I would like to continue, until it ends, Everything ends, doesn’t it? Or maybe it doesn’t….. Some physicist says that there is no such thing as the past and future, And that the order of time is not a one-way street.
I try to believe him, but I cannot devoid myself of the trace of temporality, And strangely enough, it doesn’t bother me. My silent thoughts summon and acknowledge past memories, And piece by piece, each memory is filled with love, fear, desire or passion.
From my smallness I see the footprints of our humanity, It’s not silent and aimless, It makes me smile watching how we are all striving and longing to get what we desperately want, And I can understand our legitimate and unavoidable impatience.
We don’t suffer from a tragic misconception of time, We take what we understand and we strive to understand more. We have time. Everything that doesn’t work will work one day, And I would like to continue.
You probably remember this poem, it as been published on my website before and it is also part of my poetry book, “Love poems”. I am going to reproduce it here, with a link to Masticadores, where it has been published few days ago. Masticadores is a year old platform that tries to unify authors from across the world; many of their writers and readers are from Spanish speaking countries ( Argentina, Chile, México, Brasil, Italia, Colombia and Spain).You can see it at their website if you click here : Masticadores.
Swimming, she used all her might to get to the surface, Fighting the currents of reason that sought to keep her in her world. Sure and unsure walked hand in hand on the beach where she surfaced, She stared them in the face, Took her first breath, and then the first step, And followed the voice that had long cuddled in her heart.
“Ariel,” the sand carried his whispers, From the place where he stud locked up in the man made prison. She whooshed through the sand and she found him, Trying to bend the bars that ruled his world.
“You are not allowed to love a mermaid,” said the chorus of ethnocentric voices, Singing decades old rules. He saw her, she saw him, And oblivious they reached for each other, Bending the bars under the heavy weight of their love.
Unafraid, they walked hand in hand by the wall of “virtue” where others were bowing, relenting their feelings to the man made rules. He picked a piece of charcoal and wrote “Love!” Not as a rule, but as guidance…..
They left, walking side by side. It wasn’t easy for her, She was just learning to walk into his world, But she had him….. And he had her…..
Another time, same wind gusts are witness, to a world of ever changing, uncharted sands of red and tan. No tribal conflicts are troubling this place, The hammer of the modern world has already been cast.
I hear the music of the shifting dunes Chanting to worlds that have been here long before the present, With a faint hum, low throated, drum like sealing sound.
Glowing under the moon, the lights of a thousand stars hanging from the sky, Drench the desert like whiffs of wisdom. I know, That I have lived my entire life in the company of them, Kneeling together to the same universe, Feeling the life force.
Some girls wear different hats, Mine is to thread the beads of civilization into the eternal loop, and prove that that nothing disappears into the unknown. I have been searching to make the Atlantis of the Sands real, To find the lost city that was forgotten for thousands of years. I keep planning my route, And this is certainly the most spectacular adventure of my life.
My feet are aching, for days I’ve been begging for new feet, new arms, stoic in my quest that I hope to carry through the next day and on.
Tonight, I feel so thirsty, Drinking water from my canteen, barefoot, I see my crew stretching, The feeble sounds of their hymn sung in unison Express visions of life that undulate across miles of silent sand. “We’ll go at first light”, says the main porter, I nod, Knowing that the greatest honor bestowed upon us humans is survival. Tomorrow is another day, Neither bound nor free, we will keep walking.
We’re a band of loyal warriors fighting to assemble the puzzle that reveals the truth: The past, the present, and the future are all connected, We don’t own time, but we do own our history.
I believe in us, Nothing is dust in the wind And our songs will not fade mute. Ancient flames of light flicker inside us, Giving us purpose, We will dive and emerge from the sea currents of time, And trace past and present trails of human survival and civilization.
My new poetry book “Love poems: insights into the complicated mystery of love” is available on Amazon. You can get it here. Please write a review if you get around it. I would really appreciate it.
Because you’re here and you have read it, I’d like to tell you the story behind it. There are actually two stories, one is that of Gertude Bell and the other of a lost city.
I’ve written about Gertude Bell before. There is little written about her, but she was remarkable woman who left traces in our history. She was a misfit, one that naturally went against the stereotyped woman of the early twentieth century. She was born in England, in 1868, into a wealthy family. Her mother died while when Gertrude was seven years old.She studied at Oxford. In fact, was the first woman to graduate in Modern History at Oxford. A lot of records list her as an archeologist or as a writer, but for me the accent should be put on her travels, on her quest to uncover unknown paths and on her cultural and political power in the Middle East. Her desert odyssey started in 1900 and she travelled across the Arabian desert many times. Many people thought of her as a specie of lunatic British explorer. I think the fact that they underestimated her was her lucky charm.
Her knowledge helped the European powers decide how to carve Arabia after the war. There is a movie made about her and her travels: “Queen of the desert”.
Under the cover of archaeological research, she traveled to Hail, to assess the Rashids, a historic Arabian House who were the most formidable enemies of the House of Saud. I don’t know what she saw or what she said but we all know that Ibn Saud was the one that became the founder of Saudi Arabia. Many say that Gertrude was a spy. I don’t know how I feel about this, I guess if you’re not there, you don’t know the reasons, or if you didn’t read enough, you should not speak. So, I will not speak. I want to highlight her courage rather than the political games. She was also involved and played a big role in the creation of Iraq, she played the role of mediator between the Arab government and British officials and later on she played an important part in the administration of Iraq.
So this is Gertrude’s story. Now, the Gertrude in my poem, it’s a combination between the way I see the real Gertrude and myself. I guess I must have some Indiana Jones DNA because I too, love adventure and I am fascinated by these things.
The second story behind this poem is the one of a lost city of Ubar, or the so called The Atlantis of the Sands. The quest to find this city started early on, in 1930. But it wasn’t until 1992 that they actually found something, that might be remnants of this city. Here is what they said about it :
“In February 1992, The New York Times announced a major archaeological discovery in the following terms: “Guided by ancient maps and sharp-eyed surveys from space, archaeologists and explorers have discovered a lost city deep in the sands of Arabia, and they are virtually sure it is Ubar. When news of this discovery spread quickly around the newspapers of the world, there seemed few people willing or able to challenge the dramatic findings, apart from the Saudi Arabian press. The discovery was the result of the work of a team of archaeologists led by Nicholas Clapp, which had visited and excavated the site of a Bedouin well at Shisr (18° 15′ 47 N” 53° 39′ 28″ E) in Dhofar province, Oman. The conclusion they reached, based on site excavations and an inspection of satellite photographs, was that this was the site of Ubar, or Iram of the Pillars, a name found in the Quran which may be a lost city, a tribe or an area.” A contemporary notice at the entrance to an archaeological site at Shisr in the province of Dhofar, Oman, proclaims: “Welcome to Ubar, the Lost City of Bedouin Legend”.However, scholars are divided over whether this really is the site of a legendary lost city of the sands.
“A contemporary notice at the entrance to an archaeological site at Shisr in the province of Dhofar, Oman, proclaims: “Welcome to Ubar, the Lost City of Bedouin Legend”.However, scholars are divided over whether this really is the site of a legendary lost city of the sands.” Source: Wikipedia
I think it is an interesting story, and there are a lot of resources on the web where you could read more about it.
Walking through the New York Times Square, I’m utterly in touch with the drama of this space. A curious dog from a small balcony Is barking to the crowds that have morphed into ghosts And now sit around in circles to listen to the beat of spectral drums.
Their fine-tuned acoustics send bass notes of “‘bang” Every time another human has reached the entrance of the bridge to heaven. I pass them, still their music rumbling through my soul In my way to the stump of the Three of Hope. I’m going to rub its surface asking that a mother will go back to her children, Asking that the daughter whom I had to zoom last night will see her father again, Asking for a new choreography in my ward, That would replace the sad with happy endings.
I walk, thoughts flood my mind, I feel alone ….I don’t want to be alone. How can I cross from socially distance to socially intimate? I stop thinking about physical nearness as the image of the ghosts gathered to listen to the drum’s concert sends shivers through my spine. I think about the stump of the Three of Hope and speed up my steps, If I could only save that mother for her children, If only that father would go back home to his daughter..
I wrote this poem a few months ago. It is about a doctor in NYC, when the city was in the middle of the pandemic. The Three of Hope actually exists in NYC. And there is a story behind it……
During the 1920s and 1930s, Seventh Avenue in the 130s was nicknamed the Boulevard of Dreams, a stretch of Harlem lined with top theaters and clubs such as the Lafayette Theater and Connie’s Inn. Between these venues was a lone elm tree (see it above) known as the Tree of Hope, bringing good luck to any up-and-coming entertainer who touched it before hitting the stage—as Fletcher Henderson, Ethel Waters, Eubie Blake, and others did.
The tree didn’t last, it was chopped down in 1934. When the tree was cut down in 1934 during the expansion of 7th Avenue, it was cut into logs and sold as souvenirs. A second tree was soon planted but that too met the ax.
Instead of it now there is a plaque, to remind of the place where the Three of Hope once was.
The theme for this month for Free Verse Revolution is “Reflections”. Reflections could mean anything, from reflections in the mirror, water….to anything that you think it could be related with reflections.
For me, it was …the following poem.
You can read it at Free Verse Revolution if you click here. If you are a poet, I encourage you to submit some of your poetry to this blog, as I think it is a wonderful way of sharing our work.
I travel back to the beginning. Sparks are flying, I watch as she reaches to desires, hopes and dreams And puts them all together in a bundle For a tomorrow that has yet to exist.
She now works at the edges and prepares to step off.
My palms cover my face that has yet to be born, For I already know that it will all come to invade My bones, My skin, My mind.
Covered in gods’ dust she’s working on the souls’ forge, Creating one for me. Psyche! You were also born mortal! What are you doing?! Make me right! I want to yell, give me strength! But she doesn’t hear me, And instead she pours more passion.
Or maybe she did hear me as turns to me and smiles. She whispers: “all is well with your soul Best of souls have passion This is what makes them the bravest and the strongest.”
I frown, Not knowing yet the wisdom In what a thought to be one of her foolish mistakes. I frown, Not knowing that without passion Muttered curses and love songs would all sound the same.
I took what she gave me, And went to discover the unknown.
I travel back to the beginning. Sparks are flying, Covered in gods’ dust Psyche is working on the souls’ forge. Memories of the day before the beginning are running through my veins, She turns to me, I smile and thank her for making me burn, For making me feel, For making me whole.
The shadows have risen. What do the shadows do? What is their story? They’re lying in wait, To hide the abysmal feelings of possession, That prickle your skin and hitch your breath, Of only you and only me.
The marble moon doesn’t fuss To slam the door open. The smell of desire, Carries its mist into my soul, And I, incoherent and stunned, Follow you.
12o’clock, the old violin of time, Marks the time before your kiss. My name is Whisper, Closing your eyes you hear me every night, Word upon murmured word…..
Love…. We turn our faces and then bow to belonging, The shadows, Forever the weavers ………. of you and me.