I decided that the theme for this month’s Telling Tales with Magaly Guerrero was going to be “Away from Home”, I did so because, well… I was away from home. This is the perfect excuse to write about my trip, I thought. But storytelling is alive, and living things tend to feed on what they see and feel and experience and more… So, a single glimpse of Kerry’s Art Flash/55 altered my scheme.

Kerry offers Anarh1a’s portrayal of Chernobog and Belobog (Slavic gods in the shape of falcons), which my mind turned into ravens, which morphed into Huginn and Muninn, which Thought of the sounds of a “rocking chair rocking” (in my grandmother’s kitchen), which brewed the Memory of “My Dominican Breakfast” (the poem that birthed  today’s story), which is set in one of the homes forever living in my heart).

In my case, Czeslaw Milosz was mostly correct, “Language is the only homeland.” And writing this slice of life (slice of memory?) lets me live (even if for just a moment) in one of the homes I can always inhabit through Thought and Memory and Words…

the story: “Rocking Chair Rocking”

As sunlight starts bathing the tops of mango and coconut trees, a girl and a boy watch green bananas boiling in their grandmother’s cauldron.

“Fire and water are music to bananas,” the girl says. “Look how they dance.”

“You’re crazy.” The boy rolls his eyes. “They’re running ‘cause the water’s so hot.”

They are dancing,” the girl yells.

“Running,” the boy shouts in the girl’s face.

The girl wipes her face with the back of a hand and brings up her fists.

The boy mirrors the girl’s stance.

The grandmother, who knows her grandchildren from thought to bone, says, “The next mouth that talks drivel gets two cups of goat tea and zero cups of ginger.”

Words still under tongues. For at least three minutes, the only sounds come out of crackling logs and the girl’s rumbling belly. Neither child wants to risk a larger portion of goat tea, which they swear is made from bitter herbs and unwashed feet.

Pointing at the girl’s eyes, the boy smirks in triumph.

The girl glares at the boy, but smooths her features before walking closer to the grandmother and raising a hand.

“Mhm?” the grandmother says, adding lemongrass to the tea pot.

“I smeared my penicillin by accident.” The girl shows the back of her hand.

“Wash your eyes again, then take your remedies to my rocking chair. I’ll bring tea.”

“You get my goat tea,” the boy whispers in the girl’s ear.

“Now who’s mad?” the girl says, winking at the boy.

The delight brightening the girl’s face robs the boy of his victory.

The grandmother glances at the children and chuckles.

Frowning, the boy says, “She’s gonna drink my goat tea! Right?”

The girl runs off grinning like the cat that never swallows singing birds, since she knows tastier things will be offered if she opens her eyes and ears before her mouth.

more wee notes

- to read “My Dominican Breakfast(the poem behind the story), follow the link

- I rarely craft tales in the present tense. But I just read an article that said that one should never write in the present… So, of course, my Muse and I felt rebellious

- goat tea was a bitter and all-around disgusting (but quite effective) concoction my Grandma used to brew (every single day!) to treat my gut issues and other people’s stuffs

-  the title is a quote from “Nostalgia”, a story written by my Father-in-Law years ago. I read it while I was away, and the rocking chair bit, plus imagery that included a grandparent and a pipe, made me miss my childhood home—I can’t think rocking chair or pipe without seeing my Grandmother. I suspect my current eyeball issues might’ve touched the ink a bit, too… Nostalgia is a weird mistress

- written for the Imaginary Garden with Real Toads (Art FLASH/55) and Poets United (Telling Tales with Magaly Guerrero: a Pantry of Prose, #5 ~ Away from Home)

Fogón, by William Frielson
find more of the work of this Dominican artist’s work here

Thursday, July 4, 2019

13 not-quite-so-Random Bits of Living

“If you trust in yourself… and believe in your dreams… and follow your star… you’ll still get beaten by people who spent their time working hard and learning things [and having fun] and weren’t so lazy.” ~ Terry Pratchett [and moi] 

1. Since we met, my Piano Man and I have been reenacting our first date. But we weren’t in New York this year, so we visited a 100-year-old lighthouse and explored…

2. I conquered (all right, all right, my walking staff and I have been working hard at conquering) tricky trails and rocks. My lovely cankles and my wrists were rather swollen afterwards, but… the swelling didn’t last. WoooHooo!

3. My Piano Man delighted in his flexibility. I delighted in the delicious view *cough*.
4. For some reason, my mind kept chanting, “Merricat, said Connie, would you like a cup of tea? Oh no, said Merricat, you’ll poison me. Merricat, said Connie, would you like to go to sleep? Down in the boneyard ten feet deep!”, while this dear deer allowed me (and a bunch of slightly enthralled people) watch her snack on daisies. Maybe it means that it’s time to re-read We Have Always Lived in the Castle. I wonder…

5. My balance remains quite crappy. But with my walking staff and the right boots, I can even walk on driftwood. Super!

6. There is something extra sexy about a Piano Man carrying his Witchy Woman’s bag and her beach-found treasures and blowing kisses (but I might be biased).

7. I’m totally convinced that a book (or five) and a new notebook make any trip better.

8. I was trying to photograph these daisies (in an interesting angle), but ended up photobombing myself. When I saw the picture, I thought it would be a perfect way to say Happy 4th of July. So… Happy 4th of July!

9. My hair is growing back (in your face, side effects of chemo!), but it’s a bit patchy. So, I plan to keep it short, short, short (nearly bald) until things even out. That wee bit of red hair (or my flair), I shall let grow long, long, long… (and dye all sorts of fun colors). Because when life gives us lemons (or chemo steals all our hair), we must fight back with lemon cakes (or by growing a little flair). Really. I know these things *cackles*.
with a flair
of bright red, my bald
awaits hair

11. My eyes and wrists and thumbs... continue troubling me, but I’m getting a lot better at managing the symptoms (while my doctors search for a way to treat the cause(s)).

12. The port-a-cath they implanted under my skin (for chemo) will be removed in two weeks. I’ve been dreaming about my first night of comfortable sleep in a year *sigh*.

13. I’m still behind on answering emails and comments and such… Taking care of hospital things and my sexy flesh and bones and such takes priority. Still, I always skim messages to avoid missing an emergency. I think I’ll catch up in a week or three.

What about you, my Wicked Luvs, what’s on your not-quite-so-random list?

linked to Blogging Around with Rommy (Just the Basics)

Saturday, June 29, 2019

Silenced Turned Dreadnought and Screamed

“I see a world that is terrified of me. Terrified of someone who would reject manhood. Terrified of a girl who knows who she is and what she’s capable of. They are small, and they are weak, and they will not hurt me ever again.” ~ Dreadnought, by April Daniels

boy’s mouth
told the world,
“I’m a girl, see

the world is too daft,
too deaf to the truth of souls
not wanted (by some)

self-knowing girl
tells the world
I’ll never be silenced

for Therisa and Rie’s son and Tol and Valientes and Jaz and Octubre and Dee and Kiara… and every soul who had to claim the Dreadnought mantel in order to show their Self to the rest of the world

the wee notes…

- in her summer reading challenge, Khaya invited us to read a book from a favorite genre by an author we’ve never heard of. I chose April Daniels’s Dreadnought, a YA novel about Danny Tozer, a transgender girl who “inherited the powers of Dreadnought, the world’s greatest superhero.” This poem was inspired by my feelings about the story

- crafted for Debra’s Translesbigayapalooza 2019 (a one-person *cough*, month-long blogfest that celebrates all things LGBTQ+), Blogging Around with Rommy #23 (Saved by Found Words), and Poets United (Poetry Pantry #485)

detail from the cover of Dreadnought (Nemesis, #1), by April Daniels

Thursday, June 27, 2019

Masked and Hatted; or, Wild Woman Rocks Mad-Flowery-Ninja Look

“She threw a couple of logs into the fireplace and glared at them until they burst into flame out of sheer embarrassment.” This fiery-grin-inducing Terry Pratchett quote has nil to do with the reason behind this entry. But since it appears in Witches Abroad, and I’m abroad and witchy, it makes perfect sense in my lovely skull.

I’m writing this wee note of a post in order to use the link to reply to a gazillion and one messages from friends who are worried about my health (thank you for keeping me in your thoughts). I’m not in the hospital *knocks on wood*. I’m on a short vacation. So, assessing your red and black funereal outfits might be slightly premature. I shall be home in time for Telling Tales with Magaly Guerrero: a Pantry of Prose—by the way, July’s theme will be “Away from Home” (because, oh yes, I am that deliciously selfish).

I hope you are well, my Wicked Luvs. Again, thank you so much for your concern. My flesh and bones are achy, my joins are stiff, and I’m walking on eggshells around my easily inflamed eyeballs, but none of that seems to matter too much while I’m enjoying a day or three in the company of people I love.

a wee note: I have added “Guerrero” to the name and URL of my blog. The old URL no longer works. This is the new one:

masked and hatted and reflective on ferry-land, um... I mean deck, ferry-deck *cough*

Saturday, June 22, 2019

In the Soil, in the Bone, in Our Dark

I hope your summer started with a burst of good things. I can’t complain about mine (mostly). My eyes and joints and back and… well, you get the point, are still giving me quite a bit of trouble, but (and this is a really good “but”) things are getting much better—my eyes are less inflamed, a pair of thumb spica splints have given me back my sleep (and once I figure out a modified hand-placement, they will probably give me back my push-ups too)

About the blog… I’ve added “Guerrero” to the name and URL. This will probably affect “Following” settings (on Blogger and on Bloglovin’), but I’m not quite sure how. We shall figure it out as we go… I’ve re-added the “Followers” widget to my sidebar. I hadn’t noticed it had gone poof! (thanks for letting me know, Dee, you rocketh very mucho).

About the blog and me… My eyes and joints troubles have added more than 3 hours of therapies (flesh and bone maintenance?) to my daily routine. This is the main reason why I’m behind on responding to your emails/messages/comments. I am not ignoring you.

But enough logistics (for now). Let us poem: “In the Soil, in the Bone, in Our Dark”

Summer comes
dancing madly towards the dark,
making the young Sun all
hot and bothered.

Summer comes
like old, old magic
burning Solstice bright,
bright and fully felt
in the soil,
in the bone,
in our dark.

Summer comes
like lived words,
touching and filling
our darkest
in-between spaces,
unblinding tongues,
making all things
chant of chaos,
chant of balance.

Summer comes
like dark chocolate—
sweet and bitter,
fully alive
with promise.

Summer comes
like magic,
like words,
like chocolate—
Summer came.

more wee notes…

- this poem began as a Summer Solstice blackout (photos below), which brewed into being after I read the words “Bitter. Sweet. Alive” in Joanne Harris’s Chocolat.

- for the Imaginary Garden with Real Toads (Weekend Mini-Challenge: Summer Solstice) and for Poets United (Poetry Pantry #484).